Well, Vogue came through on the leg wax threat. It was fortunate there were no other appointments in the building, as I'm sure my manic screaming would have frightened off any other potential wax-ees. What woman would choose to do that more than once, i wonder?

The same women, I imagine, that chooses to birth more than one child.

Masochists.

Its madness, I tell you.

While my days here are never dull, with my Vogue nearly always within arms reach, I do find myself missing my east coast. I promise a trip to NYC for my dear Vogue. She will love it, I know. And NYC will love her.

A true mafia buff, she will have me taking her on tours of where the NY Boss' spent their days. She demands musicals as well. As she does Tiffany's, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton....

It comes to me every now again, this sadness for my lost city. It creeps on me as I lay in bed, or while reading a book that takes place on familiar streets. It comes to me with the sight of soft pretzels, with the scent of roasted nuts, with every pause at pricey shop windows. And it sinks down to the core of me with every snow fall. The longing intensified by the nagging feeling that there is little chance Ill find myself living there again.

And people continue to ask why, if I love it so, I choose not to return.

Brooklyn and Manhattan were noble and generous lovers for years. But time and circumstance drew us apart, as time and circumstance tend to do. Nothing is written in stone, nothing in life is. But when I think back, fondly, to my dear, dear city, I remind myself that I had great love there. I had it. And no matter where this world takes me, it cannot never remove that fact.

I existed in NYC, and NYC continues to exist in me.

Reasons of more depth are between me and my city. I do not kiss and tell.

This simple Colorado life is not unpleasant for me. I find myself quite at peace here, in fact. Waking every morning to a beautiful woman laying next to you is never a bad thing for the spirit.

But I know that if not for Vogue, Id not have found myself here. There is something truly disturbing about living in a town where everyone knows everyone else's name and business.

I am silent and anonymous by my nature, and such things do not suit me.

I saw my first true cowboy the other day. Lasso and all! Ruggedly handsome and chivalrous with the tipping of his hat, he was herding a flock of sheep down the main road in Bayfield. There I was, trapped in the car, layers of sheep on both sides of me.

They baa if you baa, Vogue showed me. I could not understand what in the world these cowboys were doing, marching hundreds of sheep over 50 miles. Is this not 2008?, I asked Vogue. Can they not truck them?

No, the cowboy life requires that they do this march, and spend their nights in the open fields that are designated to them for rest. Twice a year, they do this. And twice a year, for several days, the people of Bayfield get stuck in a herd of sheep on the only main road in this town.