Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

We trotted over to Pure Food and Wine in the East Village on Saturday. Have Groupon will travel. Very cozy red velvet and brick, smelling like cardamom kind of place. After the adorably lanky waiter served our entrees, and following much talking amongst ourselves about the pros and cons of doing so, we called him back to our table. "Umm, I mean, this food is really tasty, but it's kind of cold." "Ah yes," our waiter explained in a helpful tone, "you're in a raw food restaurant , so that means we don't heat the food up past room temperature." Oh right. Yes indeed. Good answer, Sir.

Tom, the Golden Child, considered going pantless to my cousin's wedding. T minus twenty minutes until departure, he couldn't find his suit pants. Anywhere. Besides the option of screaming "mazeltov" in his scanties, Tom also contemplated going to the wedding as "that guy" in jeans. After all, he rubbed his chin, "jeans are my go-to pant" and "at weddings in Pennsylvania, there's always one dude in jeans." In the end, he ran across eighth Avenue to Banana Republic and bought a new set of wedding-type trousers. On the way to the nuptials, I declared that I might just steal the Golden Child crown right out of Tom's clutches. I proudly displayed my little gold clutch handbag-- the same one my Mom carried when she was crowned Prom Queen. She'd given it to me a decade ago. "I'm so in as soon as she sees this," I cackled. Tom smirked, a picture of confidence. "And right after she notices the handbag, I'll

Growing up, my brother and I wrestled (both figuratively and literally) for the honor of 'golden child.' Contemporaneously, it's a lost cause for both of us. Tom has the deal sewn up solid. He's charming and occasionally amusing, I'll grant you, but there's a clincher when it comes to my parents. He's a computer nerd with the patience of a 1-900 line charge-by-the-minute astrologist. So when my dad calls and I greet him warmly, "Hello Father," he will normally grunt and ask if Tom is home. If I say no, Tom is not home, Dad will pause. Then he will ask with little enthusiasm something like, "Well, do you know how to do the GPS?" Tom was not home on Saturday. Dad had to work with the B team. "I think this woman is flirting with me on the email," he tells me, equal parts distressed and baffled; Dad's been fully and completely married for forty-five years. "Why do you think she's flirting with you on the email?"

First thing in the morning, Tom accused me of savaging his business. In other words, I unintentionally punched him in the crotch while crawling out of bed. Granted, he was lying there motionless, aka sleeping; but I am fully innocent of the charge. The length of his upper body torso simply surprised me. I always thought his legs were longer given their rangey stride.