Yesterday, as I’m told (because I was working, dagnammit), fellow Brooklyn neighbors strolled up and down our street with their dogs or strollers, pretending like this is what they do all day every day, hoping for just a quick glimpse of The Clooney or The Pitt. Oops forgot something at the store. Again. Old ladies stood armed with cameras for hours. Our ordinarily lazy doorman got up from behind his desk several times (a first!) to peek out the door. Casual elevator conversations began with, “So, any sightings?”

Total sightings according to my very scientific survey: 0

Which is amazing considering the sheer effort which people are putting into this celebrity stalking business.

And then, last night in midtown Manhattan, a few miles from our home, guess who Nate just happened to run into as he was leaving work.

Did Nate solicit George for sex for me? No.

Some partner.

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Edited to add: Thalia just ran in telling me what Daddy taught her to say in case she runs into George:

Sign my boobs.