OH-VAR-IES

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:

Me

Lisa Loeb

Me



I don't see it.

Ouch.

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.

Puppies

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!'"