This time last year I was suffering through Passover in Paris, a not insubstantial test of willpower in the land of perfect bread (which I am pleased to report ended successfully, with a rather wonderful meal of homemade pasta and good company).

So what do I do as an encore this year? I fly to Texas on day seven of the observance, and am forced to break Passover on the plane, with some half-day-old bread purchased on a business lunch and sheepishly carted around Dallas in the back seat of a colleague’s car.

Next year I may just lock myself in a bakery midweek. Probably wouldn’t be much more exasperating.

No, that’s not a band: Amy and I bought an apartment. It’s a prewar two-bedroom “Edwardian five” on West End Avenue.

What, pray tell, is that? To quote the New York Times, an Edwardian five is “a one-bedroom for a rich bachelor or widow (probably not for a young single woman—they rarely lived alone in Edwardian times): only one bedroom but a preposterously large dining room and, of course, a maid’s room.” And indeed, that’s what we have, oversized dining room and all.

Our broker called us hopelessly romantic when we fell for the place, with its high ceilings, inlaid wood floors, stained glass bathroom windows, intact transoms, and extensive moldings. We’re in the midst of pushing it even further into prewar-ness, with fresh paint from the Benjamin Moore historical palette and accessories like glass doorknobs (from eBay, of course). Romance is in a holding pattern, though, as the days since closing have been heavily consumed by painting and spackling and arguing about dining room chairs. We move in early April.

Wondering what an Edwardian five is like? Here’s the floorplan:

My mother spent the past few months producing a benefit performance of “The Vagina Monologues” at the new South Orange Performing Arts Center (SOPAC), culminating in two sold-out shows this week, the first of which I attended with my family. In short, the play was terrific, and so was Mom’s big scene.

I could write extensively about the implications of hearing one’s mother scream, “C… U… N… CUNNNNNNNN…” while sitting with one’s father, wife and brother. But the truer emotion to recollect is one of the pride I&#8212we—feel, in both the production and her standout performance.

I haven’t been able to find quite the right words (beyond, well, you know). My future sister-in-law, on the other hand, says it beautifully. Do give it a read, and don’t miss the comments.

Y’know, you go on vacation, and you think to yourself, “It’s going to be a great week, seeing new things, relaxing, taking in the sights, soaking up the local culture.” What you don’t think is, “Hey, y’know what’ll be great? Flying half a mile across a 600-foot-deep valley between hills on the side of a volcano in the middle of a rainforest….”

I’m out of town (and the country) until March 4, primarily in (hot) Costa Rica. Whether or not I will be reachable via email remains to be seen. Whether or not I enjoy the suspended aquatic massage—I have a hunch….

01/11/07 9:09 pm

From: Choire

Text: IOU 10 DOLLARS

01/11/07 9:12 pm

From: Choire

Text: IOU 10 MORE DOLLARS

01/11/07 9:51 pm

From: Choire

Text: OMG IOU 10 MORE DOLLARS.

01/11/07 10:33 pm

From: Choire

Text: I OWE U 20 MORE DOLLARS.

01/11/07 10:43 pm

From: Choire

Text: I OWE U 20 MORE DOLLARS!

01/11/07 10:44 pm

From: Choire

Text: I OWE YOU 70 DOLLARS IN TOTAL NOW AS PER THE TEXTS ABOVE!

01/11/07 11:14 pm

From: Choire

Text: that’s 30 I owe 40.

[11:40 p.m.: Choire and David visit local ATM, settle debts]