Yesterday’s festivities took Kyle and his father through mostly back roads to Rockport (via Gloucester), Brookline (via West Roxbury) and home (via 117 through Bolton). Along the way we passed landmarks that reminded me and had me thinking about and mentioning old girlfriends to young Mr. Daley. Well, past girlfriends. I certainly wouldn’t use this space to call these lovely women old. From “Sally lived near here,” to “Cheryl lived around here somewhere” to “Suzanne lives right up that street,” it was a trip down mamory (I’m going to leave that typo squared right there…) but still ex-Memory Lane.

About an hour ago, I parked myself out at the newly pressure-washed patio table on my deck with a Maker’s Mark seasoned cigar and my Intel powered appendage to write something. As I savored the marked tobacco, I asked Megan to pour me a Maker’s on the rocks. Being an inexperienced, yet generous barkeep, she brought me this, so el posto may be a bit messy.

Relationships can be messy, but among the three noted above, one wasn’t a relationship at all, one was an engagement before its time and the latter a relationship before I could handle one. Oh, and they’re not in that order. See? Messy.

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Anyway, somewhere between the strands of fibers known as this long weekend I also wondered, “Will I ever buy another woman a diamond ring?” Since I don’t much buy into the forged feelings of Valentine’s Day, my inclination is to challenge the validity of the diamond ring as some attestation of love. If love is proven by a shiny cut of compressed carbon, that’s, well, kinda shallow. Now that I’ve done a little research on this here net of inter, it’s even more unlikely, but I’m a sap, so who knows? It won’t be from DeBeers though. That’s for sure.