I had a box of crayons when I was small, and I would draw on whatever was handy, scraps of paper floating around my room. My mother would find them later, wedged into the pile of the bedroom carpet or cast into corners. I drew faces mostly, when I drew shapes at all - always a girl with one eye full of tears. But more often than faces, I left small folds of paper, guileless declarations, "I love Mommy" in every color in every corner of my tiny little world.

My wonderful parents sold their house today, and soon they'll move far away. I know that home is not a building - my home travels wherever the people I love go - but it's hard to remember when I think of this house, the most beautiful one I've had or even seen. Mom and Dad bought it when I was in college; I didn't grow up there, none of my defining memories happened there. It was simply a place of comfort and happiness. It was proof that no matter how old I get, no matter where my mail goes, I can still go to a place that's more home than my own home. I am someone's little girl within the walls of my parents' house.

My bedroom isn't next to my mom's anymore, and it probably won't ever be again. She'll never clean my room and find the scraps of paper hidden under laundry and clutter. I don't think scribbling "I love Mommy" in crayon would have the same unconscious sincerity at 29 as it did at six.

This is the best I can do. I don't think she reads my site very often, but when she does, she'll find this here, the sort of folded note I can still leave with the greatest sincerity.

I love Mommy.

I had a long day, last week. I tangled unpleasantly all morning, first with the F train and then with the Angry Ineptitude of Port Authority. I had a pleasant day shopping with Gail in New Jersey, but I returned to Brooklyn worn out from travel, smelling faintly of anxiety and bus. There was no time to rest; I was rushing to Svet and Dave's to make gingerbread houses, eager to escape the biting cold and get to the party before all the good candy shingles were gone.

It's a long way down 7th Avenue and New Jersey Transit buses have no bathrooms, so I stopped in Barnes & Noble on the way. That's where I saw it. It. In the stall next to me, a pair of exceedingly large sneakers, larger than the largest women's shoes. Larger than the average man's shoes. Unmistakably the wrong shoes to be in a stall of the ladies' room of the Park Slope Barnes & Noble. I mentally rewound, remembered the girl-symbol'd door as I walked in, realized it was not I who was out of place, and noticed the shadow of my neighbor's hand. Moving furiously up and down.

I checked, of course, to see if any peeping was in progress, but nary a roving eye was found. I suppose the owner of the unnaturally large sneakers was simply enjoying the forbidden environment. I should have shrieked "merciful heavens" and swooned or at least alerted the staff, but I didn't. I thought, "What if I've encountered a freakish mutant female with enormous boatfeet and terrible hand tremors, and bringing the manager to accost her will not only ruin her night, but might actually directly contribute to her impending suicide?"

On further reflection, it was absolutely a man abusing himself in the women's bathroom of a national chain bookstore.

I washed my hands especially carefully as I left – to banish the bad touch to my soul – and raced off to make a gingerbread house.

It was the first I'd ever made, with a pointed roof and a gumdrop trim. And it was quite nice and very, very wholesome.

Boredom breeds ridiculous little projects like this one: a collection of camera phone pictures taken by me or taken by my friends of me.

The project will be less ridiculous when I get a better camera phone. Don't hold your breath.

Favorite Coworker — Why does Tech Support always talk to you? They don't talk to anyone!!!

Lupschada — I've got two words for you: Boobs.

Ranjit and I had dinner at Dizzy's last night, and since the last time I was there, the tables have grown paper covers and tins of crayons, two of my favorite things for tables to have. I was so happy that I drew a saucy pirate with an unfortunate eye condition. Here she is:

The odd lady at the table next to us asked if it was a portrait of Ranjit. Reflecting on it, while it was unintentional, the resemblance is uncanny. Ranjit wears an eyepatch, a headkerchief, large hoop earrings, and is a woman.