What's good about sad? It's happy for deep people.

I've been worried about colony collapse disorder going on, what, three years now? And yet the bees are swarming about my garden, honey bees and bumblebees and tiny little grey bees--I don't know what kind of bees they are--bouncing flower to flower, mint to savory to basil, buzzing and humming and doing their bee thing. It's testament perhaps to the way I worry about you and me and everybody, about things that need and most definitely do not need worrying over. Because that's what I do now apparently.

Oh, but you wanted to hear about my weekend? Right. Saturday was mostly a dead day spent alternately before book and screen and dread. At one of my many appointments the doctor du jour was telling me about a recent dinner date with her husband; "I forget what restaurant we were at," she said, "but it was either Applebee's or Ruby Tuesday," and this reminded me immediately of two things; one, that this is exactly the kind of "going out to dinner" my boyfriend's mother calls "going out to dinner," and two, for how normal I am--aggressively so at times--I never eat at chain restaurants. Ever! Like, it doesn't even occur to me that chain restaurants are actually restaurants where one can go and procure a several-course meal prepared by a professional. Anyway, before our own dinner date later that night my boyfriend implied that I once was fat but now I am not so that's adorable I guess.

Sunday I cleaned out half of the laundry room, read about hypoxia and spoonbilled sandpipers, ate far too much dim sum, and went to bed fifteen minutes later than I had intended. I missed a very important phone call and about half a dozen text messages, glanced cursorily at posts posted to my timeline. There was this guy I went to college with I guess? But we were definitely in law school together, he an LLM candidate while I worked on my JD, and for nearly two years he borderline stalked me. We had one excessively long telephone conversation because I was too awkward to figure out a nice way to end it and next thing I knew he was everywhere, waiting by my locker or at crawfish boils or whatever bar I happened to be patronizing on any given night. I mean, he was EVERYWHERE. And then ten years later I accepted a Facebook friend request without really thinking AND IT WAS HIM, only he had found Burning Man in the intervening years and changed his name to, like, Moon Unit or something, AND THIS IS THE KIND OF DUDE WHO REVIEWS YOUR PATENT APPLICATIONS, PEOPLE. Also, my favorite ex-boyfriend's new wife is a blogger and terrible writer both. And all this paragraph proves is that I am a horrible human bean, but I very much appreciate yesterday's well wishes no matter what the media.

So I'm sort of in the market for a new pair of sunglasses. I mean, I love my Roots aviators but the lenses are a little scratched, and that little blip in my line of vision is ever so distracting. I hovered timidly on the outskirts of the Macy's display cases last week before turning back and walking right out the door, but not before buying a belt I probably don't need and definitely don't know how to wear. On the elevator ride up this morning my sunglasses were the only thing keeping my crazy hair in check, and no matter how far out from my head my locks were sticking I was pretty chuffed to be working at a place where words like disincentivized and aegis are bandied about casually on elevators. It's kind of a travesty when you think about it, how everything is for sale except the cool things, things like crazy humidified hair and good vocabularies. We went on a small family vacation last month and my one goal was to buy something cool, an old-timey wooden train whistle perhaps, or a funny hat maybe. We went store to store and found old-timey wooden train whistles and funny hats to spare, but I ended up coming home with nothing I didn't already bring with me. Anyway, there were no David Tennants in stock so what was the point.