After ten days away from the office, I’m heading back in this morning. Luckily, it’s a short week—just today, tomorrow, and half of Wednesday before the long Thanksgiving weekend begins. I’m definitely looking forward to the extra time off.

It should also be a pretty peaceful week at the museum. My boss is out on vacation all week, and my other coworker has her office tucked away elsewhere in the building. So for the most part, I’ll have my little corner of the museum to myself. Honestly, I’m hoping for quiet days and easy work.

You may notice that my posts this week might have a slightly maudlin tone. It’s not because I’m spending Thanksgiving in Vermont or because my birthday is coming up. It’s because this time of year always brings a familiar sadness: a friend of mine won’t be celebrating another birthday. It’s been ten years, and I still miss him. Grief has a way of slipping into the rhythm of the holidays.

Every year, for my birthday, I go out to dinner with a close friend. We always share a bottle of wine at our favorite restaurant—at least, we used to. This year will be different. My liver no longer allows alcohol, but that’s alright. We’ll still have dinner on Friday, and afterward we’re planning to visit a holiday lights festival at a big outdoor museum near Burlington. It should be beautiful, and I think a little beauty will do my heart some good.

People always ask if I’m going home for Thanksgiving, and the answer is always no. I can’t afford two plane trips a month apart, and even if I could, I’m not especially eager to spend my birthday week in Alabama—or worse, fly back to Vermont on my actual birthday. I’d rather spend the day with Isabella, curled up in the quiet warmth of my Vermont home. Yes, home. My parents hate when I say that, but I’ve been here ten years now. Unless something tragic forces me back, Alabama will never be home again. It’s where my family lives, but Vermont is where I live.

Have a wonderful week, everyone. May it be gentle.

Every now and then a picture pops up online that sends your mind wandering down the oddest memory lane. I came across this picture earlier—just a very handsome, very naked man lining up a pool shot—and for whatever reason, it sent my mind spinning backward about twenty years to the first time someone ever taught me how to play pool.

Back in grad school, I had one of those unexpected friendships that just sort of ignite out of nowhere. He was a very straight, very frat-bro guy from Illinois. We met at the annual graduate welcome party at a professor’s lake house—the kind of event that involved a keg, mismatched lawn chairs, and a lot of awkward introductions. Somehow he and I started talking, and before I knew it, we were back at his apartment drinking on his balcony until dawn.

Too bad he was so straight—genuinely, hopelessly straight—because we could have had a great deal of fun together. And yes, I’m speaking from evidence. He was the kind of guy who talked a big game about his 9.5” dick and then casually proved it, not out of flirtation, but because frat boys operate on a completely different plane of shameless bravado. It was, I must admit, an impressive sight.

We became inseparable. Friday nights were for bar-hopping, poker with other grad students, or just whatever chaos the week produced. He technically had a girlfriend back in Illinois, but that didn’t stop him from sleeping with half the women he came across. She found it hilarious that her straight-as-an-arrow frat bro boyfriend’s best friend in Mississippi was gay. She always said he’d come home to her in the end, and she was right. They eventually got married, and to my knowledge, he never strayed again once they were living in the same city. But those Mississippi years? He was a horny little bastard. Weren’t we all when we were in our twenties.

One night in 2005—my birthday, I think—we ended up at a bar we almost never went to, one of those places with an almost perfect half-and-half mix of straights and gays. I can’t remember the name, but I could still drive you to it.

That night, he decided he was going to teach me to play pool.

Now, I was terrible at pool. Abysmal. So he stepped behind me, pressed his body against mine, and guided me into the proper position—very much like the pose in the picture above, though in our version everyone kept their clothes on. For him, there was absolutely nothing sexual about it. For me…well, it was one of the more pleasant lessons I’ve ever received. And honestly, I did get better at pool after that night.

Somewhere in the mix, we ended up playing pool with two girls who I’m pretty sure were on the university’s softball team — definitely not the stereotypical “lesbian softball players” people love to joke about. One of them came back to his apartment with us and was very clearly hoping for a threesome. To my eternal regret, I figured it out a little too late, mostly because I had drunk way too much. I got sick, passed out on the couch, and fell asleep to the soundtrack of the two of them having sex. I woke up to round two the next morning before she cheerfully said goodbye to me on her way out.

Those were my “wilder days,” though in truth I was never that wild. I was still a very serious student. It was simply the first time in my life I’d had real freedom—living three hours from my family, coming out, navigating grad school, rebuilding life after Hurricane Katrina destroyed the house I’d been living in, and having to move into the dorms for a semester because my town was overrun by Katrina refugees and housing was at a premium and in short supply.

Another morning, I woke up in his bed with a female professor lying between us. Nothing had happened; none of us had hooked up. But the way she woke—going from dead asleep to standing at the foot of the bed in one swift, acrobatic motion—is a sight I’ll never forget.

A lot of people didn’t like him. He could be an intellectual snob, and he was proud of it. For some reason, he thought I was the only person in our grad program smarter than he was. That’s not true, there were other people smarter than him. But he was a loyal friend to me during a very chaotic time in my life, when a lot of people I thought were friends turned out not to be such good friends. After his two years in Mississippi, he went back to Illinois, got a master’s in library science, followed his girlfriend to Texas for a job at a major oil company—she was a biochemist, and he eventually became the oil company’s corporate librarian—something I didn’t even know existed. Last I checked, he’d gone on to law school and was working as an attorney for the same big oil company.

We eventually drifted apart, as people do. But him teaching me to play pool—pressed behind me, bending me over just right, guiding my hands—remains one of my fondest and most vivid memories.

Funny how a single picture can open a door you didn’t even realize was still there. If this sparks a memory of your own — a friend, a night out, or a moment that caught you off guard — don’t be shy. Share in the comments. I always love reading your stories, and I know other readers will enjoy them too.

It’s Monday—but for once, I’m not dreading it. No alarms, no rushing around, no inbox waiting to ambush me. I have the whole week off, and it feels absolutely glorious.

Today, I get to relax. I might curl up on the couch and watch something mindless on TV, or maybe pick up a book I’ve been meaning to start. A nap is also a strong possibility—honestly, it’s at the top of the list.

I’m especially grateful that I don’t have anywhere I have to be. The snow that fell all day yesterday has left everything outside looking pretty but treacherous, and I’m perfectly content not to venture out in it. I do have a couple of small errands I could run later in the week… but only if the snow melts enough for driving not to feel like a circus act.

Mostly, though, I’m just going to enjoy this week-long vacation. No schedule. No pressure. Just me, some quiet time, and the luxury of slowing down.

Here’s to a peaceful Monday and a restful week ahead.

I had a terrible night of sleep last night, and as a result, I just do not feel like writing anything today. Some mornings are like that, and I’m choosing to give myself a bit of slack.

I hope all of you have a wonderful day, and may it be far more restful and pleasant than mine started out to be!

Today is the final day of my conference, and I am more than ready to go home. Wednesday night, I got a touch of food poisoning—at least I think that’s what it was—from the sushi place where we had dinner. Yesterday was a rough one. I went to one session and managed to get lunch with some friends, but that feeling of “better” quickly disappeared. I ended up back in my room for the rest of the afternoon and skipped dinner entirely.

This morning, I’ll repack my bags, get dressed, and head down for breakfast. I’m a little aggravated that this hotel doesn’t start serving breakfast until 7 a.m. I like to eat shortly after I get up, and it’s not like their breakfast is anything to write home about anyway.

I’ve got several sessions to attend today and a closing lunch before we head home. Last year, my coworker decided to skip the closing lunch and drive back early. I’m hoping we do the same today.

Isabella will no doubt have plenty to say when I walk in the door. She’s always very vocal when I’ve been away and disrupted her routine. Some cats pout or act mad when you come home, but not Isabella—she’s just happy to see me. And honestly, I’ll be just as happy to see her.

I haven’t posted one in a while, so here’s an Isabella Pic of the Week:

There isn’t much to say this morning. The conference went well yesterday—better than I expected, honestly—and I actually managed to sleep in this morning (well, until 6 a.m., which still counts as sleeping in for me).

I have a full day scheduled today, but the sessions I’m really interested in don’t start until the afternoon. So, I may take it easy for a bit this morning, move a little slower, and just enjoy the quiet before the day gets busy. But first things first—I need breakfast. Hopefully, the coffee downstairs is good and strong.

Sometimes, a slow start is exactly what you need.