For once my plans coincided with the weather. Gray rolling clouds and a hint of rain makes for the perfect day to see three Eric Rohmer films at the National Gallery of Art. They were showing his first four morality tales, the second of which, Suzanne's Career, was a dead ringer (and pleasantly so) for Whit Stillman's Metropolitan. Quite enjoyable films. Sweet. Tempting. Slightly erotic. Very French.

I thought about staying to see the fourth, My Night at Maude's, but opted instead to browse through the 20th Century Collection. And once again, I was simply charmed by the Alexander Calder room. Seeing Alexander Calder's work is one of the only things that makes me long for those 20 foot, pre-war ceilings. And the shadows cast upon the walls, the lighting, and the complete quiet of the room on an otherwise busy Saturday afternoon, mixed with the grainy black and white films and the sullen looks and the bittersweet longing to keep me occupied with one thought throughout the entire afternoon.

Brandon and I were kind of in love with whirlygirl's orange background on yesterday's birthday banner. And for a minute, I seriously considered making it a permanent change.

Brandon: "But I have to say I love whirlygirl the way it is."

And who would dare to mess with that?

When I woke up on my 29th birthday, it was snowing. Hard. I opened the bookstore that morning, put The Spinanes and Ella Fitzgerald in the CD player, and stood behind the front counter, watching the snow fall and cutting out paper flowers to make a crown to wear.

Later that day, Erika and I drove the now familiar 500 miles South to DC and checked into the Watergate Hotel... her special surprise for me. And I made her shut off all the lights and keep the curtains wide open, and I spent at least an hour or so just simply peering into the windows of the apartments and offices across the way.

I think my favorite thing about birthdays is being able to recall them with perfect clarity. The tiniest things become engrained in my memory just because they happened on the most important day.

I wonder what Brandon will remember about today. Will he remember the banner on whirlygirl or the message I left on his cell phone from the Naval Observatory as the clock told me it was officially 2001:05:31:00:00:00 CDT? Or will the day just sort of blend together with all the rest?

If I know Brandon, there will be one moment that stands out a little more than the others. A few seconds of sweet resonance that lingers in his mind. Like the beating wings of a flock of egrets or a cacophony of chimes caught in a gust of wind. Some story will find its way to him today, bringing a slow smile and familiar thoughts. A perfect gift that he's sure to infinitely treasure.

And the best part... is that I know he'll share it with me.

Happy, Happy 29th Birthday, Brandon.

4 glasses of wine. 2 disapproving looks from bus drivers. 6 pieces of southern fried chicken from Miss Mamie's. 1 phone call from a guy drinking Scotch in his office after 10 on a Saturday night. 1 persistent drug dealer. 24 i-zone pictures. 1 sad and unattractive transvestite. 4 Gerber daisies. 2 perfect lemon grass and coconut milk soups. 1 shake of an umbrella from an elderly lady crossing the street. 3 elephant cocktails. 1 MTV VJ spotted in the West Village. 1 waffle sandwich with 2 scoops of ice cream. Too many sailors to count.

Manhattan. Laine. Me. 24 hours. Always an adventure.