Circulation

When I start to get cold, my nose gets cold first. If I didn't care about looking like a dufus (and I do care about this, in spite of what the pharmacist at Walgreens may think), I think I'd wear a nose bag as soon as the weather starts to get cold. Do those even exist? The only time I've seen one was in a BBC video version of "A Child's Christmas in Whales." Since I can't wear one, I just primly place two fingers over the bridge of my nose when the cold is too unbearable. I have no idea what people think I'm doing. Holding up invisible glasses?

The next body parts to get cold are my feet. Luckily, this is a circulatory problem that I share with a large segment of the population, so there are plenty of socially acceptable remedies, starting with wool socks and squashy house slippers.

I loved the winter that I was pregnant with Baby, when I was never, ever cold. I just felt heat radiating off of me all the time, powered by a bean-sized fetus. This was when I was living in my parent's basement for crying out loud, an astoundingly cold place. Husband and I just went ahead and left our milk out on the table because putting it back in the fridge would just warm it up.

Baby demands so many things from me. Sometimes, like tonight while I sit with my wool socked feet propped up next to the heater and I type with one hand while the other is hooked over my nose, it's good to remember that Baby did manage to keep me beautifully, blissfully warm for one winter.

Thanksgiving Playlists

I'm hosting Thanksgiving this year, and, because I've run out of things to work on that don't involve spending money or crowding my freezer, I'm putting together a Thanksgiving playlist. I should be working tonight, but my boss failed to e-mail me something that I don't totally need, but I need enough that I can procrastinate working with a clean conscience (see previous blog on prerequisites).

The most obvious song to put on a Thanksgiving playlist--for me at least--is the theme song to Ratatouille, "Le Festin." I think I have my playlist put together, but I'm interested to know: what would be on your playlist?

Prerequisites

I have so many photos to post on my blog where I do things like that, but I cannot for the life of me find the little dongle thingy that connects my camera to my computer, so the last entry on the photo blog continues to be blurry pictures of me standing in my empty apartment. The mommy-blogging community will have to continue its breathless anticipation for photos of Baby's Halloween costume (firefighter) and our trips to the cemetery, Sears--excuse me, Willis--tower, Lake Michigan, and Ikea.

And I get to continue navel gazing on this blog.

For those of you who didn't know I had another blog, e-mail me. If you don't know my e-mail address, then you'll have to content yourself with reading this secret, special, photo-free blog.

So, once, when I was in high school, I tried to read the scriptures every day. I decided to start this habit by getting a little chart where I would color in a little block for every chapter of scripture that I read. It worked perfectly for a while, and I had about half of the chart blocked in until I lost the yellow highlighter that I had been using to color in the blocks. The idea of using a different color highlighter on my chart was enough deterent for me: I stopped reading.

And that's the problem with setting up a trick for getting something done. As soon as you lose your highlighter (or your special weightlifting gloves or your cookie sheets or your iPod headphones or whatever), the whole project falls apart.

I have grown accustomed to doing housework while I listen to audiobooks. If you dislike housework (actually, dislike is not a strong enough word to describe my feelings toward cleaning my house), you really should try audiobooks. They absolutely do the trick. But be careful because you might have download problems and them wonder how you're supposed to clean your humungous apartment without an audiobook to keep your mind off of the fact that you're scraping Jello off of an ABC placemat.

Anyway, I'm trying to download this one book. I'd say what it was, but the author is a very well-wired sci-fi guy, and I'm nervous that he gets Google-notified whenever someone talks about his books on a blog, and I'm too shy for him to look up this blog and say something charming about how pleased he is that I tried to listen to his books while I cleaned Baby's placemat.

Hopefully the lake effect will blow some wireless waves toward my phone soon. My kitchen sink is starting to emit a weird smell...

Sweet Home Chicago

We've been in Chicago for a little over a week now. I like Chicago. I like many, many things about Chicago.

It's not the big city, but it's a big city, and I have to say, it's kind of nice to live somewhere that no one thinks the center of the universe. Ironically, Chicago is more "central" in a lot of ways than New York--geographically, cost-wise, and politically (I guess, sort of).

Chicago also feels more American somehow. Many American things happen in New York, and New York City is an American icon, but it really is unlike anywhere else in the United States. Living in Chicago--with its front and backyards, big grocery stores, clean sidewalks, car accessibility, and friendly population--feels like I'm returning to my roots, even though, until about two weeks ago, I'd never been here before.

The Apartment II

I'm sitting in the 57th street Starbucks, trying to find things to do to stay out of the way of the movers. They've been packing for two hours so far, and I expect we have about five more hours before my little 56th street apartment is empty again.



Husband did not like the 56th street apartment, and I suppose, from a real estate perspective, I can understand why. It was overpriced, old, drafty, dark, scratched, and crowded. It represented all of the annoyances of the city with none of the upsides.



But I loved it ferociously, and it's flaws made me want to love it more: to fix it, scrub it up, add another light fixture, refinish the floors, and replace the old pipes. I celebrated its scanty accomplishments and forgave its many disappointments. The thick walls and dark paint were comforting and womb-like for me. At the end of noisy and cold days, I would look around at my red and gold walls and feel like I lived in a jewelry box. The smallness of the apartment made me feel like I had burrowed securely into the city, nestled closely against my family, my books, and my kitchen. I would heft the stroller up the six front stairs, unlock the old front door made of glass and curly metal, and jiggle my key into the door of Number 1C (it took some jiggling, believe me). As the door closed behind me and I turned on the light and stepped out of my shoes, I felt the satisfaction of clicking the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle.



I loved learning about previous tenants of the apartment: the college students who lived there before us in a mish-mash of loft beds and futons, the gay couple who had kept the place cleaner than it had ever been, the voice teacher who hosted his Christmas party for more than a hundred people in it. It made me happy to think that New Yorkers had been occupying this space since 1910. New Yorkers like me.



It was the first place that Baby recognized as home, and in a way, it was the first place that I recognized as home. It was my little Eden, my First Place.

My New York Week with a 3-Year-Old

Monday
Took Baby to the Central Park Zoo (until he started knocking kids down)
Had a pizza lunch with Ashley and Makinlee after running into them at the zoo
Showed apartment to a nice pair of high school teachers named Meg and Scott
Celebrated anniversary dinner with Husband at Rosa Mexicano
Played Wii with Husband and Connie until the wee (get it?) hours of the morning

Tuesday
Took Baby to preschool where he learned that red and yellow make orange
Played at the "Choo Choo Playground" on the Hudson (until Baby started knocking kids down)
Brought Magnolia Bakery birthday treats to Husband's co-workers
Attended a Relief Society dinner titled (of all things) "Homecoming"
More Wii

Wednesday
Showed apartment to a nice hairdresser named Alyn
Took Baby to Central Park (until he started knocking kids down)
Picked up groceries at four different stores and still forgot soy milk
Burst into tears while walking through the Upper West Side because it was so blasted beautiful
Had dinner at Mark and Jaime's house where Baby did not push anyone

Thursday
Worked while Husband took Baby to preschool (yellow and blue make green)
Showed apartment to a Pottery Barn employee named Courtnie
Went to Museum of Arts and Design to see Madeline Albright's pin collection (so cool!)
Took Baby to play in the fountains at Columbus Circle (knockable kids were all in bed, I guess)
Watched Pam and Jim get married

Friday
Meant to drop Baby off with a friend in Westchester
Ended up staying in Westchester all day, thinking I could get used to the suburbs
Walked Husband home from his last day of work, carrying his framed diplomas under his arm
Completely forgot to go to cub scouts until it was too late (sorry, cubbies)
Reread large sections of Time Traveler's Wife, looking for mentions of Chicago neighborhoods

Saturday
Taught piano lessons in the morning
Went to SoHo for lunch at Aunt Gayle's place
Attended a Maurice Sendak show at a SoHo gallery (left when Baby started pushing kids)
Cleaned the apartment for a viewing, but the viewer didn't show
Stayed up catching up on work and watching The Great Escape on PBS

Conclusions: I love New York; I'm out of ideas to stop Charlie from pushing; and I may never sublease my apartment as long as I live

Context

Yesterday I saw the security guard from the church building without his uniform on. It was so weird. I hadn't realized how much I had associated him with his uniform. And the day before that I saw another guy from church wearing jeans and a baseball cap when I had only ever seen him wearing a suit and tie before. Again, weird.

I typically can't remember what people wear. I'd like to think that this is because I am such a fabulously deep person that I don't pay attention to surface details. It makes me wonder if I wasn't really appreciating these two people for themselves but only for what they represented: Suit guy is the person I talk to when I want to turn in cub scout receipts; security guard is, you know, a security guard. Of course I knew that suit guy occasionally wore something other than a suit, but I had never thought about it before. Is this a bad thing? Would I be a better person if I saw every person as a multifaceted individual? Would that be too exhausting in a city like New York (or, supposedly, Chicago) where I come into contact with thousands of people every day?

Hmm.

Slow Music

Singles like to ask each other what kind of music they like. It's a realy typical date question because, supposedly, it gives a lot of information about your date's personality. (Now, that's a topic for another post because I find these days that I'm often really surprised by the type of music someone likes). It's also a question that I haven't been asked for years. Not once. My answer used to be "fast music." And that was basically true. I never really got into any one type of music, but I did know that I hated slow songs of any variety.

I used to listen primarily to music to energize me, to get me shaking my groove thing around the apartment while put on my make-up, moved into another apartment, drove, or whatever. I'd bounce around the kitchen with a dish towel during "Wake Up, Little Susie," but I'd stop what I was doing to physically march over to the cd player and skip "Bridge Over Troubled Water."

Nowadays it's all about "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and it has been for a long time. I only tolerate "Wake Up, Little Susie" on the way to "Scarborough Fair," a song I used to hate.

Does this mean I'm getting old? Am I ever going to bounce back to fast music? I have a feeling that I'm starting a path to being a tired, cranky, old woman who has to be narcotized with Enya to stop her from poking strangers with her cane. (Ok, I don't listen to Enya yet, but, you know, it's no longer inconceivable). Maybe I should fight this urge with tap dance lessons or something.

By the way, as the majority of my readers know (how many to I have now? Two? Can you have a majority of two readers?), we are moving to Chicago. It was change that took a great deal of my attention. Hence the cyber-silence. I feel like I should apologize, but the truth is, dear readers, writing blogs was a low priority, and my thoughts would not have been fun to read. But I'm feeling better now, and I am marching forward with confidence--to the sort-of beat of Billie Holiday.

Portia Back in Provo

I need to keep this short. It is 1 am, New York time, and Baby is wandering around the bedroom, lifting up his shirt and saying "dood morning." He needs a good example of how to sleep in a foreign bed in Grandma's basement. But what can I do? I can't sleep either.

Suffice it to say that I have been back in Provo for a week and a half now. It's Provo in August, which is almost as good as Provo in September, which is the best time to be in Provo. Interestingly, it is also the best time to be in New York, in my opinion. I just love me some September.

I adore Provo. I'm sleeping in my parent's basement in the room I slept in when I was in high school, and for some reason it's making me act like a high school student, leaving clothes all over the floor and my bed unmade. If anyone in Provo ever visited me in New York, they would be surprised to find that I put clothes away and I make my bed without fail every morning.

I have lots of things to say about Provo--more than I have time to write here, with Baby zinging around like a rubber band (he found a top hat somewhere (aren't basements the best?) and he's being unspeakably cute with it right now: Baby + top hat + stripey jammies + 1:30 am).

We went to my parent's church picnic tonight. I took Baby to the Bean Musuem yesterday. I hiked Timp the day before that. These are all things I can't do in New York. I've also managed to snub, disappoint, discomfit, or confuse half of my in-laws, many of my immediate family, and a few of my high school friends. These are also things I don't tend to do when I'm safely deposited in New York.

More on Provo soon.

Facebook

I just visited Facebook for the first time in four months. I'm not really into Facebook. At this point I think I just visit Facebook to maintain the illusion that I'm hip. Although, for a twenty-something, Facebook is hardly about being hip anymore. It's more about being functional. I keep it current for the same reason that I collected signatures in my high school year book. It's just what you, you know, do. And it was pretty fun for a while, but I'm starting to feel like I've been collecting high school year book signatures for a really long time, and the idea that I need to keep on collecting signatures forever is a little daunting.

Not so for Husband. He collects friends, Facebook and otherwise. If you send him a friend request, he will add you, I promise. (As if I didn't know that he had already added every last person who reads this blog). His 1,000 plus friend collection is easily surviving the defriending trend that is sweeping Facebook (it had to happen, and it is a good thing).

Now that Facebook has become what it is, I'm kind of interested in some data. What is the average number of friends on Facebook? Is there a "Most Friends on Facebook" record? What is the most common demographic on Facebook? Someone write a good New Yorker article about this.

Today, to make up for the fact that I haven't looked at it for four months, I left it open on my computer all morning. It was kind of mesmerizing to watch the world go by via everyone's status updates: Julie is making banana bread; George hates President Obama; Pete thinks Obama is *&#ing brilliant; Anne loves her husband; Julie is eating her banana bread.

I don't do status updates: My patchy Facebooking creates a risk that I'll inform the world that I'm changing Baby's diaper or frying green tomatoes or thinking about drinking beer in the White House for four months straight.

My Three-Year-Old Baby

Should I still call him "Baby?" Yes.

And you know why? Because even though he is as tall as a tree and as heavy has a bus, he seems as desperate to stay a baby as I am to keep him one. Every night, when I come to haul him out of my bed, he mumbles, "Mama, I wanna holdjou lack a baby." Every morning when I give him his plastic dish of oatmeal and his big boy spoon, he says, "I want Mama to hold my spoon." Every afternoon when he wakes up from his nap and I offer him a trip to the toilet, he says, "No toilet; I wanna do poopies in the Mickey Mouse dapper."

His birthday was terrific: no expectations, no disappointments, a lot of presents, and a long day with his most favoritest people in the world. By his fourth birthday, he'll surely have a clearer understanding of what a birthday should entail. And hopefully he'll be sleeping alone, feeding himself, and ditching the Mickey Mouse diapers.

Shakespeare in the Park

Every summer, New York City sponsors a Shakespeare production in the park, free to the public. This year, the show is Twelfth Night, starring Anne Hathaway and Audra McDonald. At 1 pm, you pick up your ticket; at 8 pm, you attend the show.

How long would you wait in line for free tickets to see Twelfth Night in Central Park? On Tuesday, I decided that I would wait five hours, so I smooched Baby awake at 7:45 am and strolled him into the park by 8:00. When I saw that the line was a quarter of a mile long, I changed my mind. After I talked to a few people in various places in the line, I found out that on Monday night, the final ticket was distributed to a person who had arrived at 6:30 am. That person's spot in line was just ahead of a large rock by the swing sets in the Pinetum (lovingly known by Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters as the Rock of Hope). On Tuesday night I thought long and hard about how much I really wanted to see Twelfth Night. A lot, I decided.

Central Park doesn't actually open to until 6 am. So I was trespassing when I lugged my picnic blanket, diaper bag, and crossword puzzle book into the park at 5:30. At 5:39 I staked my claim in line along the fence at 83rd street. (Shakespeare in the Park line-waiters refer to this stretch of line as The Mulch and the people who wait there as Mulch People.) I was at least 100 people ahead of the Rock of Hope. I had come with good ticket karma in the form of a friend who had won tickets in the Wicked lottery three out of three times. I was gold, right?

Wrong. I didn't get the tickets. At 1:30 pm, defeated, I left the park with a heavy heart. Had I arrived a 5:38, one minute earlier, I would have gotten tickets. I could have literally reached out and strangled the last person who received tickets to last night's performance because that's how close they were in line.

Baby had the best day ever. He spent a long blissful morning inspecting pine cones, splashing in mud puddles (mulch puddles?), climbing on the Rock of Hope, and singing to a captive audience of Mulch People. So all was not lost.

And we had babysitting lined up and Husband had already made his excuses to get out of working. So Husband and I went out to eat on a double date with my friend (whose ticket karma is a teensy bit tarnished) and her husband. We ate coconut soup, beef curry, and barbequed chicken with peanut sauce. To my surprise and delight, my friend's husband dressed like a pirate and accidentally walked into a post.

And every person who got tickets to Shakespeare in the Park last night woke up this morning with swine flu, so, you know . . .

Hair Cut II

So I took Baby to the barbershop, candy bag in hand. As I walked in the door I happened to glance at the price list. His haircut was going to cost exactly the amount of the robot that had so enthralled him at the toy store last night. I had laughed all the way home from the toy store at those weak, weak parents who would spend that much money on a toy robot. Not me. As far as Baby knows, that robot lives in the toy store, and it would be cruel and unusual to wrench the poor robot away from her family on the toy store shelf. And here I was ready to drop the same amount of money on a haircut. A haircut that would grow out in one month.

Soooo, I gently closed the barbershop door without making the bell tinkle and I made an about face back to the drug store. For one quarter the cost of the haircut, I bought a pair of haircutting scissors.

It's not the best haircut ever, but it's a good darn good haircut. And it only took me from the opening credits of Cars to the part where Lightening finds Doc's collection of Piston Cups. And a package of gummi worms. And a cinnamon roll for the barberista.

I think that, in his heart, Baby actually respects me more for this, I really do.

Hair Cut

I'm about to set out the door, so this will be short. I'm setting out to go smash Baby's fingers with a hammer. I mean, I'm going to take him to get his hair cut.

First we're going to the drugstore to buy a bag of candy. Nothing like candy to soothe the pain of having your toenails pulled out with pliers. I mean, getting your hair cut.

Afterwards we're going to come home to watch Cars. By the end he will have forgotten all about his experience with being tarred and feathered. I mean . . .

Wish me luck.

Community Supported Agriculture

Six months ago I paid about $200 to a farm about an hour outside of the city. On Wednesday, I walked into the Church of All Nations on 57th street and, without paying anything, I walked out with a pound of mixed greens, a head of bok choy, six scallions, six heads of green garlic, six radishes, and six turnips. I get to do this every Wednesday afternoon for the rest of the 22 week growing season.

It's like Christmas every week because I never really know what exactly I'm going to get. It all depends on what the farm produces that week. I also don't really know if by the end of the 22-week period I will have gotten more or less that $200 worth of food. But here's what I do know:

The vegetables were all less than one week out of the dirt
The food used a relatively small amount of fossil fuels to be transported to me
The vegetables were grown using organic methods wherever practical
The workers who grew the vegetables were all fairly paid for their labor in advance of the harvest
All of the excess food is donated to the local soup kitchen for the Church of All Nations

Is that not cool? After I can figure out how to cook turnips and bok choy, it will be even cooler.

Tony Time

I'm posting this really late at night (Jimmy Fallon is kind of working for me lately), so give me a break if it's a little more whimsical than usual. I just realized that it's been five days since the Tonies and I haven't posted about them.

Aren't awards shows so the best? I'm not a very decisive person. I don't much like to take a position on, you know, anything. But, like most indecisive people, I really like to hear decisive people pass judgment on stuff. I spend a great deal of time reading movie, book, and theater reviews (and legal cases, statutes, and opinion columns).

So I love, love, love awards shows, and here's the coolest thing for me about this year's Tonies: This year my husband and I had actually seen more of the shows in the Tonies than we had seen movies for the Oscars. I know, we're quite the theatah snobs. Actually we're not. We have a two-year-old, and if we have a babysitter, we're going to a full-on Broadway show. It only costs $3 more than going to a movie theater (well, not really, but close).

But even when I hadn't seen the shows, the Tonies delivered. All actors really want to be loved, but there's something about Broadway actors that is so puppy-like and desperate for attention and affection. They don't do movies because if they're in movies, it could take months before they hear someone tell them how talented they are. So watching these crazy people win really big awards in front of a big audience is like watching a puppy who has waited thirty years to be loved finally get wrapped into a Christmas present and opened by a little boy who has also waited thirty years to be loved. And then the dog and and boy get up and sing and dance in Radio City Music Hall. And everyone claps, and their moms cry . . .

Neil Patrick Harris was the host. At first I was like, cool it's Doogie Howser, and then I was like, what?, and then I was like, hmm, and then he sang the last song, and I was like, yeah!

Well, Carson Daly is on now. I'm going to bed. If you missed the Tonies, maybe you can watch some of the clips on Youtube or something. The dance number from Billy Elliot was pretty cool (and it was even bettah in puhson, dahling) and the song from the Guys and Dolls revival was zippy. Oh, and make sure you see the acceptance speech for the Best Actor in a Musical, which went to the three little boys who played Billy Elliot.

My Weekly Bread Routine

I am still baking my own bread. It's been a year now. There is no need to tell me how amazing I am because I know, I really do know. The nice thing about making bread is that everyone is impressed by your talent and sacrifice, even though the two hours that I spend making bread are probably the most satisfying of my week. This is my indulgent Monday afternoon routine (which I will move to Tuesdays now that I tutor on Monday afternoons):

1) Put Baby down for his nap. Don't fall asleep with him. Push play on your audiobook.

2) Dump the dishes on the counter into the sink and put the Bosch mixer on the counter. Install the mixing bowl and the dough hook. Get out the shoe box of bread ingredients.

3) Combine 3 cups of bath-temperature water, 3.5 c whole wheat flour, 1 c white flour, 1 Tbs yeast, and 1 Tbs gluten in the bowl. Mix it for one minute into a paste and cover it.

4) Put away the wheat flour, the yeast, and the gluten. Empty the dishwasher and put the dirty dishes that used to be in the sink into the dishwasher. Start the dishwasher. Get out three bread pans.

5) Pour 1/4 c canola oil or apple sauce into a liquid measuring cup. Pour 1/4 of honey on top of that so the honey won't stick to the bottom of the cup. Pour a glob (about 1 Tbs) of liquid lecithin on top of that without touching it. Liquid lecithin has the grossest texture in the world.

6) Pour the goop from the liquid measuring cup into the bubbly paste in the mixing bowl. Add 1 Tbs salt and maybe a few Tbs of flaxseed meal. Turn on the mixer.

7) Start adding more white flour by half cups until the dough pulls away from the sides of the bowl and it starts to look smooth. Add about 2.5 cups in all. Add 1 Tbs dough enhancer. Let the dough knead about 10 more minutes while you put the ingredients away, grease your bread pans, and unroll a sheet of plastic wrap. If you're feeling home-maker-ish, wipe the counters. Mop the floor for all I care.

8) Twist the dough into three equal size loaves. If it won't pick up in one big ball or if it sticks to your fingers, put it back in the bowl and add more flour. Cover the loaves with plastic wrap and put them on top of the fridge. Wash the mixer bowl and put the mixer away.

9) Sweep the cars and trains off the couch and into the car and train tub. Turn off the audiobook and read New York Magazine from cover to cover.

10) Put the loaves of dough into a cold oven. Set the temperature for 350 degree and bake for about 28 minutes or until the dough looks like bread. Let it cool completely before cutting it.

11) Kiss Baby on his warm sleeping lips to wake him up.

Pink Star

I love knowing secrets. It makes me feel important, smart, and popular. There is no secret too small to delight me. When I worked as a secretary at BYU, I had the job to enter quiz scores into the computer. Before I uploaded the scores, I would savor the moment that I alone had access to all of these scores. The scores didn't do me any good, but I just loved having my little secret. After I took the bar exam, during the months that I waited for my scores, I would think, somewhere there exists a person who knows whether or not I passed the bar.

For another instance, I love that I know multiple items on Jamba Juice's secret menu. I found out about the Pink Star because I know someone who knew someone who worked at Jamba Juice and told her to go there and to order a Pink Star. Later, I actually went to Jamba Juice, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and ordered a Pink Star. When the cashier gave me a half smile and put in my order, I was downright giddy. Hooray for me! I was part of the special secret Jamba Juice club.

With a little googling, you could find tons of secret flavors at Jamba Juice, but I bet it won't be as fun for you as it was for me. It's all about being in with the in-crowd.

Almost as good as knowing an honest-to-goodness secret is happening to know information that other people don't. Every Tuesday I get a set of trivia questions over e-mail. I can answer two or three of the questions off the top of my head, but I haven't the faintest idea for the other questions. This week, for example, I knew that the third place ribbon is traditionally white, and I think JWST stands for the telescope that is supposed to be better than the Hubble telescope (yep, it is, I checked). I could easily google the answers to the ones I don't know, but it wouldn't be as exciting.

It's like when you watch a movie, and an actor appears, and you know that you've seen them in a different movie, but you just can't figure out what movie it was. It's easy and fast to hop on imdb.com, but it's much more gratifying to keep watching the movie, go to bed, and wake up in the middle of the night, and clonk your husband in the face while you shout, "He was in Ghostbusters, by jingo!"

Now, I thank my lucky stars for imdb.com as often as the next competitive movie buff. After all, it's possible that, after having been clonked in the face, Husband will say, "it's not Ghostbusters, you lovable nut! It's Steel Magnolias." Out comes the laptop and imdb.com. Otherwise, how could we possibly go back to sleep?

But isn't there something kind of cool -- and nowadays, kind quaint -- about just knowing an actor? Or taking special notice during the county fair to make sure that the third place ribbon really is white? Or summoning up the courage to order a ridiculously-named smoothie that doesn't exist on the menu?

Relocating

We are probably moving to a different apartment when our lease is up. Rents have dropped twenty percent in New York City, but our rent has only dropped five percent. So it's back to the real estate section of the Times...

Would I rather live in the mansion house in Slum City or the shack in Moneybagsville? I feel like this is the decision I am faced with if I want to continue living around here. There's not much in between. Seriously, the difference between one of the most desirable sections of the Upper East Side and one of the scariest most crime ridden sections Spanish Harlem is one block and about $1500 per month in rent.

The answer is that it doesn't matter. Either way my neighbors want to shoot me.

But seriously, where would you live, given the choice?

Rainy Days and Mondays

I'm feeling sluggish and sentimental today. It's not an uncommon feeling for me on Mondays. I've never been much of a hit-the-ground-running type of person, and I tend to face Mondays dead-eyed and slack-jawed. I get better and better as the week goes on, and by Friday night, I'm rocking and rolling.

I lounged across the couch this morning, watching Baby push his cars across the rug while I listened to our bathroom faucet leaking water down the drain. A siren passed on Ninth Avenue. For about thirty seconds I thought sad thoughts about wasting water with leaky faucets and wasting childhoods with lazy mothers. My throat started to tighten, but the metaphor didn't get me anywhere so I discarded it. It was a useful metaphor in a way because it did motivate me to get up, get showered, and get on the phone to arrange a play date.

Here's the nice thing about the realization that Mondays just aren't my thing: Every single thing I manage to accomplish on a Monday is a big deal, worthy of an exclamation point. I washed Baby's hair! I emptied the dishwasher! I applied for another job! I called the super about the leaky faucet!