I Live In Idaho

Today, when The Holbs left for the city to finish training his replacement and my parents left to go back to Portland, it hit me hard. I live in Idaho. And this week I live in Idaho alone. Just me, my puppy, and a new job.

This is me being brave. It looks an awful lot like me being overwhelmed.



Thursday night, New York City.

Me and the B and his troupe of work friends had dinner at The Fry Pan, a restaurant on the Hudson River in Chelsea up on a boat about three stories tall.

We ate burgers and fries and drank milkshakes and looked at people and watched boats on the water. We talked about New York and and I imagined what it would be like to live in Chelsea and to not live in Idaho.

And then after we ate, on the way down the stairs, I fell. I fell down the stairs, knocked over a velvet rope, and then I just laid there for a minute. It was kind of like . . . yyyyyep.

Yesterday we drove around town with my parents in our new kicky ride looking at the neighborhood construction going up (my parents' favorite hobby), when I fell out of the car. No really, I fell out of it. I opened the door, and took a slow-motion nose dive toward the ground.

Brandon saw me fall and rushed over to make sure I was okay. I was, and as I was telling him so, and brushing gravel off my pants and picking grass out of my hair, these huge gushing sobs came completely out of nowhere. So then I gave up, and just sat there and cried. Kind of hard, actually. I cried for the frustration of leaving somewhere you love, for being an adult in your childhood home, for the stress of moving and trying to be perfect for everyone and for the disappointment of failing miserably.

This morning I decided to drive through our old neighborhood in Lake Oswego. We lived there before we moved to Brooklyn. It feels like a million years ago.

I remembered this gorgeous view we used to have of the temple, the temple where the Holbs and I were married once-upon-a-time.

So I bought myself a sodee and I drove down to the old apartment and I jumped out and I walked down the little stone path around to the back of our old place. And as I was walking down some pretty tame steps, I completely biffed it. Face first. I dropped the soda, which exploded on impact, sending gushes of cold coke into my face. I laid there on the ground a second, sort of pondering things, and then I stood up, my hair sticky with drink and ground-parts and pointing in all directions, and I limped back to my kicky ride and drove myself home.

Moving sucks.


One More Day

I spent this afternoon aimlessly down  5th Avenue. Oh I used the bathroom at Saks, I window-shopped at Tiffany, I tried on some shoes at Versace (I had that poor salesman fooled), I sent an email at the pretty new glass Mac store on 59th. It was like a four-hour meditation on sadness. I was in-tune. Me, my city, and my blisters. Oh it was a lovely, depressing afternoon.

I stopped in at the Barnes and Noble to sit in the air conditioning and relax for a bit. I read some of The Shopgirl (which is romantic and very sweet), I watched people browse the aisles. And then on my way out the door I saw little city kids and their city moms and I had a moment of what-could-have-been. Oh how I wish I could have lived here long enough to be a mom in the city. I swung open the door and gasped at the sight of St. Patrick’s Cathedral standing just in front of me and promptly forgot everything that was ever in my head.

At Henri Bendel I got a make-over. Tarte cheek stain where have you been all my life!


I toyed around with ending the blog today, since I started it in New York and now New York is ending for me. It would have been a grand, sweeping gesture reflecting the end of an era, the end of a really great year . . . but then I started my period and decided it must have all just been PMS talking.

To Idaho!


And Blerg Again.

We are getting closer and closer to zero-hour. It feels like we're just visiting here again, and try as I might I can't picture life outside of Saturday morning. For all I know, once we get to Saturday and we wake up and board the plane, it will all just go black and stop. Not an end so much as just a nothing. You know what I mean? This is all very dramatic. Sigh.

Tonight we're going to eat at some burger place on a boat. In Chelsea. I don't have the details, but The Holbs’s Fabulous Friends have Lives and Know about these Great Places and do Fun Stuff and so we're along for the ride. I plan to be my usual sparkling self and dazzle everyone with my daring tales of packing and the joys of good, strong tape. Tomorrow night we eat our last New York sushi.

This reminds me of a story: Over a month and a half ago I stopped taking The Pill. I stopped mid-cycle, which was silly and impulsive, but this is how I accomplish most things and so it was really nothing out of the ordinary. Two weeks ago I was supposed to have a period and didn't. Two weeks and a day ago I was convinced I had been miraculously impregnated but science has assured me since that there is nothing interesting happening there.

So I'm just waiting for a period? Just waiting. Where is it? What's holding it up? Is it just late? (Just like me, never on time.) Is it upset at me?

Until we move, until my period starts, until the next thing comes. I'm just here, hovering.



The boxes are packed and picked up and on their way to Moscow. The apartment is empty.

We have just enough clothes to make it through the week. We fly away Saturday morning.

The puppy has his health certificate, his microchip, and a Valium for the flight.

Where's my Valium?

I had my last hurrah and went to the Barney's Co-Op in SoHo and bought a pair of $200 jeans. I am so depressed.

Yesterday we went to lunch at the Bryant Park Grill, this great little outdoor place where all the business-types meet for lunch. We saw a few famous actors and a few not-so-famous pigeons. The weather was gorgeous, it could not possibly have been nicer, the food was delicious. And after we ate I went to use the restroom.

This outdoor restroom was amazing! Marble sinks and gold-framed mirrors and beautiful flower arrangements and all so spotlessly clean. I have never seen a bathroom like this.

And then, the sick girl in the stall next to me. It just kept coming! It was traumatic for me, it must have been even worse for her! I felt so bad for her but also I have this HUGE fear of puking. It was AWFUL. It wasn't until I got past Wall Street on the 2 train that I life felt possible again.

So. For the next week I am going to walk around town trying to memorize things. How the buildings look. The way it smells. The crowds. The voices. Then when I'm in Idaho and feeling completely in shock I will close my eyes and imagine it back. I will feel the street beneath my feet and the pulse of the city, I’ll smell the hotdogs and feel the city air on my skin.

It won't be nearly as good.



Kiss It, Merrill!

Today was my last day at work. I worked at Merrill Lynch on the Early Case Evaluation team and since June 10th, when they chose my replacement and I trained her, I have done nothing - nothing! - like as in nothing, all day, every day. Nothing.

To mark the occasion of a last day at a job where I literally had no job to do, I showed up at 10:30, took an hour for lunch at 11:00 (sushi!), and then I went home at 2:00.

So as I was walking home with the bouquet of flowers my husband had left at my desk that morning, some guy in front of my building wearing stupid khaki shorts and stupid sandals with stupid tube socks says, "Those flowers for me??"

I contemplated smiling and ignoring and not making eye contact and just carrying on and leaving this man in peace with his sad, strange little sense of humor, but then I thought, No! I am in New York! For one more week! And people in New York are mean!

So I called up my best New York from the bottom of my soul. I gave him The Look.

Then the guy with no legs who lives in the penthouse of my building and who sits outside all day in his wheelchair and who always looks at me like I'm an idiot, well. He smiled at me.

And then he shrugged his shoulders.

So when I go to Moscow and they ask me where I am from (I hate this question, for there really is no answer, except maybe Heaven), I think I’ll say New York City.

And I'll let that be my excuse every time I'm feeling snarky.

Which is pretty often, let's face it.


Subways, Rain, Mucus

level five rapids!

When the sun came up this morning and I finally stopped moaning from ear/nose/throat torture, I decided to go ahead and be an adult and go to work. (Momentous occasion, this.)

By the time I got downstairs to the street it was raining giant, sloshy buckets. I courageously made it to the subway where four inches of water met me at the turnstiles. Luckily I had on my super fashionable wellies and so I was prepared for the worst, but the man behind me wasn't, and he yelled out "Aw hell no, I'm going HOME." And that alone made my morning all worth it.

At this point a nice old man bravely waded through the water and probably ruined his grown-up leather shoes. He was really cute. I have this thing for old men. Maybe it's a sickness?

But it was to get worse. There was water spilling down the stairs to the platform like a waterfall! A level-five white water rapid! I could have gone down those stairs in a canoe!

Once the rain stopped, the heat came. Like a hot towel. And now I'm home again. (Fascinating stuff, this!)

This afternoon we are going to pick up some boxes at our friendly neighborhood UPS store and start packing up our lives. A week and a half, that's it. Today I sat down with Peter Pan and explained that a lot of changes were coming, but that Mommy and Daddy would be there and that the flight wouldn't be scary and that he'd get to meet Uncle Monty. He is going to love Uncle Monty. And we would love for always and forever. I don't know how much it helped things for him, but I feel much better now.


Ten Things

I just watched 10 Things I Hate About You, which was on at the same time as How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days, and which is essentially the same movie, except that one is based on Shakespeare and the other one isn't.

I forgot how much I loved this movie when it first came out. And now I live in the same neighborhood as Heath Ledger, but I have never actually seen Heath Ledger or his girlfriend Michelle Williams, though practically all of my friends have, and they all tell me this and it always makes me grumpy, because I know in my heart that we were destined to be best friends, Heath and Michelle and I. We were meant to get together to watch Monday Night Football, and The Holbs and The Heath would eat chips and Michelle and I would eat fresh strawberries and we'd gossip about her other celebrity friends. Like Katie Holmes, definitely.

There is still time, but only two weeks, to meet Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams and casually begin this life-long friendship.

We’re here, guys. We’re ready!



Today as I was walking down the stairs of the Fulton Street 4/5 subway station, a guy on his cell phone interrupted his conversation to invite me on a romantic tryst. He was short and strange and leering but it was sweet!

I bought a pashmina off the street today from my favorite street vendor. I don't know his name, but I imagine he is called Barney or Willis because you see he wears a safari hat every day. He is short, and I decided I loved him when I bought a white pashmina from him a few months back and he asked me if he could have my skirt. He explained that his wife would love it and he wanted to hang it as drapes for a surprise for her birthday, and strangely I found all this to be quite charming. It was fun, in a mentally unstable kind of way.

When I wanted a black pashmina just the other day he had to dig into his bags to find one, all the while telling me what a complement it would be to my "striking olive complexion" and "Are you Mediterranean? Because you look so exotic." Hah! No I'm just boring. But every day when I walk past him I remember it, and isn' tit silly how even the most off-base and ridiculous compliments can make your day so much better.



It is a gloriously humid Friday! New York in June, what’s not to love?

I want to tell you about New York in June, will you let me? (Please?) It goes like this:

You step outside. Simultaneously you feel AND smell the heat. You smell everything in a two-mile radius. Everything smells. At the bottom of my building there is a grocery store called the Garden of Eden, and they put their fresh fruit out on the street, and when you walk out of the building you smell this crazy smell of warm, ripe, partially rotting fruit. You smell the garbage on the corner, you smell the hot dogs in the cart. You smell the perfume of the woman in front of you and the body odor of the man behind you. You smell the exhaust of the cars and the drippings from the window unit air conditioners. You can smell the cement.

Your skin feels like it has been misted by warm broccoli water. You walk and you can feel the heat of your body steaming your clothes from the inside out, and the heat of the city steaming your clothes from the outside in. Very soon these clothes become a second skin. Sticky. Your feet are sweating; if you are wearing sandals your feet are already covered in street that you will have to wash off before you get into your clean white sheets for bed.

You reach the subway, and as you descend into the bowels of the tunnels the air grows more warm, more still, more full. You fish for your MetroCard in your bag and you swipe it at the turnstiles. They click and you push through. You weave through the throng of humanity coming in, going out. You smell dirty clothes and hair spray and gold jewelry. And then, you wait. The back of your knees begin to sweat, you feel a little trickle down your spine; your hair has fallen flat. Your eyebrows begin to sweat. The subway stinks. Urine. Feces. Smoke. Grease. Oil. Doritos. Doritos? Doritos.

The train comes and with it comes a woosh of hot air. It cools your sweaty skin and you ready yourself for the battle to come. The doors open and you go in after they come out. You hug your bag to your body as you twist and turn to squeeze in. You brush up against skin. “Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, Please.” Boop-Boop.

The train rocks back and forth. It is air-conditioned in the train but it isn’t much relief. The train is packed. Standing room only.

The train comes to a stop and you prepare yourself for the brakes, but you’re still not prepared for it and you jerk a bit as you try to stay steady. The doors open. This time you fight to get out.

You push out through the warm metal of the subway turnstile and you walk up the stairs. With each step the sun gets brighter, hotter. Your thighs start to burn. You get to the top and the sidewalk is bustling. You move quickly and dodge and weave through the tourists, you walk quickly but not too fast, you are a part of a living, breathing organism.

We have taken to running the air conditioning only in the bedroom where we keep the puppy, the lucky duck. The effect of this is that when we come home from work we walk into a stale, hot, terribly uncomfortable living room. We put down our laptop bags and take off our uncomfortable shoes. We undo our buttons and then open the door to the bedroom. The blast of cool air that meets us and the change in atmosphere we feel is like that scene in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy opens the door of her black and white home to reveal the lush, technicolored world of Munchkin Land. It is like we are leaving the pits of hell and emerging, lifelike and wondrous, into the clouds of heaven.



Ladies and gentlemen, tonight the Holbrooks had dinner at Nobu. A $270 dinner at Nobu.

We had a toro tartar in a wasabi soup with caviar and an Asian peach on the side to "cleanse the palate." Yellowtail sashimi on mustard greens. Red snapper and sesame oil. Then lobster tempura in a cream sauce with shitake mushrooms. And black cod in sweet miso sauce with foie gras. (I had foie gras today!) And THEN the sushi platter, and THEN the chocolate souffle and the green tea ice cream. And THEN they had to roll me down the subway steps and onto the platform. $100 per person, plus tax, plus tip, plus the fun of Oh this is Tribeca! and seeing Robert DeNiro's apartment across the street! and “Is that an Olsen twin?” And I think it was.

In two months we will move to Idaho, where the only raw fish to be found will be the raw fish we have catch in the river with our own bare hands and eat like bears, and we will remember when we are feeling sad, Hey, remember that one time when we went to Nobu? And we had all that great food? And we were in the cultural center of the Universe? And we lived there? And it was great?


Rain, Rain, Come My Way

The very most wondrous and fascinating and thrilling thing about living in New York City is the storm season that occurs on or about May through August. In some parts of the country it is called Hurricane Season. Up in New York City if ever we get a hurricane it has usually been demoted to a Tropical Storm, which means I get to enjoy a bombastic storm every now and then without fear of floodings or things of that nature (nature!) and for that I am grateful because Oh how I love me a good, angry storm.

Last night we had a major thunder storm. We completely lost our power and so we watched the greenish purple sky erupt into flashes of pink light and listened to the thunder boom and rumble all night.

We live on the 17th floor and have a crazy insane view of Brooklyn and the New York harbor. We can see every blast of lightning as it hits tall buildings around us. It is like God’s fireworks show, just for us. Peter Pan was appropriately concerned, but didn't show any sign of being a neurotic mess, and that was also nice.

Then I tried to sing that "Rain Rain Go Away" song , and in so doing I realized that there are two renditions and that I have no idea which goes how and that saddened me until I forgot and became obsessed with the smell of my dog’s feet (corn chips).

Anyway my point is there is nothing I love more than a good thunder storm. We had great ones growing up in Mesa, (monsoon season!) where you could smell the rain in the desert before it even started to fall and we have great ones here. Not like the rain in Portland, which just falls about without any direction or aim and never seems to go away, like willy-nilly sissy rain. Pfft, Portland Rain is Lame. This rain has purpose! Meaning! And that meaning today was to flood the Number 4 train so that Holbs couldn't get home.

He called from City Hall where he was transferring to the R after already having tried the 2/3 but which was so crammed that he decided he'd get home sooner if he walked across the Brooklyn Bridge in the rain, which he didn’t end up doing after all, but would have been a very dramatic “take that!” to the MTA, who I’m sure would have cared very deeply. So.

But what I have really been wanting to tell you is about the Umbrellas and the Umbrella Men who sell them and how they delight me more than cream cheese. So here is what I have to say about them:

The Umbrellas are black and cost $5 and are sold by men who seem to appear magically on the streets about five minutes before a storm begins. How they know a storm is about to start or where they go once it is over is a complete mystery. But they show up. Even if you do not believe a storm is coming, if you see these men you’d best buy an umbrella. They call them UM-brellas.

“UMbrellaUMbrellaUmbrella,” they call.

Once you have purchased an UM-brella the rain will surely fall. And then you and your UM-brella will brave it together. But inevitably, your UM-brella will not live to see the end of the storm. Inevitably the winds will blow through the city streets so hard that your UM-brella will turn itself inside-out and you will stand there in the street, as rain pummels your face and streaks your mascara just like in the movies, and you will wail “UM-BRELLAAAAAA!” as you hold its broken frame to your body. You will mourn, and you will be all soaking wet.

After a really good storm it is fun to go out and survey the damage. After one such storm the Holbs and I ventured out to see the carnage and visit the neighborhood Barnes and Noble. The UM-brellas were littered like fallen soldiers in the streets, twisted and broken and discarded in the gutters. You step over them with as much reverence as you can muster. They died fighting the good fight. They died too young. You are out $5 and you still got wet. But you lived to see another day.

Like I said, the most marvelous and wondrous and fantastical thing about New York City.

(Except for Bagels.)


No Pain, No Pain

The most pathetic 5k ever run in the history of the running of mankind was run last night. The husband and I ran the 2006 Annual Running with the Bulls 5k in Lower Manhattan despite the fact that my throat was on fire and the Holbs’s sinuses had been screaming at him all day. Me, my cankles, and my sweet, patient, ginger-haired athlete of a husband made our way through the Financial District and ran the 3.1 miles in a glorious 47 minutes. A slow, painful, 47-minute death march that halted every block and a half as I prayed that the Lord would let me live to see another day.

Heaven bless me, but I am not a runner.


Muddy Clairvoyance

It is school-acceptance season here at the house of the Holbs, and sadly there have yet to be any actual school-acceptances, only nos and no-thankyous and four wait-lists, which might perk some of us up a bit, but only until we remember that a wait-list is like when you ask someone to marry you and they tell you they want to think about it and we all know that can never mean anything good.

Today as I was napping on the sofa I had the sudden inspiration that there was an acceptance letter, right then, that very minute, in the mail downstairs. I was so convinced that it was really, truly there (and I knew just what school it was from!), that I actually got dressed and pulled my hair back, found a decent pair of shoes (such a hassle!) and went downstairs to check the mailbox.

(Do you feel the suspense building?)

When the elevator dinged! I saw to my dismay that the friendly mail-dude had just arrived and was just now starting to sort the mail. I sighed. It was dramatic.

Finally he was about finished and, making small-talk (awkward), inquired of my apartment number. (“Yo, what apahtment you in?”)

I told him, and he handed me a stack of mail. I scanned the pack and knew immediately that there were no acceptances there.

So I went back upstairs to my grumpy puppy with the cone on his head. And we both felt pretty silly.


This Is A Brooklyn Bound 4 Express Train

Okay, picture in your head a subway car. You are in it and it is packed. You are somewhere under the East River. You are moving and the car is swaying side-to-side, side-to-side, and okay let’s be honest here, it is hot, you might be a little sweaty.

Now, imagine the worst possible thing you could smell while stuck in an overcrowded train under the East river.

Go on. Got it?

Did you imagine baked salmon?


Flat Baby

From the mail-gods yesterday came a cute little Flat Stanley from my neice Morgan (Flat Morgan) for us to dress and cart around the city.

We took a million pictures of Flat Morgan. Flat Morgan with B, Flat Morgan with N, Flat Morgan with our insane view of Brooklyn, and Flat Morgan with Peter Pan (who promptly removed Flat Morgan's flat pants).

 Then we took Flat Morgan to our friends' apartment on the seventh floor to eat the flattest, greasiest, best-pizza-after-Grimaldi's which always has a two hour wait even on a Tuesday night pizza.

These friends happen to have a 2-day-old squishy human that I'd been dying to spread mushy kisses over, so we slipped Flat Morgan into the paper bag next to the pizza, where she traveled down the elevator in style with flat parmesan cheese and red pepper flake packets. Hours later, we embarked back home on the elevator back to the magical land of the seventeenth floor, whereupon we realized we had left Flat Morgan in the flat paper bag in the greasy flat-pizza box.

We rescued her just in time to avoid a flat pizza death.


Those Ears!

I love this weird little puppy.



It is March in Brooklyn, and it is 70 degrees out today. 70 degrees! I decided this kind of weather called for sushi. but the delivery guys don't take credit cards and I was plum outta cash. I almost never have cash, I don't know what that's about. So there I was, sitting on the floor of my apartment, wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, cashless, and so I decided to get up and go to the ATM. (Isn't this getting exciting?)

I beeped in my pin and got my monies and so high on the temperate climate was I that I decided to walk the six blocks to the sushi place rather than call for take out. While I waited for my order to be ready I regaled the sweet Japanese waitresses with my tale of perilous ATM transactions and surprisingly balmy weather and also my new blister.

That monkey roll was HEAVEN.


August Rush

Robin Williams and Felicity are right now, this-very-minute, filming a movie called August Rush down the street.

There's a huge old trailer blocking our view of the neighborhood Chipotle, wires and equipment everywhere, and random tables of snacks. Making a movie is so swanky.

We've taken Peter Pan on far more walks than is necessary lately, just in case they happen to need a good looking dog and his average looking owners as extras.

Sadly, no big breaks yet.


Just A Little View Out Our Window


A Snow Story

The other day it snowed. 
 (A lot.)

It was still snowing 
when we ventured outside for a potty.

At first, the Pan wasn't so sure.

But eventually he got the hang of it.

He even made a snowday buddy.

Peter Pan the snowdog from the front:

And the back:

The End.

Retail Therapy

Today I bought a denim vest. H&M told me I needed a denim vest, and so I bought the denim vest.

I also went to Macy's today in Herald Square.

The only other time I'd been to Macy’s was on my 15th birthday, which happened to fall on Rosh Hashana that year, and since Jewish holidays are awesome and we lived on the East Coast and always had the Jewish holidays off, my mom and I got to spend the day wandering around the city eating bagels. Another thing we did that day was see David Letterman, thus beginning my lifelong crush on crusty old men. Also, we went to Macy's.

The very greatest thing about Macy's is that when you take the escalator up and up and up, right around the 4th floor the elevators turn wooden. Today I really wished I was with my mom because we'd have had a great time shopping together, and one of the few rough things about living in this city is how rarely I get to see to my momma. Macy's is one heck of an experience when you're by your lonesome.

So on this wonderful President's Day I give thanks to Washington and Lincoln for giving me this day off so I could spend an entire six hours in the sales racks, surrounded by the people in this world who love me most: retail employees.


My Favorite Subway Entertainment


Morning Views

not bad, brooklyn.


This! Is! Jeopardy!

The Holbs has developed an addiction to Jeopardy. He watches it daily, along with the rest of the Geritol community. Since The Holbs is better at such things as arm wrestling and thumb wars, we inevitably watch what he wants to watch, which these days means King of the Hill, and now also Jeopardy!, but I draw the line at Wheel of Fortune because as my Granny Goose used to say, Wheel of Fortune is for ninnies.

As we were watching Jeopardy! (!!) tonight, the puppy pottied on his puppy pad. The Holbs has a weird sixth sense when it comes to pooping and announced from across the living room, "The dog is pooping!”

While I cleaned up (my turn), The Holbstrebek yelled things intermittently, like, "Byzantine Empire!" "The Louvre!" and "Landscapes!"

My brother, who has a birthday on Monday and will be 11, starteed calling Brandon "Bean Dip" the other day. Just randomly. He threw it out there one day while he was visiting for Christmas and it is the awesomest nickname for anybody EVER.

But what I want to know is this: What happened to Alex Trebek's mustache? He looks like a thumb. Maybe someone should tell him to grow it back.


The Elusive Subway Lion In His Natural Habitat

Grammy-Inspired Deep Thoughts

Holbs: You know what U2 is? U2 is like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, bringing peace to the world through music.

Me: Hmm.



I realized just the other day that I am now at the exact child-bearing age that I pre-determined for myself as the ideal age for bearing children when I was 13 years old. I must have been really in tune with junk when I was 13, because suddenly I have become baby hungry. My clock is ticking. I am a ticking time bomb. I need a baby.

I see a baby, I want it. I want to hold it and change its diaper and nurse it and nibble its toes. I keep waking from dreams where I have a baby and spend all day cooing at it and then always I lose the baby and spend the rest of the dream wondering, hey, don’t I have a baby? And then I usually find the baby in the bathroom.

I've taken to holding Peter Pan like a baby to get a quick fix, rocking him back and forth and singing You Are My Sunshine softly in his ear. Peter Pan loves this and will even put his head lovingly on my shoulder while we sway.

And so, last night, I delivered my ultimatum to the husband. We Will Have Children! I declared. I mean, not immediately. Brandon agreed and we shook on it. He worries I'm getting too clucky, and that I may spontaneously impregnate due to sheer, overwhelming desire alone. I've checked with my ovaries and they assure me that this is, in fact, possible. So. We are on the baby train. Our stop may not be for a bit yet, but the train, we are on it. We have tickets. We are headed for babyville. We are on the Local, not the Express.

In the meantime, the puppy looks sleepy, so I think I'll take advantage by dusting him in baby powder and rocking him to sleep.


And You Say, Stay

My cute little husband has a bit of a crush on Lisa Loeb. You know Lisa Loeb? Stay? Do you eat sleep do you breathe me anymore? Do you sleep do you count sheep anymore? I like Lisa Loeb. But Brandon loves Lisa Loeb. We watch her show "#1 Single" on E! (E!!!!) and Brandon's face lights up and he smiles wistfully and sighs longingly and watches intently. I really like the show because she lives in a fantastic apartment in Manhattan and goes on dates all over the city and I like to try and see if I recognize places, and also she does this cute little narrative thing that I enjoy. My Holbs tries to play it smooth, and I sure do appreciate that but sometimes he lets little things slip like, "Don't you like this show?" and, "Isn't she cute?" and just recently, "You should do your hair like that."

And then comes my favorite part, the part when he says, "You know, you sort of look like her, when you wear your glasses." I think I like it because, for one thing, Lisa Loeb is pretty cute, you know, and for another thing, if my husband is going to have a crush on someone that isn’t me, it’s nice to know that at least he likes people who remind him of me, which means I must not be all that far off from his ideal, and that is comforting. Right?

I have a pair of Clark Kent glasses I wore in college because I'm a Back-Row Lurker and can't see well more than fifteen feet in front of me. I don't wear them much anymore except when we're at the movies and then Brandon will be very sly and say something like, "You look very cute right now."

Brandon Holbrook just now, as Number One Single is on the television box this very minute as I type: "I know what Lisa Loeb needs in a man. She needs someone not intimidated by her fame. Someone very strong, and..."

I must confess here that I completely tuned him out because I could tell he was only describing himself and I knew that any more of it would send me to giggling, and that wouldn't have been very nice of me at all, seeing as he was trying to be all sly and not let on that secretly when it's dark and we're going to bed he pretends that I'm Lisa Loeb while we cuddle. But you know what, I'm okay with this. I'm okay with this because sometimes I pretend the person I’m snuggling back with is George Clooney. No harm in that!

So, Internet, for your consideration:


Lisa Loeb


I don't see it.



On my way home from work today, somewhere between Fulton Street and Borough Hall, I managed to find a headache and a blister and put them in my pocket. And then they conspired to take my soul, and as anyone who's had that happen can attest, the only thing left to do was to eat two bagels and three bowls of cheerios. So I did. And it helped.


Ghandi Pan

Our puppy isn't eating. Yesterday afternoon we filled his bowl with kibbles, put it on the floor with a "taduh!" (because that's how he likes it) and then there it sat, all day long and all evening long and all night long, and then this morning when we would have normally given him a fresh bowl of food, his yesterday food was still just sitting there, his lunch from yesterday, so sad and dejected.

When this happens The Holbs gets down on his hands and knees, scoops kibble into his manly hands, and somehow Peter is up for eating then, it's some kind of beautiful male bonding. But this time, even the love between a man and his dog was not enough to make the Pan eat, and thus the bowl is, sadly, still full.

Brandon has concluded that Peter is, in fact, fasting for a very noble cause as of yet unknown to mankind. It's probably canine rights or the political state of the Hamas in the Middle East (he did once pee on a very important newspaper, so don't think he's not well-read), but I suspect that really his protest is something closer to home.

I suspect it's the marshmallow fluff.

I've been bad lately and have been eating peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches every afternoon. I've been known to give the Pan a small corner of the bread crust, a corner with mostly peanut butter and not too much marshmallow fluff, because he looks at me with those sad puppy eyes and I am a push over. But Friday when I was having my snack, I decided the puppy probably shouldn't be eating marshmallow fluff. Peter Pan showed his feelings on the matter by peeing under my chair and pooping under the table.

I'm sure that were I to stir a tablespoon of fluff into his dinner that all would be forgiven, but he's already got me dressing on the bed so he can't bite my ankles, and the marshmallow fluff is just where I draw the line.



We went on a nice, long walk through the brownstones this evening with the puppy. The weather here has been really unbelievable, and as we strolled I counted my blessings.

It couldn't have been colder than 45 degrees, and there was an especially amazing warm breeze.

We walked down our street and up a few more, slow and easy.

We walked to the promenade and looked at the city across the river, we watched the sun set, and then, when Peter could no longer walk a straight line and got distracted by every wadded napkin on the street, we took a seat on a wooden bench outside the Connecticut Muffin and people-watched for a while. (Brandon loves to people-watch.) (Peter Pan licked the concrete.)

It was early nighttime now so we could see into apartment windows at all the artwork and fireplace mantles and book cases. And that is my favorite.

Just then a woman with a black labrador walked past. Peter immediately stood at attention. He's not used to a lot of dogs, and while he has perfect manners, you never know what the other dog is gonna bring to things, so we tightened his leash.

As soon as the lab made eye contact with Peter Pan his ears perked up and his eyes got this manic glow as he pulled against his leash. Peter stared intently at his new buddy. The owner of the lab tugged the leash and apologized profusely and brought out a treat, and suddenly the lab's attention went straight from "puppypuppypuppy!" to "treattreattreat," but for a few precious seconds, Peter and this lab were engaged in a very intense, very meaningful eye-contact conversation.

After the lab left I asked Brandon what he thought they talked about. Brandon thought about it and said, "Well, the lab said, 'Hi, are you new here?' and then Peter Pan said 'Yeah! I'm a puppy! Wanna lick my face? I have poop stuck on my bum!'"