When I was about twelve years old, on the way back from a weekend of skiing, my family stopped at a pet shop in Calaveras County, and bought a puppy.

My brother and I were, of course, ecstatic. But, within a week or two, it became immensely clear that my father – allergic both to the dog, and to everything the dog would roll around in outside in our backyard – couldn’t live in the same house without becoming a blearily red-eyed, constantly sneezing and coughing histaminic mess.

While we briefly contemplated getting rid of our father (an option for which my brother and I heavily lobbied), in the end, it was the dog that went, handed off to a happy family with kids my brother and I esteemed as far, far luckier than we. And ever since, my brother and I have both coveted the dogs of others and badly wanted ones of our own.

I’m reminded of this each time I head up – as this weekend – to visit Jess’ family in Boston. Her parents own a Portuguese Water Dog, Pablo, who’s less than a year old, sweet tempered, and exceedingly cute. At the end of each visit, Jess and I return to New York determined to get a dog.

By now, however, it’s not the dictates of cruel parents, but of equally cruel landlords that prevent dog ownership – our building, like many in New York, doesn’t allow pets. But, as we’re likely to move regardless once our lease ends at the end of the year, Jess and I have put ‘dog friendly’ atop the list of requirements for potential apartments.

So, still, a bit of waiting. But I don’t much mind. After fifteen years with my eyes on the furry prize, I’m sure I can hold out puppy-less for a bit longer yet.

They say it takes seven years to become a New Yorker. And though I’ve only been here for five and a half, I am now, officially speaking at least, a good step closer. As of last week, I no longer have a California drivers license, and am instead awaiting the mailed arrival of my first New York license.

Granted, this a step most people take within the mandated thirty days of arriving in a new state. But I’ve been lazy. Without a car, I’ve had no need to hit the local DMV, and California allowed renewal of my expired prior license by mail.

Of course, I’ve thought about getting a New York license before. In fact, shortly after I moved here, when September 11th hit and I was living a half block from the UN, I took to carrying my telephone bill in my pocket so police officers would let me through UN barricades and back to my own apartment. And it occurred to me then that I should probably make the license switch to something bearing my actual address.

So, in September 2001, I printed the requisite forms out online, and put them in a folder atop my desk. Where, I am ashamed to say, they sat for the five years since. Sat despite the desk itself having been twice moved to new apartments.

Perhaps the delay has been psychological, symptom of my conflicted feelings about abandoning my West Coast roots. Give up a California I.D., and, at least in some small way, give up my tie to California.

I don’t know if I believe that less now, or if I just feel a bit more ready to declare allegiance to this city. But, for whatever reason, at the end of last week, something snapped. Enough seemed enough. I picked up the folder, headed to the DMV License Express, sat, sat, sat, sat, had a bad picture taken, filled out some forms, only winced slightly when they stapled my yielded California license to those forms, and walked out the door with a bona-fide, verified NYS Department of Motor Vehicles Interim License (as the piece of folded paper proudly proclaims).

New York, New York. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, indeed.

With Jess now fully moved in, we seem to be facing the imminent arrival of a third, phantom roommate: Jae Chang. I have no idea who Jae is, but his Wall Street Journal has begun appearing on my doorstop, and his bank statements in my mailbox. I’m not sure if he, himself, intends to make an appearance, though the management office assures me they haven’t double-booked the apartment and that such an occurrence should be unlikely.

Which is good. Thus far, two has been excellent enough to make three, proverbially, certainly a crowd.

A few weeks back, a card slid under the door of my apartment, wishing me Happy Holidays, and listing out the twenty-seven people who work in my building. That’s right, twenty-seven. Six doormen, eight porters, seven handy-men, etc., etc.

The message was clear, and it wasn’t that those twenty-seven people were sincerely hoping I was enjoying my December.

In any other area of my life, I pride myself on being a big tipper. It costs relatively little in the grand scheme of things, and I feel happily magnanimous any time I give a cab driver an extra two dollars, tip a waiter beyond twenty percent.

But in this situation, I felt a bit odd. I knew five or six of the folks on that list, and had never even seen, much less interacted with, most of the rest. Did I therefore just assume that those unnoticed people – say, security guards I’d never found about at even the darkest hours of the night – were still providing some secret yet equally valuable, tip-worthy service? Did I consequently dump my holiday tip wad into one undifferentiated pool? Or did I fork over the bills more strategically, rewarding those I knew, those who had actually improved my life in some way over the past year, and – more selfishly – those who might remember the tip as having come from me, and treat me accordingly through the year ahead?

On top of that, I wondered, how much was I talking about here? Scouring the web, I found building staff tip recommendations ranging from $50-100 a head. Most, however, seemed to refer to places with four- or five-person staffs, rather than for a giant apartment coterie such as mine, where such tipping could total nearly three grand.

In the end, and after much angsting, I split the difference: I tipped very well he five guys I knew, tipped more modestly the super and the rest, and overall still probably spent enough to rent an apartment for much of the year in any less ridiculously priced part of the country. Even so, alongside the smiles I’m receiving from those happily tipped folks, I’m also bracing myself for whatever quiet retribution their more cheaply rewarded brethren might devise.

Mainly, however, I’m just jealous of the old, crazy guy down the hall. Sure, he might be totally batshit. But I suspect he pleased the staff immensely with tips of buttons and sticks of chewing gum. And, at this time of year, that’s peace of mind no amount of sanity can buy.

Winter is finally upon us, with temperatures this weekend dropping to windy low twenties. Which, as I’m reminded every year, is actually very, very cold. Especially if you’re a total pansy who grew up in temperate Northern California.

Indeed, fair Palo Alto prepared me little for life in this city, where each year swings from icily frostbitten January to steamy, sweltering August, and back again. Oddly enough, even the temperature of water out of New York faucets is far more extreme – the hot literally scalding, the cold glacially chilled from miles of subterranean, sub-subway travels. It’s something I remember from my many visits while growing up, and something I painfully relearned in my last apartment, where the shower spray swiftly and continuously swung each morning forty degrees in one direction and then the other.

Fortunately, the shower in my current apartment is rather more stable. But Jess, who may be made of asbestos, tends to leave all faucets cranked to their steaming peak heats. That isn’t all bad, though: boiling water averaged against bitter outdoor freeze apparently leaves me somewhere near that Palo Alto middle ground my wimpy senses still seem to expect.

Fending off a cold, and still recovering from week after week of travel, I’m looking forward immensely to a weekend of chicken soup on the couch as rain pitter-patters on my apartment’s windows.

It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Just a quick note to any family and friends who may have heard the breaking news that a small plane just hit a building on the Upper East Side, to say that I’m alive, David’s alive, my girlfriend’s alive, and all of Cyan’s employees are alive.

Back to work.

Five year anniversary. Headed to the roof with my trumpet, played Taps facing downtown. Read the Mourner’s Kaddish, a hebrew prayer of remembrance. Never forget.