Charlie

In case there is anyone left in the free world who hasn't yet heard: I am aunt to the cutest kid in Christendom (Yeah, Christendom. I needed the alliteration.) And since I am regularly--rightfully--accused of hyperbole, I have included photos so you can see for yourself. My brother and his wife want four kids, but I honestly can't imagine another genetic cocktail with such a perfect, more cherubic outcome. Time will tell.

It's good actually, that Charlie is so freaking cute. I mean even if I do have kids one day, I figure my brother has this category in the bag. Which is great because growing up I was always the bratty, one-upping little sister. He was due his day. And since we're talking about it, I'm not shy about mentioning that I have no idea if I will procreate one day or even if I want to. It all seems so theoretical and not worth pondering sans a suitable life partner. Plus let's face it. I've spent the last ten years consumed with one thing only: me. This is not to say I'm self-centered (although I am), but that I have had the luxury of living on my own terms and doing all that annoyingly predictable Gen-Y self-discovery stuff. And as it turns out, I'm a pretty cool person.

Plus I'm a career girl. I'm like head-over-heels, can't-get-enough, totally in love with what I do. I simply can't think of anything more fascinating than contemplating cities and unraveling complex urban policy problems. I want to be on the front lines of this massive creative class takeover of the 21st century. And I am already. In the mix, that is. Which means I'd clearly be one of those horrible mothers who puts their kids in daycare and on a million prescription meds. Or ships them off to live with their Auntie Jill, a total natural, until they're too old for me to break. (Not a bad idea, actually.)

All that being said, you should see how Charlie levels me. I mean just totally depletes me of all ability to act cool, and in fact reduces me to one of those blubbering women I've always judged. Turns out "poopykins" and "buddah butt" are in my vocabulary. I actually coo! How embarrassing. But I could lay on the floor next to that little guy for hours just watching him figure out he has a tongue, and it's utterly, inexplicably, riveting. Who knew?

Is Brodie There?

When I was in college, and far less scrupulous about who I doled out my cell phone number to, my roommate and I invented The Brodie Game. We played The Brodie Game whenever one of us would miss a call from a non-programmed phone number and the Mystery Caller wouldn't leave a message. Rather than wrack our brains guessing who it was, we'd call from another cell phone and pray for an identity-revealing voicemail. If the Mystery Caller happened to answer, our default cover was to ask for Brodie. The point being that the name "Brodie" is rare enough to ensure a "wrong number" exit strategy. (Brodie also happened to be this adorable Freshman kid who practically lived in our dorm sophomore year and was subject to/of many of our antics.)

So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:

A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:

202-257-2340

First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.