Sure, it's the beginning of the weekend, when your time off is so plentiful you can blatantly waste it. It's a happy time when you can barely see Sunday night over the horizon, the stresses of the past work week fading quietly into black behind you.

I have to do this. I've been putting it off, but if I balk even once more, I risk having the truth come out. I have to visit my (best?) friend and her new baby.

If you had asked me 10 years ago how I would have viewed my friendship with Lisa at this point, I could have told you with utter naivete that we would be as close as ever with no baggage between us. What a dope I am.

Inside, there's this part of me that wants to curl up beside her and hug her and wash away all the things that have happened since we both turned 30. That part, however, is constantly and brutally thrashed by the bigger part that refuses to be taken for a sucker again. The part that looks at me from outside my body and sees a schnook who can't tell when to shut up or when to go home or when to stop attention-seeking.

Lisa used to love me regardless of my faults.
Unconditionally.
As a Picses with a good many self-esteem issues, that was a godsend.
Was.

She's far more cavalier than I am about the present state of 'us'. I suppose it's because she has the marriage to the executive, the big house in the country, two kids and a circle of shi-shi friends who all clamor for her to come to this dinner party or that ski weekend in New York or the other 'executive function'. She's busy.

So, here I sit, trying to accept the fact that I'm being phased out. And it was working. Until the phone rings and it's Lisa wanting to talk for three hours like the old days. Or an invitation comes out of the blue to a party. It breaks the delicate protective shell I've carefully built into a thousand pieces that rain down over my head, threatening to cut me to emotional ribbons. I smile and chat, trying not to inject passive-aggressive comments into the conversation about how she's all but abandoned me.

Hey, get me, I'm a doormat.

Enter: Alexander David. Now 12 days old.

In a fit of anger over the summer, I stopped making the baby afghan I knew this little guy would need in January. There it sits in the corner, gathering dust and dog hair. And I know full well none of this is his fault.

So of course, I have to take something to this initial meeting. In true 'me' fashion, I came up with an idea that won't benefit him one iota: a Chocolate Cloud Cake from Nigella.

Looking on the bright side,
maybe my ovaries will sense the nearness of this wee child and kick into gear.

Posted at 3:10 p.m.