Yes, there IS (vodka-infused-rocked-by-the-heavy-base-my-feet-are-killing-me) life after baby

Last night, as I was crossing the rather crowded dance floor of a club in NYC at the premiere party for TiMER - a movie that my best friend Jennifer produced, which played at the Tribeca film festival and which was absolutely wonderful - I thought - as the fizzy cocktails that I was carrying for myself and my friends dripped down my arms, as I was thrust back and forth by terribly enthusiastic gentlemen who took Sunday night to levels I didn't even know existed, with their costumes and face paint, and, just...their moves - about my baby, who was undoubtedly asleep in her pink pajamas, curled into some kind of impossibly sweet position in her little crib at her grandparents' house, and, for just a moment, I wished so badly that I was there, too, in bed, clean, without heels on for the LOVE OF GOD WHY DO WOMEN WEAR HEELS, but something in the throbbing music, perhaps, and my smiling friends' faces and the insanity of it all reminded me that it was totally worth it, and, I must admit, I was also comforted by the thought that an 8 p.m. bedtime for the rest of the week, well, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Notes from Italy

My parents are currently in Rome, where they are renting an apartment. They have been there since the beginning of March and are staying until the end of May, and because it is what you absolutely must do when family is taking an extended vacation abroad, we are going to see them in a couple weeks. Needless to say, we can't wait. I don't know how I've resisted posting the emails my father has been sending me since they've been there, because, to put it simply, they're worth posting. He's managing to utilize his Blackberry just as frequently over there as he does on home turf, philosophizing from piazzas, bars and, of course, his bed.

I got an email from him this morning - the subject line was the entire message and it read "We are in Prenatal with cribs and high chairs." I thought about how strange it sounded to have my father tell me he was "in Prenatal" and am just hoping very much that Prenatal was some kind of Italian baby furniture-renting depot.