It took a while to win Bo over.

He's enormous: the top of his head is honestly the width of both my hands next to each other. Huge, boxy and super soft with two velvetty ears hanging down. He's mellow: rarely barks, lays down a lot and has these big, sad eyes. He's playful: next to snacks, he loves his tummy scratched. All these things come extremely natural to me.

When he sees me now, I represent coos, snacks, tummy scratches. He follows me everywhere. Which, of course, I love. If I get up, there is a mad, 4-legged scramble to get up too. Most dramatic on hardwoods. If I sit, he surveys the scene and does a half circle and falls as close to me as possible. Usually resulting in his big head popping up right next to my book or coffee cup. Boing.

Its gotten absurd. He jimmies his large body in the small space between the couch and coffee table if I am there. If the phone rings, my foot meets a furry, heaving mass. Arachnid-like, I have to stretch my leg all the way over him and hoist myself up. Kind of. More awkward: at night, he comes into our room and heads directly for my side. Our bed is low to the ground, and I hear him half-circle and karrrummph! He falls, causing a mild bed-quake. This means if I want to get up in the middle of the night, I have to groggily peel off the covers and shimmy down to the end of the bed and kind of walk off the edge like a zombie. Its an odd way to get up.

A friend is geared up to meet her new beau's family tonight. Over crabs. Which of course prompted the usual sarcastic email volley of things to wear:

She: I was thinking I'd go with a nice suit with a large-brimmed hat, you know, real glitzy.
Me: Always smart.
She: In a nice royal blue color, with big shoulder pads.
Me: Low heels with a big gold buckle. Similar purse with prominant gold fixture, that you open and close. A lot. Heavy, important clicking sound.
She: And I insist on standing the entire time, "Oh no, I prefer to stand, thank you." I keep my one foot pointed out the entire time, my low heel never touching the ground. He'd kill me.

I'm squealing.

Finally got to catch up with an old friend last night. Andy. He's a writerly editor guy recently turned doctor. Having just finished medical school, he's packed up his life, broke up with his girlfriend and is now starting his residency in Albequerque. I was thrilled to hear about it, I've been so ensconced in ad-drama lately I was about to blow. Up.

His stories were gripping and, of course, life-or-death, and not as "dammit, the color is off on the phone kiosk!", but as in the Real Thing. Of course. I listened intently and felt my silly work-worries drain from my head. These people DO things, they are saintly, they matter, I thought, and urged him to talk on.

But what was really interesting is how the conversation ended up just like anyone's work conversation would. Not saints. People with power and lots of stress are the same. Stories of ass-kissing, ass-covering, laziness, finger-pointing to an incredible degree. And then I thought further, why would it be otherwise? Some of my extended family work in the church. Clergy. They are the worst. What a concept: Advertising executive, Pastor, Surgeon: we're all the same people. I'm going to work at the Yarn Barn.

I just had a "pity me" party. I highly recommend it, if you feel slightly pooped on. Here's what happens at this party: list out all current gripes. I mean, let it rip, don't stop. Right down to the petty annoyances, just anything that you find irksome. I re-read it once I finally, feverishly finished it and had a good laugh; it looks like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless wrote it. I had to laugh at myself. It evoked some pity, but more parts petty. It was delightfully cruel. I tore it up. I feel much better now.

There are many obvious differences between NYC and Baltimore. But here is a not-so-obvious one: Happy hour in Baltimore means happy hour. Singular. Not like six as in New York.

I had two nights out this past week. I'm deeply, deeply missing my friends up north, and decided to do a little branching out on my own. I started by asking out our receptionist with the hip haircut who is also a photographer/artist. It was funny, too, because it truly was like a date. She accepted, we picked a date and when the day arrived, I dressed up a little. I got to the bar first, and ordered up a beer. Already not a New York night, beers were not on my liquid menu. Ever. Anywhere. Eventually she arrived and we had a lot of laughs and enjoyed two or three beers. I come to find out that the poor thing left her credit card there and she is still shaking her head and repeating that "two is [her] limit!". I feel sort of guilty.

My second night on the town was a group outing I was happy to be invited to. Emails flew around a few days prior, establishing a date and venue with loads of references to lettin' loose. The day arrived, the email frequency was near-impossible to keep up with, starting around noon. I rolled up my sleeves. I was ready! I walked into the bar and found my happy hour squad in the back seated near the large screen sport tvs. This was a bar specializing in 320 beers or something. I ordered a margarita and returned to the table and sat down. I stared at two half-eaten plastic bowls containing nachos and wangs. Everyone sort of casually sipped their selected beer and joyfully had light, silly happy-hour banter. This time, I was determined. I broached topics that I guessed may have provoked a good table discussion. What was I thinking? People were tired from a long day and wanted to just chill out. I sort of sipped my drink and did enjoy their company, but sort of realized I'd prefer my husband's a little more.

Last night I luxuriated in a nice mevening. I love living my new cute home with my fellow, but it is nice to have a solo crib again for a few hours. What did I do? I vaccuumed up Bo-tumbleweeds, pat him on his big flat head, read Bazaar and watched two, not one, but two episodes of the Queer Eye show. I take it back. Its not mean, not all of it.

Its so entertaining, the transformation. I usually end up feeling super sorry for the clueless straight guy (gotta love the reversal). The fab 5 completely waxed an otherwise very woolly straight guy (he had tears coming out of his eyes but kept a good attitude, I mean, you are on national television after all) and plucked and pruned him down to the finest detail, taught him how to dissect a whole lobster, how to make creme brulee, and lastly cranked contacts lenses in his previously bispeckled eyes. Now: go!

All went fairly well on his date until the lobster arrived, whole, just as one of his new contacts wanted to remove itself. He blinked and twitched while trying to manage the unweildy, slippery lobster in his awkward lobster bib and starchy new shirt and tried to remain humbly upbeat. It was truly adorable. The second episode involved a more debonair straight guy who was going to propose to his girlfriend. I was less drawn to his success until the actual proposal took place. He was shakey and slightly sweaty as he raced around in a highly intricate and dear orchestration. Lots of details. I was on the edge of my seat to see the outcome. I think I jumped up and down, along with the Fab 5. I nearly stuck my head through the tv screen, I wanted to be with them drinking a highball and celebrating. OK, its good.

Certain things in the city that are disturbing go unnoticed. Certain things do not.

This morning, walking to my car in the hot morning sun, I stepped over street litter, an old run over animal carcass, cigarette butts. Didn't think twice. When I got to my car, I noticed a navy blue Reliant K parked in front of me had a rear door open. Upon closer inspection, the back door was open because some dude passed out in its back seat and his legs were sticking out. Disturbing.

What a great idea! Too bad it should be renamed "A mean eye for the unsuspecting guy". The episode last night I saw last night was cruel! They ripped a kind, slightly overweight man to shreds. The wonderful gay men I know all have good eyes, good nice eyes. Yeesh. Hated it.

In a weenie homage to anti-corpo effrontery, today I wear an O'Neill tshirt and flipflops. Sigh. and sigh. And for good measure, Mt. Tam.

Our offices have moved to a great part of town. Its wonderful because there aren't any big businesses here-- this is far from any corpo-park. Just old federal brick buildings with colonial chimneys all along the water.

I wandered outside in search of a large bottle of water. No dice. I tried about 4 places and they just don't carry them. I walked into the market house, smelling like raw fish and fried chicken, and found a long deli counter. I ordered, paid and halfway back to the office I noticed it was a "Muszynianka" brand bottle of water tucked under my arm. Its from Poland. The label is awesome, the Muszynianka font is bold and red, and lays over a blurred image of a very still lake surrounded by bare tree branches with a bleak, pale sun trying to peak through. Winter. Sort of. It looks like a vodka bottle from a very depressed country, which is kind of a nice look to carry around and swig from all day in the office. And my oh my, I wish it was today.

Work.

Daniel in California mentioned he was heading out to Stinson for the weekend, to stay with a friend who rents a red house near the beach.

I closed my eyes for a second and let the nostalgia take over.

It was only the sort of thing a 21 year old could manage, I would guess. Fresh out of college, I sort of unofficially moved out of my San Francisco flat I shared with two of the frattiest boys in the continental u.s. of a. and crashed at my boyfriend's house at Stinson. It was the CUTEST A-frame house, like 100 yards from the beach. All of it is as clear as yesterday in my mind: I am not sure I'd ever been so happy, I was in love. Not with the boyfriend necessarily, but Stinson.

The A frame was TEENSY, and housed three dudes. Our bedroom was slightly larger than a closet with a window, containing a twin bed covered in tapestries and filled with sand and a small desk. The surprisingly clean kitchen had a skylight, and had enough counter space to be able to fix nice meals and all hang around and drink beers-- kind of as if you were sitting in the cabin of a boat. Woodburning stove. It was the coziest house in the world. Upstairs was a loft where a 35 year old bartender titled "beer can" lived, and room for the skinny computer geek named Jeff.

I'd usually hitchike into work every day, which wasn't very hard as there was usually a dozen or so locals driving the hour & fifteen minutes into the city. As for my "job", I was perfectly enabled to live there, I could walk in completely windblown and late and it didn't matter. In fact, nothing much mattered there. I wouldn't even show up some days and I don't think anyone noticed.

I couldnt WAIT to get back there at the end of the day. Jeff would generally pick me up, as he'd bought a truck for like $300, it was rusty and orange. Usually it was still light with the sun sinking over Mt. Tam, we'd always stop at Mill Valley's health food store for dinner & treats (pre-whole foods). And of course, beer. Sometimes it would be late, we'd ramble over the mountain top with the heat cranked, cutting up and thru the fog, views of pine trees and the moon, the dark ocean outstretched. Jeff became so dear to me, he was always on the search for Mrs. Jeff, which was heartbreakingly hopeless, but he didn't know that.

Mornings there! Deliciously foggy and cozy, swaddled in sweaters and flannel, we'd take our coffee to the beach or settle into come local breakfast nook for pancakes and the paper.

I think it was only a few months later that things dissolved with that boyfriend, and not surprisingly, at which time he'd moved to the East Bay.

Why is it that everywhere I look its Isaac? Isaac Mizrahi in a bandana, Isaac with his legs crossed, Isaac freaking out, Isaac holding some lame-o, stilted interview. UNCLE! Gack.

Whitney has befriended some of the neighborhood kids who live on her block: Kimmy and Chelsea. They are on the verge of non-innocence, about 11 or 12 years old with thick, curse-laiden city accents and short-shorts. But they aren't there yet, they have big, watery eyes and fresh faces yet they call each other Bitch.

They love Whitney. She will come home at night, say at 10:30, park her car and from behind the trees they burst forth calling "Miss Whitney! Miss Whitney!" She will invite them in to do some drawings or to just have a visit. They stay late. They are always on the lookout for her, mornings and nights.

A few weeks ago over dinner she was filling me in on the latest with them. That it was becoming too tricky, they were fasinated with her social life and love to ask a male friend if they are another male friend, making everyone stammer awkwardly.

She went on to tell me that they tried to something nice for her when she was out, they let themselves into her back yard, a small city lot with a beautiful climbing rose tree as a pretty focal point. They tried to "clean it up". Cleaning it up apparently meant hacking the tree down to a stump. Gone. Down.

Whit left shortly after that on a trip to Europe for two weeks. She just returned, and I stopped by last night to show her the wedding pictures and to hear about her trip. We sat out on her back porch, looking now over the stump, and she lit two peach colored candles, illuminating a small dish of peachy and pink seashells. They were a present for Kimmy & Chelsea, she explained. "Can you believe they spent their money on a gift for me?" And with that she produced a small, bedazzled box. "Look at what else they bought me," she said, and removed the sparkly, dainty lid. I looked down expecting to see potpourri or maybe more seashells, instead she unveiled a host of cigarette lighters, in a variety of colors. I almost wet my pants.