No pictures, no pictures!

The insatiable hunger for blog content weighs heavy from time to time. Carol McQuaid, not J.D. Salinger reclusive but also a rare Westerner who believes that a taken photo captures a bit of your soul, brought a wonderful dinner and gifts for the kids. Of course I pressed her for a few pictures. She is still only a few months off her son's beautiful wedding (or if you are talking to Shelley, Carol's beautiful son's heartbreaking wedding), so I thought she would still be up for a quick photo shoot. Apparently, she needs to be draped in a Merlot-colored strapless silk dress to take more than a few shots.

Finn was another problem all together. If paparazzi haters Sean Penn and Lindsay Lohan had a baby, it would be Finn right now. That said, if they were Finn's parents he would be living in Malibu, recovering from his first rehab stint and named something gender neutral and geographic like London or Bronx. And he would wear little vintage Rolling Stones concert shirts bought for $125. He hates my picture taking. Every photo is interrupted with hand waving and "no Daddy, no Daddy." For god's sake, your lucky someone wants to take a picture of you eating bread, bud. At some point in the non too distant future, you'll be a broken 40 year old looking at your reflection in the 606 bus window wondering if anyone sees you at all. So be grateful for the attention, once your sister regularly opens her eyes you will be hearing the heavy footsteps of father time. Crow's feet land on every face, pal.