A few weeks ago, Rachael gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Calder. He is perfect! Of course now she is extremely busy and under-rested being a first-time mommy. I like to send her empathetic emails, now that I'm a new mommy of a scraggly kitten. "I was up every two hours last night, I'm exausted." Heh. Or, "Its hard for me to concentrate at work, I just keep wondering what she's doing, did she eat all her breakfast, does she really like the mouse on a string? Its so hard concentrate, you know?"

Even funnier is what happened when I made the (quickest ever) trip to meet Calder for the first time. I came home that night, crawled into bed and excitedly told Scott all about him. Scott was asleep, but opened his eyes slightly to hear the news. He placidly nodded and smiled.

Having witnessed another tot's newborn complications, I was floored how happy and easy this tot was. His disposition was of contentedness, he seemed pleased to look and stare and be swaddled and coo. Amazing. I passed this on to Scott. I believe my words were "...I mean, he pretty much takes care of himself!" Scott's eyes opened further, "Oh, come on. Holly, he is three days old!" I stuck to my guns.

The next day, Scott said "What do you think Calder is doing now?" I smiled. He continued "He's probably preparing their taxes, or maybe arranging a poker match." I recently needed some programming help. He catches me every time, "Call Calder, he's a whiz at Cold Fusion." I love it. He is three weeks old yet he can fix most anything. Its probably not far from the truth.

I ate Jamaican today. This place was phenomenal: the floor was bright yellow & black tiles, the furniture equally colorful. A tall Jamaican man in a suit with a collared pink shirt took our orders with an enormous smile. They played the sort of dated, lesser-heard pop songs, and faded Red Stripe posters decorated the walls. It was warm inside. Jason ordered the curried goat. I had a veggie platter and had to buy a peice of the pink strawberry cake with light pink frosting. Everything tasted phenomenal. Moments like that remind me of why city living can be worth the crowds and noise.

Leaving a restaurant last night, a critter lept in front of us along a dark side street. A skinny Calico kitten. She hoarsely cheeped at us and unhestitatingly just joined along for couple blocks. People chuckled as we ambled along, walking a small kitten. Since she was wearing a pink flea collar, I was waiting for her to turn around and duck to a nearby home. No dice. Instead she kept right in front of us, tail straight up in the air, bouncing along while nervously looking back at us to sure we were right at her teensy heels. She'd adopted us right there.

She bounced right up the steps to the front door, so we brought her inside and I fed her all the wrong things (milk, dog food) which she ferociously gobbled up. She was starving, literally. Trembling. The poor dear!

I quickly transformed our guest room into a kitty spa. I draped a cover over the 4 poster bed, where she curls up in the middle. A 1-lb ball. Ran to the store and bought her kitty necessities and called it a night.

Knowing there is still a possibility sad family is still looking for her, we snapped a digital picture and pasted fliers all around the area. Funny, I noticed the message Scott had written above the blown up picture:

Kitten Found 3/23 10 pm at Captain Larry's.

Hilarious. A little kitty beer and a teensy kitty burger at the pub.

Today I went nutzo at the Pet Store on furry toys and chewy treats and really hope no one calls to claim her. I am so anxious to get her bathed; she's has a small cut on her tiny nose. And no one will ever know her story; how she's stayed alive, where she's been for these past many days. Aside from drinking at Larry's.

I don't get excited about most Hollywood flicks. They lack subtlety. I'm more for the oldies. The dialogue seems better and things happen slower-- I have time to really empathize with the characters. Plus, its so cool to check out the old styles of living, speech and dress.

I had to laugh at myself when Scott, sick, said to me today "Jayzus, its not even 10 in the morning and you have us watching black & white film about a widow." To most the oldies can get, well, old.

Somehow I missed Lost in Translation when it first came out, but today I got to savor it in the comfort of my own home on pay per view. Comfort being a necessity 'cuz I, too, am sick.

I loved this movie. As did many, obviously. I was totally engrossed in the immediate lives of the two main characters. I loved how the days went by and pace was somewhat realistic. The insomnia, the lonesome afternoons, and the sad, gentle connection between them-- all with the intense backdrop of a wild, foreign city. And the ending! Happy, sad, left open to the imagination.

Which got me thinking of the bittersweet feeling of falling in love with someone new, in a new city. And how unforgettable it is. The combination is unparalleled.

I wasn't in Tokyo, but NYC was almost as foreign to me when I was living out west. And to have a handsome Manhattanite thrilled to show me around was unforgettable. Such a rush. That winter and spring was spent bundled up walking through the west village, tickets to things, parties, taxi rides up and down the island to fit whatever whim that struck, live music, long late-night discussions, long afternoons in soho. The whole city fascinated me. He adored me.

Somehow I think I knew in the back of mind, it had to end. No one can keep that level of intensity alive. And, yes, I was right, it ended. Oh, and it was sad. Sad in the fantasty-way, like when a kid realizes there is no Santa Claus. Especially since a year had passed experiencing the surreal, whirlwind lifestyle and I had moved to NYC, knowing no one.

But here is what's interesting. The end part, for all the emptiness and tears, was somehow very gratifying. Its like all the films and books and songs I'd ever read about heartache had crescendoed into my own story. I was low. I hurt like crazy.

Which begs a chicken-egg question: Have we been pained and hurt all along the way or do we try and validate what we've learned about heartbreak all our lives? I mean, do we want to relate to the beautiful people in movies, our favorite pained authors and musicians? Do we seek the drama? Honestly, listen in on conversations where romance is concerned, its a fascinating topic for both the teller and the listener. And everyone has a tale.

Had you asked me this once Mr NYC had exited the plot of my life-- the answer would have been hell no, I didnt seek this. But now, many years later, I love to reflect back on those days. They cost me handsomely, but now when I hear truly sad music, I know that I can relate honestly. And its a wonderful, sad, sad feeling to transport myself back to that time. When I hear or read something tragic and sad, my mind races back and the empathy for a younger version of me takes over. Like, in an epic Love-is-a-battlefield way that makes one feel alive and cool. Not sure I had that before I fell in love with New York and that guy.

Its odd having hair that doesn't match anything. I got my hairs trimmed at a new place and somehow emerged with a nice trim, but very Strawberry toned. It clashes.

Precisely why I love going out with Whit.

A rainy, chilly St. Patty's day and we headed to a local joint for dinner-- Whitney & her boyfriend and the two if us. We had all never been out together.

We met up at her cute rowhouse around the corner. Her beau was there with his Chesapeake retriever; looks like our yellow dog, but a chocolate color with curls. It was so funny to me. Tight little curls surrounded his healthy tummy.

"He's so curly!" I kept exclaiming as his curly self wriggled with excitement. I was gently, but firmly, corrected by the owner. This macho hunting dog was not to be called curly. Wooly, maybe, but not curly. Whit sort of winked at me. I took mental note. We put our coats on and cheerily ambled to nearby Cap'n Larrys.

We made it so that our two gents were forced to make conversation and become friends, which didn't really take much effort. Manners and politeness, mild, funny coversation, tall beer glasses. Whit was on her best behavior, happy I think to have us all get aquainted. After our plates were cleared, I realized that our plan had taken hold-- the two of them had more in common than we had anticipated. Another round.

Whit fell silent, patiently letting the banter carry on. I saw her take notice of these ridiculous salt and pepper shakers in front of us. They were these horrible ceramic dogs, oversized and pie-eyed; truly irritating to look upon. Once the conversation lulled for a moment, she slid the cartoonish dogs in front of her boyfriend. He rolled his eyes. She scooted them further toward him and with one dog in each hand, she turned them to each other and had them dance and sing "Curls, curls, curls" to the tune of Motely Crue's wretched hit "Girls, girls, girls." The bad shakers, the horrid song, the curls-mention-- I woke up singing it. Fantastic.

Was very happy to get out of town last weekend to celebrate Scott's birthday. I've been doing little other than working it seems, so I hauled off and booked us a trip to St. Michaels, MD for the event.

I felt it was deserved; I called a nice hotel and asked about the standard room availability. I got a hard-sell to instead book one of the nicer suites. I called back. Almost exasperated and definately humbled, I stopped the sales pitch before it got underway, and asked for the "standard room, yes, with no view, please." I really wasn't trying to sound dejected, but the woman took pity on me anyway. I heard her clicking around as she breathed heavily into the receiver. "Tell you what, hon. I just upgraded you to the jacuzzi suite. Is this birthday a surprise?" I was surprised!

Saturday morning, after an early morning work fiasco, we got on the road. We followed a pretty, early spring shower all the way down. Our first destination was nearby Tilghman Island. Hungry, we wheeled right into a local seafood hut. It was right out of a book; the oyster boats lined the docks right in front, cattails blew in the breeze and we had the best lunch I can remember while talking to a swarthy man, mid-40s, in a navy blue wool sailor's cap. He is a sailor. He lives on boats, he gets commissioned to take a used boat, refurbish it and sail it to whoever wants it. The boat he is fixing up now was in the marina nearby-- a 27" Catalina that he was to sail to Scotland. What a cool guy! My beer tasted good.

About an hour later, after the crabcakes were gone, he invited us to his boat. At this time, the sun had come out and things were shaping up for a nice sunset. I declined at first, but when he asked again and offered us music and playing cards, my heart just about broke. It must get lonely living that way.

We followed him down the oystershell road to his rig. The sun was beginning to set, the geese flew overhead. I was feeling good about our decision. We sat in the cockpit until it got too cold, then we went below and sat around the small dining table.

Something stopped feeling right about it. I couldn't put my thumb on it until my eyes locked on his screensaver that had been rotating some of the wraunchiest porn shots I'd ever seen. I mean, close up and graphic. I kept catching Scott looking over, too. How funny it struck me, seeing Scott there with his clean cut hairs, smiling and chattering along while the porn flickered away in a small boat docked in a remote marina. Wait, what were we doing there when we had this snazzy secret-bargain suite to look forward to? It was right when he was taking off the seat cushion to show us his septic system that I knew Scott was ready to leave. Ha!

The short drive to the resort was amazing-- the moon was beautifully full, rising up above the black pine trees lining the country road, nearly bright enough to illuminate the way. We were happy for our recent adventure, sort of laughing, all the way up to the front desk.

The woman behind the counter handed us our keys, with a secret "VIP" twinkle in her eye. I looked at the bill, which was a good $90 more than the crummy-room rate we were supposed to get. I said something. She smiled warmly again and mentioned that the real rate for the fancy suite was $320-- and that I could take it up with the manager tomorrow morning.

Right. We walked into an amazingly huge room where they wrote Scott a birthday card, wrapped up two homemade cookies and I dove right into the complimentary champagne- POW! There goes the bargaining power. Ah well, it was worth it.