Part of the family

I love living in a neighborhood that's like a big family. Where the bartenders know your drink when you walk in the door, and there's always a friendly face. But they're not.

But while I walked my friend's pup this afternoon, I saw what real family means. There was a baby blue jay that looked like it had fallen out of its next. Mom or dad was squawking above when we talked by urging us to move on. This is real family.

A few days ago, the morning was hectic so I didn't have time for my run. But the day was too beautiful to let pass without enjoying the spring air. I took a long early evening walk and ran into at least half a dozen people I knew.

A few were people I haven't seen in a while. We chatted for a couple of minutes to catch up and went on our separate ways. Then I stretched across a park bench in the sun to proofread a couple of things I had written that day. Not one paragraph in, another friend popped over from across the street.

"Three dollar margaritas!" he said. "Come on."

I adore a good margarita. "I didn't bring any money."

"I'll buy."

So much for my work.

While we sipped margaritas and enjoyed the beautiful evening air (that made him sneeze and sniffle), the conversation eventually lead to the woman I've had issues with lately.

"She's part of the family," he said. "Just the stepchild."

I couldn't disagree more. The only family members I can't choose are the ones I share blood with. That's it. I have complete control over the people I hang out with and my friends. My good friends are. They're all fun, have integrity and don't fall over wasted every time they walk into a bar.

Love to the single girls,
Addison