if wishes were horses

Someone asked me today at work whether I took the subway today despite the warnings of bombs! in baby carriages! and when I said yes, she goggled at me. But what's the alternative? Even if you're not in the subway system, you're twenty feet above it: a nefarious baby carriage out to destroy us all will get you up on the grate as well as me.

So yeah, I'm still alive. It's the new year, I'm doing pretty well. I enjoyed the small, homely but charming service Mr. Ben and I sought refuge in for both days of the holiday. (Memo to New York jews: Rosh Hashanah lasts two days. TWO. You don't get full credit unless you heard that damned ram's horn blow Tuesday and Wednesday. No fair sneaking back to the office with your assignment only half completed. You work too hard anyway. Now feel guilty for putting your money-making over the spiritual health of your soul.)
(Memo to Judaism: Thanks for the cover. Those two free days were bliss and the self-righteousness is the bliss-cherry on the bliss-sundae.)

I also thought of this idea for a piece of fiction. I can't say "book" because I'm afraid of grand nouns. Even in high school when I wrote two pieces of fiction, each spanning over 150 pages, I had a clunky tendency to refer to them as long stories. But I want this to be a book. I want a channel for my ambitions. I have written just over one page so far. Worry not, though, friends: life is long. Unless it gets cut short by a nefarious baby carriage.

How can you take that seriously?? A BABY CARRIAGE. Somehow my brain can't process it. Harriet Miers, cipher that she is, is scarier. (Miers reminds me a bit of an anthropomorphic mouse in a Disney movie along the lines of Rats of NIMH. Would that make Karl Rove the Great Owl?) Well, in any case, I hope I live to snark about such threats another day.