In the past three days, I have been to two very different sorts of gatherings. Thursday night, I went to a wake for my ex-boyfriend’s father. Friday night, I went to the office Christmas party of one of my best New York friends.

At the wake, the chief topic of conversation was the funeral home organist, who nearly blasted us out of our seats with the ferocity of his playing, and who apparently lost his place midway through “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

At the Christmas party, I spoke at length with an actress named Hazel, who appears occasionally on a soap opera. I told her that if she could get me a job as a writer, I would make her character pivotal to all action, an evil schemer who has the town wrapped around her finger. She laughed and said I was her new best friend.

There is no real way to link these (other than noting that I wore the same pants to both occasions); I just think it is funny the way people come together, and the things they say.

My new nephew was born today, by the way. I am not going to share his vital statistics, as if he is for sale on the butcher’s slab, but he is pretty adorable. This of course means that my older nephew will suffer the horrors of no longer being the family’s center of attention. Welcome to the club, kid. In thirty years, this will be the sort of thing that comes up in psychotherapy with exasperating regularity.