One of the reasons I wanted to go to Vegas for Christmas was to spend some time with someone I met a couple of months ago.

I’ve been hesitant to talk about it, mostly because it just didn’t seem real. I had no plans on meeting anyone, had no thought of ever getting involved in a romantic relationship again.

But I have. His name is Chris, he’s a Dodger fan, and wow. Typing it makes it real.

Steve would be really proud of me. He always wanted me to acknowledge that life would go on after his likely death, and I always resisted the notion. Of course, Steve wouldn’t approve of a Dodger fan, but you can’t have everything.

I am starting 2010 in a much different place than I started 2009. Someone wish me luck. I need it.

It would have been my 12th anniversary. The silk anniversary.

There are times when it’s useful not being someone who makes a big deal over dates. Widowhood has revealed that gift in all its glory.

On the plus side, Steve didn’t get to hit me in the head with a snowball.

I’ve posted this photo before, but I really can’t imagine a better one, given the circumstances.

The day I’ve been fearing is here. My Sweet Baboo? No longer an Indian.

LOS ANGELES — The Dodgers bolstered their second-base situation by agreeing to a two-year contract with versatile infielder Jamey Carroll, pending a physical examination, agent Jonathan Maurer confirmed Wednesday.

Maurer would not confirm the salary, but it is believed to be $3.85 million, plus incentives. He said Carroll turned down potentially more money from the Oakland A’s “to play for what he considers to be two Hall of Famers — [manager] Joe Torre and [batting coach] Don Mattingly.”

I might just go into a decline. Oh sure, he didn’t make sense with the 2010 Cleveland Indians, but dammit, if loving Baboo is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

(On the plus side, I’ve already been invited to a spring training game, Indians at Dodgers, in April. Maybe I can make a really glittery poster by then.)

I went shopping last night and found a cache of fuzzy sweaters in pastel colors. I want spring dammit. Instead, I have a fuzzy pink sweater. It’s not the same.

I have no idea why I have made a fairly abrupt transformation from “wearer of mostly navy and black and other severe colors” into “Wheee! It’s PINK! IT’S PINK!!” It’s probably a sign of some horrible mental breakdown and tomorrow I’ll think I’m a fire hydrant.

Promise me you won’t let your dog pee on me, no matter what.