Sometimes you meet someone and you fit like you're Tinker Toys, and all you want to do is stick your parts together and see the world. (This simile is not intended to be pornographic). There are people who make any activity - cleaning out the dryer's lint trap, standing in line at the Starbucks restroom, watching televangelists - fun.

TBID is like that for me. So when he asked if I wanted to go to Boston and hang out by myself while he had a business meeting, I said sure. Turns out, I can independently attach my own Tinker Toy wheel to my own stick and at the very least, use this contraption to whack slow-moving opponents on the head.

I tutored, had pastrami sandwiches with TBID, and then packed for the trip on Friday night. New York was up in arms about the heavy snow predicted for Saturday night. Meteorologists in Boston forecast buckets more, or as they say "mo-aw". I packed a whole suitcase for a trip that was essentially one-and-a-half days long. If I ever die alone in my apartment, my winter clothes may anthropomorphize and smother me to death, and I'll deserve it.

Saturday morning, TBID and I headed out later than we'd planned. It was cold. Hair was staticky. Most of all, it was a weekend. People who get up early on the weekends are better than us and belong on a pedestal that hovers in the shadows above our beds, which we would like to stay in.

The road trip was pretty smooth. We had breakfast and debated whether or not this rap song about a man who was successful despite dropping out of college sends the wrong message. TBID is all about the importance of creating one's own path in life, which I agree with to an extent. However, TBID has skills most people will never have. Occasionally, other people have these skills without a college degree and get by just fine. I, on the other hand, do nothing esoteric. I could be the most amazing writer to ever put her fingers on a keyboard, but without a college degree, I wouldn't have been able to get any job I've ever had. Nor would I have the easiest time connecting to people who would be interested in buying my writing. The whole thing is more than just art, style, and putting a comma in the right place. There are lots of people trying to do the same thing I'm doing.

And so on and so on. I think we drove through Connecticut debating this, ending with the conclusion that most people just aren't that special. Most people, special or not, need to go to college. Even college won't make you successful, but success is subjective anyway. This is how nearly any argument ends with people who have read more than a few books. Nothing is really resolved. I had these flash-forwards of our relationship spanning years and our surly son who wants to skip a university education to pursue his dreams of being the next Lil' Wayne sneering in the backseat. TBID would be the cool parent. I'd be the one crying and telling "When I was your age..." stories.

We got to Boston eventually and checked into our hotel. Do I even need to type here that I'm generally okay with being frugal, if not straight slumming? This place was really nice and purchased on TBID's credit card rewards. King-sized bed, nice leaf-shaped soaps to steal, linens not infested with crabs - it had it all. Conveniently, it was also near every chain shop that's already in Manhattan. I walked around for hours, taking in a Trader Joe's that wasn't crowded, an H&M that wasn't crowded, and an Aldo that wasn't crowded. Then I went to some secondhand stores that were exorbitantly overpriced and not surprisingly, uncrowded. I can have variety any time I want it. Personal space is nice. I should leave the city more often.

I met TBID back at the hotel and prepared to go out to dinner at Coda with the two guys he's working with. The restaurant wasn't my choice, but it suited my tastes. Everything was simple and good, from the calamari to the Asian-style beef skewers to the hamburger. We sipped drinks and talked. TBID and I got to tell our "how we met" story, which we've polished nicely. I occasionally got distracted by the steadily falling snow. By the time TBID and I returned to the hotel, it grazed the toes of my boots. By morning, it would be up to my ankles.

The two non-TBIDs I dined with told stories about accidentally dancing with transvestites, playing poker, and other stuff guys like to talk about after a few drinks: the limits of masculinity, Richard Simmons, the best backscratchers on the market. One of the guys has a Breathalyzer attached to his cellphone. He had everyone blow into it competitively. The winter sangria had me winning the game. Or was I losing? We all left unscathed and without imperiling ourselves or others behind a steering wheel. (That's my public service announcement for the year).

The next day, TBID and I checked out of our hotel and had brunch at Metropolis Cafe. I highly recommend the place, if you like delicious food and don't mind close-talking people in cable-knit sweaters. TBID actually said, "I've never seen so many different styles of sweaters before! These people all look so academic." Well, it is Boston. There's not much that much else to do.

We walked and drove around in the snow later. It was pristine powder with a good crunch. I don't know what it is about TBID, but we spend more time in parks than most schoolkids. We ran around and avoided getting our tongues stuck to anything.

Fresh snow makes anything more beautiful. We later sought out the seedier areas of Boston and talked about the present and the future. At one point, we were both so tired that we dozed off in a parking lot. I convinced TBID that I'd be rejuvenated if we visited the large suburban Target one parking lot over from ours. He didn't believe me, but consented. There was enough space to maneuver a cart haphazardly and not kill three unsupervised toddlers! It was clean and full of items in the right aisles! No one threatened to cut me in the sales section!

Our short trip to Boston was mundane, but that's why I liked it. It was comfortable and warm and slower-paced. But I still had fun. Wherever you go, there you are. And there he was. It just fit.

TBID on our ice-skating adventure in Staten Island: "I was afraid I'd break my arms. Not from falling. From flailing."

He's 6'2" and could be on a wrestling team.

But not an ice-dancing one. Good lord.

TBID is coming to Texas to meet my family in three days. I'm anticipating all the usual questions and lags in conversation and such. It's been at least three guys since I brought a romantic interest home to eat my mom's cooking and awkwardly talk about the economy.

Meanwhile, I've already opened my Christmas presents and am stuck at home. Everything is closed, and I'm lapsing into the post-Christmas Eve dinner coma. It's hard being this relaxed. I daresay my back craves a desk chair and a nice 9-5 slouch.

My dear Life Coach wrote this beautiful, thoughtful post over the weekend. I got to play editor before it went live and was really impressed. He's taught me a few things about relationships. Here are some Life Coach pearls of wisdom:

1) Don't be the girl who always has a boyfriend. (This is one I have to work on, as I've been pretty steadily dating since I was 15. Nonetheless, I always have independent pursuits outside of my relationships and am currently dating someone who does the same. We never get bored, because we just don't have time to get on each other's nerves).

2) For a relationship to work, the guy has to be much more into the girl. (Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Reciprocation, schmreciprocation. I tend to agree).

3) Don't be jealous. It will only make a guy resent you. (The green-eyed monster is easier said to be slain than actually slain).

4) The guy should pay for dinner, drinks, etc. That's how real men roll. (Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, as well).

5) Do not be overly available to a guy. (Or girl!)

FAIL Blog, have I got a submission for you.

Yesterday, TBID emailed me excitedly about an amazing new product targeted to people who are both lazy and health-conscious. Batter Blaster, is a pressurized can of pancake/waffle batter that you simply spray onto a griddle or pan.

Forget the name that's at the very least, hard to say, and at the very worst, kind of pornographic. TBID and I occasionally like pancakes, and it just sounded fun and easy to use.

He went to Whole Foods to apprehend some Batter Blaster; I got my pan and spatula out. We even pondered getting some fruit to add to the batter, but decided to make traditional flapjacks.

Well, traditional in someone else's household maybe. Not mine, where pancakes are edible. The batter sprayed out of the can easily and cooked very quickly, but the pancakes ended up well done in a very bad way.

Observe:

TBID blamed my cheap pan first. Then he blamed a dearth of cooking oil. Finally, fingers were pointed at the plastic spatula, which he said made it too difficult to flip the pancakes. "Is this your only spatula?" he asked. "No," I said. "But the nice one's for company. Of course this is my one spatula!"

Four unsuccessful blackened-pieces-of-bread-we-called-pancakes later, brunch was served. I ate a few bites of the one pancake that turned out light enough. It had this odd lemony flavor. TBID ate the dark ones and tried to say they were good before admitting the experiment was a bust.

I told him he should've just let me squirt a batter bra on his chest and then leaned over the stovetop. Maybe next time he'll listen.

I'm spending the night unwinding after attempting to do all my Christmas shopping in one day. Caveat: I'm only buying for my family and the kids I tutor - fewer than 10 people.

But I'm exhausted! The streets are overrun with slow-moving tourists weighed down with shopping bags and universal American excess. And the strollers! Since when do babies enjoy shopping? You'd think there'd be an abundance of babysitters now, given that our economy has officially started shopping the dollar zone at Target and entering the contests on the back of the Quizno's receipt. I had to keep headphones in all day, so I wouldn't get stabby.

My most tedious endeavor today was shopping at a bead store. My mom has taken up bracelet making and asked for some beads and semi-precious stones. I ended up at this place filled with tiny tray after tiny tray of beads of all colors and consistencies. I was looking around so much that I think employees thought I was a shoplifter. I tried to be thrifty with my bead purchasing decisions, staying within my budget and my mom's palette. Did you know some of the tiniest beads you could ever put on a string sell for a dollar each? That's a song on iTunes. Or a small hamburger. I'll never look at accessories on Etsy the same way again.

I'm happy with the gifts I purchased, but I still have my tutees left. I'll probably lazy out and get gift cards from Barnes & Noble. Is it too controlling of me to write book suggestions on the card? I worry that Jing might get something too easy or Borun won't find anything he wants to read.

Another thing that delights me this fatigued evening? That TBID did not need a present. I'd been trying to talk him into this interesting non-denominational way to show each other how much we care by getting small, yet valuable items and putting them in a large, felt sock-like item that has the option of being hung somewhere. (Not to be confused with a Christmas stocking. This is a Non-Christmas Amanda and TBID Winter Celebration Sock-like Item).

TBID saw right through that, of course.

So no presents for him, and no presents for me from him. How quickly my materialism dissolves. Dating a Nice Jewish Guy is one of my handy Recession Survival Tools. Hell, it's a Holiday Survival Tool. One less present is so much more.

I took the day off Wednesday for a day of relaxation with TBID at a Korean bathhouse. We'd read about it months ago and were prepared for saunas and hot tubs. The day before Thanksgiving seemed perfect, as people were still at work and school, and no one would have recently gorged themselves with turkey and sweet potatoes. (Not pretty, especially in the single-sex nude areas).

TBID and I arrived, changed into these crazy uniforms, and met up on the sauna floor. The buck naked woman with the locker next to mine had gladly given me directions. I'd call her a stranger, but I now know her a little more intimately than I do any of my female friends.

Though it was in the thirties outside, we splashed around in a hot tub with jets powerful enough to rip off my swimsuit bottoms. Then we dried off in the sauna, sat on indoor water massage chairs, and walked through more saunas. Being from Texas, I could withstand all of them with nary a pant - and without wearing pants. TBID, a native New Yorker, preferred the freezer room that was just a wee bit colder than outside.

I felt like I was just getting started with all the steaming and soaking after my romp in the nude area. Being naked with a bunch of old Asian women? Not so bad. Anyone who says that once you get comfortable, you don't even notice people are in the buff is lying. You notice. You compare. But it's completely benign, like, "That lady's eyes are brown. Mine are blue. Ahh, this jet is perfect!"

Post-skinny dip, TBID and I reunited. I ate a fruit plate and asked how he was feeling. "I'm very relaxed," he said. "So now what?"

I thought about that. "Well, you relax more," I replied.

"Relax more?"

The boy didn't know how to. I took him to the chaise lounges under the infrared lights. I think they prevent pregnancy or improve mood or something. I was ready to doze; he felt blinded. "Close your eyes!" I hissed. "I'm trying to relax!"

I ended up hanging out in the saunas again while TBID read the newspaper. Who needs a massage when you can get tranquility from the world news section?

We left before anyone unwound too much. That's kind of how I feel about this holiday, too. Going back to work tomorrow is a bit of a relief. Call me shackled, but I don't know what to do with so many days off.

Maybe productivity at work is therapeutic enough for me.

There aren't as many naked people, though.

November has flown by! It's pitch black outside at 5:00 these days, and the leaves have shivered themselves off most trees. The remaining skeletons aren't eery in the moonlight so much as they are reminders of how everything starts. TBID and I are back in the coats we wore when we first met.

After a day of playing hooky from life and a half-day of still feeling achy, I think I'm back in business. Despite having spent most of Saturday trying to keep water down and watching TV on the computer, I feel totally satisfied with my weekend. TBID stayed by my side and got food, found good Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes, and even cleaned up after a leaking bag of vomit.

Say it with me now: "Awwww..."

I have so much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving week.

The other day I asked one boy for my stuff back and talked to another about a big milestone, flying to Texas over the holidays to meet my family. It makes me a little nervous for a few reasons, all stupid ones that show how neurotic I am.

He can't expect going to Texas to be wildly amusing or interesting. If it were, perhaps I'd still live there. Maybe he and I would have never met. But I worry he'll be bored and secretly feel like he wasted a lot of money. When he steps off the plane and doesn't see a tumbleweed or cowboy, he might feel cheated. And he doesn't celebrate Christmas. What are we supposed to do with him when we're unwrapping gifts and emptying stockings? Loan him the car or have him collect all the bows we're saving for next year? Isn't that kind of awkward?

He says I really underestimate him and that he wants to meet the loved ones of the one he loves. (That's me, apparently). It all sounds a little hippy dippy.

Am I crazy?

He'll be the first guy I've dated as a full-fledged adult who I'm bringing home. And he's such a tall loudmouth New York foodie. I think my family will love him, actually.

Best of all, I'll be able to point from relative to relative, county road to county road and say, "This? This? This is where all the crazy comes from."

Maybe he should visit.

I was inspired by these cross-stitched text messages to tell my own text message love story with TBID.

Here are some of the texts I'd want stitched into posterity:

"Lying here wondering what you mean. Not as in what you convey, but what you are to me."

"I knew you were special when you made my bed."

"Forgot to tell you: At the thrift store, I found a menorah shaped like a stegasaurus."

"Sleep with the window open. You will like."

"Ah hope she be showin up in a, lest you freeze your honkytonk bedonkadonk off."

"Really cold, bundle up love"

*If you can embroider and are interested in helping me out with this for a tidy sum, please email me at the address on the lefthand side of this site.

November first, the beginning of NaBloPoMo. A very loaded day.

Today's my mom's birthday. The story I remember being told was that her teenage mother (my mom was an unplanned pregnancy) wasn't due for another few weeks that Halloween in 1960. It was unusually cold that year, and when she waddled to the porch to give some trick-or-treaters candy, she slipped on a patch of ice. The next day, my mom was born.

She looked exactly like she does now. It's uncanny. As a kid, I remember looking at my own baby pictures with no recognition. But my mom's were different - I could clearly see her in that black and white infant face, looking authoritative even in diapers.

Today is also Cade's birthday. It's weird when someone goes from being a big part of your life to a part of your backstory. When it's been less than a year after you've stopped dating someone like that, there's this Emily Post kind of struggle. Am I obligated to point out via e-card that I remembered his birthday? What do I write in it now that I know so little about his life?

After I broke up with Sam, my college boyfriend of three years, I send birthday cards two years in a row. I couldn't let February third pass without some kind of communication. He never expressed thanks or anything, but I know he got them. I didn't send one last year, because the date passed before I realized what I'd done - I'd forgotten what used to be an important day.

It's just like how you forget how badly you were hurt when you fall in love with someone else. (It may be fleeting however, that romantic dementia). There's something liberating about it.

Chances are, though, I'll never forget November first. It holds sunlight and reddish leaves and wet smells for me. It is so much birth.

Previously on The Best Saturday Ever: Our heroine and TBOHID (the boy our heroine is dating) managed to wake up early, travel upstate, and pick apples off of trees, actual trees made of tree materials.

After paying for the apples, eating cider donuts, and pretending to get lost in the corn maize, we were quite hungry. TBID and I got back in the car and drove down New Paltz's bustling strip of restaurants, antique stores, a post office, and some esoterica supply store. There be hippies around those parts.

We ate at this Mexican restaurant with fancy little dishes for a very low price. I think it might have been there that we talked about how fruit picking might belong on the Stuff White People Like website. I guess it makes sense that if you or your family have ever had to toil as a field worker in the hot sun, day in and day out, you might be more wont to pick up produce at the grocery store. Anyway, don't think I'm racist for typing that. It was just one thread of the conversation, and I promise we're pale but enlightened.

Post-lunch, we planned to go hiking. And when I say "planned," I mean that we had vague directions to Mohonk Preserve and some fruit leather. We didn't actually know what kind of trails or parking lot we planned to travel. But like I said, I was rooting for bears -- big ones that only wanted the cape gooseberry fruit leather neither of us likes very much, but looked like they wanted blood.

I'd previously been to Mohonk for a teacher retreat at the charter school where I once worked, the one where kids were not completely insane. However, I'd never hiked during that trip. I'd hung out on the grounds of Mohonk Mountain House canoeing and riding horses as if in a commercial for allergy medicine. Ask your doctor if this blog is right for you.

TBID and I drove over the bridge and through the woods, arriving at the visitor center. We paid a small admission fee, took some maps, and were sent on our way. That's it. No one cared who we were or what trail we intended to take. In such a tort-filled world, less than two hours away from a city where you practically have to get an STD test before renting a bike (because sometimes one cannot resist a good looking banana seat), we didn't sign anything.

This would lead you to believe that the trails weren't such a big deal. I was a little disappointed. Surely, the potential for bears would warrant a waiver. Even more interesting types of flies would, but alas. TBID and I sat down to study the map and figure out what trail to take. There was one that was supposed to show a crag. We chose it.

We got back into the Dadmobile and headed a few miles down the road to the trailhead. Trees sparkled with reds and golds and the road wound on. I knew TBID was pretending he was in a car commercial, so I tried to be reverent while snapping pictures of Mother Nature as if she were married to Brad Pitt and had sexy, humanitarian tattoos.

Once TBID and I got where we needed to be, we parked and promptly forgot where the car was. I'm hopeless at this even in civilization where there are numbered lanes. I made a mental note: The car is parked near some trees. That'd keep things straight!

The first part of the hike involved a walk through a field, followed by a wooded trek. It seemed so very doable, until things took a turn for the uphill and the steep. I patted myself on the back for not wearing Converse sneakers, "because they're so much more versatile." When dangling off a broken foot.

The trail was overall manageable; pretty soon things smoothed out. Where was the crag? TBID consulted the map and led the way. I kept pausing to take pictures and allow him to make that face, the quizzical one that asks, "Aren't you from the middle of nowhere? Do you have to take a picture of another tree?" Yes and yes!

Then we saw it - the bleached white crag shining in the sun. Tiny people darted around on top of it, high in the clouds. "Wow," we both murmured. "I think the trail goes right to the base of it." Hopefully, there'd be some way to get some fraction of that view.

We walked and walked until we saw the rocky mass in front of us. The jagged boulders that compose the base loomed large and heavy. There didn't seem to be a trail like the ones we'd been on. How did those people get up there?

I don't remember how it happened, but TBID or maybe I discovered painted dots on some of the boulders. We consulted the map to see that there was an optional strenuous rock scramble up Bonticou Crag. This had to be it, and those yellow marks had to designate where one could get one's footing. If one were indeed crazy enough to climb sharp rocks at crazy angles.

We were in.

The initial scramble wasn't so bad. I'm really flexible and pretty small. TBID is over six feet tall with a bulky chest and arms. We connected the dots easily with me in front.

Then I looked down.

I'm by no means acrophobic, but I felt my stomach find its way to my throat. We'd scaled the rocks pretty quickly and now they were below us and looking sharper than ever. There was no lifeguard on duty or any other hikers to be seen. And who was I kidding? I'm not a hiker, and neither is TBID. We just happen to have sneakers and health insurance.

The trick was to keep my head up and focus on finding the next dot. Every little while, there'd be a small flat surface where I could rest. Otherwise, it was an upcrag battle and the yellow circles were quickly becoming a casualty. How was I supposed to know where to put my foot? I imagined what my body would look like impaled by stone. What kinds of animals would eat me? Would it even be possible for TBID to scramble the other way and check on me/scream at God while weeping over my broken body?

Twice, I had to stop. "I'm so scared of falling," I told TBID. "What if something happens to one of us?"

"Then it happens while we're together," he replied. "How can I help you?"

He offered to go ahead, but I wanted to know he had my back and could catch me if I was hanging somewhere by my fingernails. Then I had to put my foot less than an inch away from nothingness hundreds of feet on high. This time, I asked him to go ahead and take one of my hands. I held my breath and made it up.

Again, I couldn't let myself look down. That was all the past. I had to focus on the distance, which was becoming more and more clear now. Soon I was at the last steep part. Then I was on top. TBID was steps behind.

It was one of the most exhilarating things that I've ever done. Up almost 1200 feet in the air, I couldn't believe what TBID and I had accomplished. My heart was so full of love and appreciation for him, for the bear that hadn't attacked us, for the guides that didn't tell us we could have died on our hike, for my family who would only hear about this experience, for just about everyone I've ever met...

We talked and surveyed the land. The Catskills surrounded us. Occasionally, we'd spot a tiny house or water tower amid all those colorful trees we'd looked at from below merely hours ago. It was magnificent.

Next time we'll stay up there for hours, but we had to hurry down. The sun was setting fast. We found a regular trail down that was steep, which felt much tougher after our scramble up. I nearly fell a few times and stumbled upon a large, black snake. TBID was impressed that I screamed. The only other time I had that day was when we were on top of the crag and bellowing each other's names. Locals were probably wondering, "Whoever Amanda-da-da-da is, she'd better shut up!"

Soon enough, we found ourselves turned around in the woods with no light, save TBID's Blackberry. This was a different kind of scary. At least we weren't hundreds of feet in the air. Now all we had to worry about was something happening that might inspire a horror film in the near future. I didn't hear any chainsaws.

After what felt like hours of winding around, we found the car. It had never looked so inviting. We spent the rest of the night thinking about what we'd done. It was truly the first time we felt fear together, and we'd survived. Like Survivor survived.

I don't need some colored mark to know that I'm going to stay on this path.

When we last left off, our heroine (that would be me) wanted to drag the guy she's dating to the country. Or at least some place where there are drive-thru windows.

Two weekends ago, TBID and I got up very early for a drive to upstate New York. We went to New Paltz, which isn't far at all but feels like a different world. The leaves were changing colors and the air was crisp. Meanwhile, the only thing changing colors back at home was some garbage waiting to be picked up. You can't deny the altitude coming from the next corner over from mine - there are full-time potheads there 9 to 5. But I was looking more for a Rocky Mountain high, if you will, and the city doesn't deliver.

Our rented Volvo was blasting Earth Wind and Fire, because TBID really aspires to be the cool dad. We talked books and whatever else it is we discuss during long stretches of cruising. Now that we know each other pretty well, there's not a lot of breaking news. "Hey, check out the new Carmex in chapstick form," I might share. "About time, right?"

We pulled into a rest stop at one point to get snacks and gas, but not gas from our snacks. TBID and I have different views about what would make a good roadside treat. Mine: chips, water, and more chips. His: a cheese plate with raw veggies. That or Burger King. I reminded him that we might enjoy our day and want to plan other trips in our lifetimes. Why not skip the Burger King and eat the healthful bounty that is nacho cheese Doritos? Lunchables were the compromise.

We entered New Paltz after some traffic. The town was quaint and homey and cheap. A movie theater marquee advertised four dollar matinees. "Yet another reason to move here!" I hollered. Being in a new, beautiful place makes me think I could muster up the energy to move again. Ahh, temporary naivete. The fall foliage was a tapestry welcoming us from either side of the road. We started talking about Beetlejuice and how that covered bridge car accident haunts me to this day.

Our first stop was Dressel Farms, which is now my favorite place to pick apples. I've only been to one other one, but this place is wonderful. Fuller of wonder. It even has furry chickens, which is what my dad responded when I told him what I had for dinner one night. "Furry chicken?!" he asked incredulously. "No, curry chicken," I explained. "Furry chicken?!"

The orchard is extensive with many varieties available for picking. TBID and I made it back with eight pounds of Idared, Cortland, Fuji, Golden Delicious, and Braeburn apples. That's not counting all the apples we ate as we were testing out each row of trees.

It was a beautiful day with heavy sun and a slight chill. We worked up a sweat walking all the way to the back of the orchard, looking over our shoulders for the hayride tractor as if for a cab.

Post-picking, I introduced TBID to cider donuts. He was curious about the ingredients in them and promptly shut up with one taste. Cider donuts are made with partially hydrogenated heaven, I think. We bought three for our hike and some Honeycrisp apples. Did you know those babies are patented and only a select few orchards can afford to cultivate the trees?

And pumpkins! I don't care for the taste, but I can't get enough of them. Weeks ago, I found a tiny one for a dollar at a Brooklyn deli. TBID bought it for me, and we named it Ike in the cab back to Manhattan. There was much fuss made over Ike, as he is our first gourd. He travels from my bedroom to the living room, but has recently tried decorating the back of the toilet. He's on that New Yorker issue I can't finish, because I just don't have to go like that.

Dressel Farms was a whole pumpkin and squash mill, so TBID and I took some pictures. As you can imagine, the urge to play a props game a la Whose Line Is It Anyway? couldn't be suppressed.

(I'll continue with part two of The Best Saturday Ever tomorrow...)

TBID and I had our last debate date last night. We went out to Dirty Bird, this soulful comfort food restaurant, before tuning in. The buttermilk fried goodness and veggies fueled interesting conversation the rest of the evening.

TBID: Everyone loves to hate brussels sprouts.

Me: They're like the Paris Hilton of vegetables.

TBID: No. Too glamorous. I'd say more like the Gilbert Gottfried.

Saturday is a big day for TBID and me - the bliss is going on the road. We've taken a few day trips, but never something as monumental as this Saturday. There are a few reasons for this: 1) We're really caught up in our personal weekend routines and get cranky if we don't follow them and then spin in a circle three times before reuniting, 2) No, really cranky, and 3) TBID is one of the city lovers.

There was an episode of Sex and the City, and believe me, I hate admitting I remember this, in which Miranda's great date sours when the guy mentions he hates leaving the city. She curtly mentions that she loves the city and the country before going home to "feed the cat" she doesn't have.

That's how I feel. I love not having a car, snuggling next to strangers on my way to work, and paying an exorbitant amount of rent in a neighborhood in which every fifth guy calls me "princess" or "mami." But sometimes I just want clean air, decent customer service, and to be called "darlin'" by a redneck.

TBID's default destination for any given outing is that area around Chelsea and the Village. The one where he lives and works and all that. He doesn't hate the country; he just prefers being somewhere where Zagat ratings apply and are taken very seriously. (I'm not sure he's ready to have his world shaken up the way it will be if he ever visits my hometown).

The berry-picking excursion went so well, and I've complained so much about wanting to get out of Manhattan, that we've got a car rented and everything. We'll be hiking and apple picking in New Paltz, which is a grand one-and-a-half to two hours away. I'm giddy just thinking about it. Part of me hopes we encounter a bear or something. I'd let TBID bring it up strategically whenever I propose something he doesn't want to do. "Last time we did that, an angry ursine creature was involved," he might say. "There's no way we can rent Terms of Endearment tonight."

We cut our teeth on a trip to Brooklyn's Sunset Park last weekend. No bears were involved, but one squirrel was really exuberant. I played around with my daunting camera and no, the sky hadn't totally succumbed to smog. It was cloudy and chilly that day, just like I'm hoping it won't be when we're on mountains. Actual mountains.

Here's Sunset Park. Time to walk up a bunch of steps. It's worth it.

The shaded benches are nice for checking out skateboarders and the dudes on the basketball courts. In the summer, you can get shaved ice. But what's that in the background?

All those buildings so close together...

That lady looks awfully familiar...

Oh wait, I know this place! That's where I live, and that other part is Staten Island. It's not so bad, really. Kinda lovely.

Despite the million dollar view, the rest of the neighborhood is quite humble.

TBID and I towered over the locals, who are mostly short Hispanics. I felt like Goliath with a camera.

There are rows upon rows of homey brownstones. The streets are really quiet, too. No one's going to disturb the pumpkins some of the residents have already set out on the stoops.

What a sweet ride - Sunset Park is accessible by train. It's the closest to feeling distant I've come in awhile. Onward and upstate-ward!