Barry used to joke about my clown car of a purse. Although it was never particularly small, I used to pull the most random shit out of it, much to his bemusement.

He would've really appreciated its contents last night. When I came home around 8:30, I withdrew from my handbag a half liter of Coke Light, a cheeseburger from McDonald's, and a slice of four cheese pizza...with hardly any lint on it too!

I am an odd girl.

I didn't go to Paris.

The first ten or so comments that I received on this post inspired me to scout out plane tickets and hotels, and I found the flights I would have taken and the hotel I would have patronized. But...I just couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't justify spending so much money on something I felt ambivalent about.

Those of you who wrote to me (after my mind was made up) about how beautiful Paris is and how it isn't as cliche as I seem to think made me instantly regret my decision. But not enough to get me back on that discount airline website.

I sent Barry an SMS explaining my decision and wishing him a happy birthday. He wrote back that he understood, that he still thought I should come, but that it sounded like my mind was made up.

And it was.

From a financial standpoint, I have no regrets. And I'm about to incur a lot of expenses in the way of airline tickets and possibly not getting my deposit back on my apartment (not because I shouldn't but because of the flaky girl from whom I'm subletting), so I think I ought to watch my wallet over the next few weeks.

Also, remember when I mentioned possibly extending my time in Europe so I could go to Spain? I think I might do that, but I'm not quite sure how that will work out. I am far too stressed for someone who is on holiday.

I'm trying to decide whether or not I want to go to Paris for a few days to see Barry (and Paris, obviously) and celebrate his birthday.

Now, I know for most people this wouldn't be a hard decision. "Hmm, I have the time and money to go to Paris. Should I go?"

But even if I have the money, it's still extremely expensive. The flights are cheap, but hotels are not, never mind the transportation and entertainment costs. And I've gotten so used to inexpensive restaurants in Prague that the thought of paying more than $10 for a meal seems exorbitant. And I'm sure that meals in Paris--especially in areas frequented by tourists--are well more than $10.

Plus this is July, which means there will be tourists everywhere. I have been thinking that if ever I traveled to a city that is as popular a tourist destination as Paris, I would do it in the off-season--kind of like how I visited Brussels and Bruges in November. Bruges is a popular tourist destination (not on par with the likes of Paris, though, obviously), but in November it wasn't packed with people like the springtime I remember in Munich and Vienna.

But, holy Christ, I bet neither of those holds a candle to Paris.

What I think is really causing my indecision, though, is that Paris doesn't really do it for me. Dirk and countless others, surely, have raved to me about what a beautiful city Paris is, and I'm sure that it is. Plus, I would love to visit the Louvre. But Paris is just so overdone.

Okay, so, admittedly, I would love to see Venice and Rome, which are equally overdone, but, in general, I'm far more interested in visiting places that most people have not. Everyone and his grandmother's dog has a picture of himself in front of the Eiffel Tower, and will I really be that much better if I have one too? Also, I seem to have left my grandmother's dog at home.

I do think I would be letting Barry down if I didn't show up, though. Not that he's sitting in some Parisian cafe and wearing a birthday party hat, rocking back and forth, thinking, "Oh, God. What will I do if Kate doesn't come celebrate with me!?" Please.

But his last text to me actually included the line "when/if you come" so I think he knows that I'm wavering. And I think he understands what a shitty person that makes me. But then again, I'm sure he already knew.

It is after 8 PM here and it's still 93 degrees outside. Weather.com puts it at 86, though, so that's probably more accurate.

I hate the heat. Prague has been relatively mild this summer, but the last few days have been excruciating and tomorrow will only be worse.

I added a few pictures to my Flickr in which I'm covered in sweat so that you can better appreciate what I'm going through here. The one I'm putting up here was taken after 10 PM, after I had been sitting in a restaurant and drinking water for well over an hour. And still I glisten like a glazed ham.



I looked at the weather in Paris and now wish I'd chosen these days to visit Barry. It's gorgeous there right now. Of course. That's Paris for you.

Ben and Juliet, grad students and friends in Berkeley, got married in Australia earlier this month. Earlier today, they sent an email with pictures from their wedding, "proposal weekend," and their engagement party.

I was at the engagement party, back in January, and I remember that it was right after "the shit hit the fan" and it was very hard for me to go because I was so depressed and wanted to be alone. But I went and had a very nice time and thought I looked really pretty.

Looking at those photos now, I think, "My God, I'm as big as a house!" I had already lost about 25 pounds at this point--a loss that was noticeable to people I hadn't seen for long periods of time--but I will admit that the shirt I was wearing was very unflattering and hanging on me like a tent. I didn't realize it was so bad.

After looking at those photos around 10, I didn't eat anything for the next 14 hours, when I finally broke and cooked some pasta.

I'm really depressed today and it's not so much about my body. That's only one bit. The main component is that my time in Europe now feels finite, which, I suppose, it's always been, but I can see the finish line: Leon will visit, I'll celebrate my birthday with Caroline before she leaves to work at a summer camp for a month, I'll visit Dirk, and I'll see Barry in Paris. And then I'm done. It's over.

Yesterday I received an invitation to Spain for some time in August, and I honestly don't know if it is serious or how it could possibly solve any of these little problems that I seem to be having. But if the invitation still stands in a couple of weeks, I will accept it. I'll push it back to late August/early September, if possible, but I will go to Spain.

...Well, after discussing it with Leon, of course. And since I can speak Spanish and not Czech, it might be a more sensible place to be. But I'm getting way ahead of myself.

Let's concentrate on the here and now: I lost some more weight.

Last winter, when British Airways failed to deliver to Paris the luggage of my former coworker Barry, I considered how much it would suck to lose luggage on an international flight. Because of this, I packed my two suitcases for my trip to Prague as though only one of them would arrive. Optimistic, I suppose, to think that I'd still get one, but that is exactly what happened.

So I packed underwear, bras, jeans, shirts, socks, and pajamas in both suitcases--allotting me a proper wardrobe if only one suitcase were to arrive. Unfortunately, there were a handful of things I neglected to split and when the luggage carousel only shot out one of my enormous red bags, I faced life without toiletries, makeup, and comfortable shoes.

This was no tragedy, and I told myself that everything was replaceable. Nevertheless, once my feet began to bleed from the sandals I thought I was smart to wear through security and I had no foundation to slather on a face that doesn't see daylight without a coating of skin-colored gunk, well, I could understand how Barry's lost luggage in Paris had ruined his entire trip.

Czech Airlines had handled my lost baggage claim, and they gave me a phone number to call. Once I got my Vodafone, I began calling them, but my first calls were outside of normal business hours, so I didn't think it was strange that they didn't answer.

But I kept calling. And calling. And calling. And no one picked up. The phone just rang. And rang. And rang. And while I told Caroline and anyone else who inquired that, yes, I wanted my suitcase but at least there was nothing in it that couldn't be replaced, I was actually quite panicked that I would never see my collection of Clinique bottles again--to say nothing of the wide-width tennis shoes I just bought and that I surely couldn't find anywhere in Prague.

I arrived in Prague on Thursday. By Saturday, the phone number had gotten me nowhere, so I decided to return to the airport and talk face-to-face with an agent of Czech Airlines. I took the Metro to a bus, got off the bus when I realized it was the wrong bus, boarded another bus to take me back, got on the right bus, and found myself back at the airport.

I went to the baggage claim window and the curtain was drawn and the lights were off inside. Another woman and I knocked at the window and no one responded. I tried to call the number again but I was now getting a message that the number had been disconnected. I went to one of those handy information booths and the woman there called the baggage claim and...no one answered. Shocking!

By the time I huffed back to the baggage claim window, though, the curtain had been opened and there was someone there and I received my bag. Everything seemed in tact, and I was so thankful and relieved that I didn't utter an unkind word for the terrible service I had received.

Okay, so this story doesn't have much of a point but it is rather funny how grateful you can be to have your own stuff--your own shoes and scrunching hair gel and soap and powdered foundation, so you can greet the world with the face you painted on.

Barry sent me a link he found on Digg:

Barry: uh... odd: http://dermatology.cdlib.org/124/case_presentations/pseudomamma/conde.html

Kate: ew

[Barry watches me make a face and laughs.]

Barry: just saw the pic, eh?

Kate: yes
Kate: that is beyond disturbing

Barry: no kidding

Kate: do you think she gets mardi gras beads for just being barefoot?

Barry: how would she flash it?
Barry: walking down the street doing kicks?

Kate: she could be up on a balcony

Barry: oh... i guess

Kate: i find that's the best way to flash foot nipples.
Kate: in my experience anyway

Barry: uh... ok

Yesterday at work, I tested the relevance of our search engine (as I sometimes do), and one of the queries that I tested was "quizzes from Cosmo magazine." Having all of those quizzes with their little radio buttons in front of me, I was naturally inclined to try a few. You know, for research purposes. And I think I can safely say that the Ask.com user experience will be just a little bit better now that we all know my "Sex and the City" personality most resembles Carrie.

One of the other quizzes I took was something or other about imagination versus reality, where it sorted the quiz takers into one of three categories: the extremes of crazy daydreamer and boring realist or safely in the middle as someone who occasionally daydreams but doesn't get carried away.

Put me down for crazy daydreamer.

So the little blurb characterized me as someone who doesn't deal well with reality and who daydreams to avoid problems in my life. And since I know it's just Cosmo (and an intarweb quiz to boot), I obviously don't feel the need to put much stock into the whole "not dealing well with reality" part. But I am curious why being a daydreamer is considered a bad thing.

More to the point, I am of the opinion that people should live out their dreams whenever possible, but some (like the editors of Cosmo) would say this is fanciful and unrealistic.

Take my coworker Barry, for example. He is in love with Paris and has talked about wanting to move there. As far as I can tell, he's looked into jobs and flats and some of the details of moving. And so I tell him, if he's that into it, he should do it. Move to Paris! He doesn't have a mortgage or kids or a serious girlfriend keeping him tied here. And, much as he is damn good at his job, he longs to be in web design.

So, move, I say. He laughs at me like this is crazy--how could a single guy in his late twenties without a lot of responsibility just up and move some place else? I figure it makes as much sense as staying here and daydreaming.

He tells me that it's just a pipe dream and maybe it is, but I think it's worth pursuing. True, there's something to be said for always having a somewhat unattainable goal--always having something to lust after, for, if we had everything we desired, how could we possibly be happy?

But I don't think this is at all the same thing as moving to Paris (once in Paris, he'll have aspirations for a better job, better home, better car, etc). What it is is an attainable dream and I think it's silly to let it sit on a shelf. If this means I have my head in the clouds, then, so be it.

But if and when I want to move to Europe (or buy a new car or have a baby), then I'm going to do it. Because (hypocrisy noted) I think it's pointless to know what you want in life and then do nothing to achieve it.

Barry: eww:
http://www.suncorp.com.au/skincancer/skin/cancer_types.asp

Kate: dude
Kate: don't say "eww" and then paste me a link.
Kate: that's just wrong.

Barry: heh... it's like an accident on the side of the road

Kate: haha
Kate: sicko

To be fair, though, he and I have both sent each other far grosser things than images of skin cancers. For instance, I think I'm the one who introduced him to goatse. And tub girl. I suspect he'll pay me back for those one of these days.

Thanks to everyone who sent me a valentine via the link I set up a couple of weeks back. It's kind of funny how much those little gestures mean to us, but they're nice.

All in all, I received six. Five, if you take out the duplicate. Three if you consider that the other two gals with Valentiner accounts felt obligated. Two if you take out the one from my husband--another obligatory send, which read simply "monkey love!"

The oddest valentine that I have received, though, is one that did not come from Valentiner. It was an e-card from my German friend Dirk. It was only three or four sentences long, but it was the most dismissive letter he's sent me since, well, this one, which I confirmed with him, while I was in Europe last November, was intended exactly the way that it sounded: as a giant Fuck You.

And why did he send me that particular Fuck You? Well, aside from attacking him with an army of emails, I made the big mistake of calling him while he and his friend were wet and muddy after getting caught in a rain storm, and he was cursed with the terrible task of talking to me for twenty seconds while wet and muddy when he wanted to clean up and change. Obviously that necessitated such a hurtful, callous email.

This time, he wasn't nearly so blunt but the offending line was, "Wish you all the best in the future." I know it doesn't sound particularly rude, but why would you write that to one of your best friends?

Now, I ran that line by my social interaction expert aka my coworker Barry, who equated the line to something one might say to a coworker who was leaving their job--someone who you're not that close to. "Usually when you say something like that, you kind of expect that you'll never see them again, or that it'll be unlikely."

Indeed.

Well, I had planned to call Dirk in a few weeks on his birthday, but I get the slight feeling that it's unwanted. I guess that will hinge on whether I get a less subtle Fuck You in the coming weeks or if silence or some other communication during that time leave me feeling worthy of wishing him a merry day.

But lest you think that all of my friends hate me, there are still plenty of non-friends who merely dislike me. Case in point, today is the second Valentine's Day in a row that one of my female coworkers bestowed cards on some of the people here but not me.

When I asked why someone would pick and choose like that, Barry, ever my social mentor, suggested that not everyone can afford 200 cards and candies. Fair enough. But after last year, I told myself that I'd take the time to hand out a valentine to everyone in my office. Obviously, I was too lazy to bother. Plus I have to admit that I'd feel more than a little silly handing out cards to people who avoid making eye contact with me in the hall. But it's the thought that counts, I suppose. And being ignored is probably a better thought (or lack of thought) than "Fuck you."

Anyway, Happy Fucking Valentine's Day.

Remember in December how a news crew was in my office filming a segment on us? And they were interviewing the Ask.com CEO near my desk?

Well, the segment finally aired on last night's news, and I'm in it but if you blink, you'll miss me. If you can call my arm and half my torso "me."

So, when Jim Lanzone is standing by a street sign, look to the left of the screen and you'll see someone in the background wearing a red shirt. That's me. On the right-hand side, you see Barry. This moment occurs around 1:31 in.

And if you aren't so interested in seeing my arm, it's still a good video about our search engine and lets you know a little more about where I spend my days (because it's always about me).

Yesterday when I came home from work, there was an unsettling phone message from my friend Amy. It basically said this: "I haven't heard from you since October, and I've been waiting for you to call me, but obviously that isn't going to happen, so I'm calling you."

It stung. And it stung, perhaps, because it made it clear what a shitty friend I am. Who goes more than three months without calling one of her best friends, when she knows that friend wants to hear from her? Well, I do. But who else? Undoubtedly other shitty people who are shitty friends.

I was thinking today that the call hurt a lot, because it pointed out a flaw in me. It felt like Amy was calling me out on something, and it was something I couldn't deny. I hadn't phoned her, and that was shitty.

What's more is that the reason I didn't call her was because I wasn't yet prepared to tell her about my "bad news" but didn't want to lie and avoid the topic either, so instead I just avoided her. Shitty on two counts: not contacing her and the reason.

To say that I felt bad about myself last night is an obvious understatement. I felt like a loser, a wimp, and just an overall bad person. It was not unlike a feeling I had last summer, when four people from four very different facets of my life gave me four individual reasons to believe that I was not a very good person. And what hurt so much about that was that they were right. I realized then that I wasn't as good of a person as I wanted to believe that I was, and I felt awful about myself for quite a while. Last night's message was a glimpse of that time, and it made me feel wretched. I cried.

But then, a series of wonderful things happened.

The first is that I had Leon there and he played cards with me and listened to me talk and sat with me while I cried, and it felt good. I think he's often the unsung hero when times get rough for me, but there he was, again, at my side and in support of me.

While Leon and I were playing cards, Dirk returned my phone call (I had called him while I was upset and left a message), and he was very kind despite being in a bit of a funk himself. He told me that he wanted to cheer me up, because I am a good person. I couldn't help but believe him, even if only a little bit.

Finally, I had a Skype date with Caroline. I thought about telling her that I didn't feel like talking, but what occurred to me was that what I needed was...a friend. And it just so happened that I had scheduled time to talk to my best friend, who is in the Czech Republic and therefore not all that easy to get on the phone.

In the end, our call wasn't so successful. Her boyfriend was spending the night and she didn't want to wake him, so I called and gave a monologue while she typed responses back to me. And then our call was cut off again and again and again, but just having her there and listening to me made me feel good.

Today has been an especially nice day at work, and I had a very enjoyable lunch chatting with my coworkers Barry, Maggie, and Lindsay. It had been months since we last had lunch as a group, and it was just...good.

A few weeks ago, when "the shit hit the fan," I was feeling like my life was empty and like I needed to fill it with more people who actually cared. Some of those same people rallied around me then, and they rallied again yesterday. And this has made me feel like I actually have several people in my life who will be there for me when things get ugly, and I've never quite felt that way before.

Perhaps when attention is paid to what a bad person you are, you don't even feel that you deserve to have a support system. And maybe you don't; maybe I don't. But, nonetheless, I have one. And it feels…really fucking great.

Largely inspired by the fictional organization KEVIN (or Keepers of the Eternal and Victorious Islamic Nation) from Zadie Smith's White Teeth, I decided to form my own organization with an acronym problem.

Today, I invited Barry to join me next Thursday for the founding session of the new Meeting of Overachieving Minds or MOM.

Barry: uh.. yeah.. somehow i don't think i qualify being in that club

Well, he doesn't sound enthusiastic yet, but let's just see if he shows up. Our first order of business is for one MOM to gain acceptance into Mensa. After that, we'll discuss our life goals as prospective Mensa members. Life for MOM should be interesting; let's see how it goes!

Squee!

If you live in the San Francisco area or get San Francisco stations on your satellite, watch their ABC local news tonight, because I should be on it. Our CEO just stood right in front of my desk and answered some questions for the news reporter. I look like shit, because I've been sick, wiped off all my makeup because of blowing my nose, getting rained on, whatever, AND it totally wasn't being filmed from my good side.

But! I'm gonna be on TEE VEE!

Edit at 2:41 PM: In case you don't know what I look like, I'm wearing red and my hair is pulled up into some kind of bun. They also filmed the street sign that Barry made with our names on it, and all of the Barbie dolls, GI Joes, and other toys that sit in the middle of our work area, so even if I'm not on TV, those might be.

Today my coworker Barry shot me a link to a website where an author is assembling his novel, chapter by chapter. The novel is called Alien Horse, and it's the story of a talking horse trying to make it in a post-9/11 world.

Some of my favorite passages:

"'I know you don't believe talking horses like me exist. We do exist in another world. like your own, yet different.'"

"Elly walked away. I watched her leave. She had elegance to her motion. Compared to me, she had class. I wasn't a clumsy person but her movements were stylish to the point yet workable. The stylish movements did not interfere with her walking. She displayed charm when she walked. She had to have had personal training. I could only guess from sitting on her back."

"She had a normal woman's voice, most of the time. A few times she slipped into a strange horsie accent, reminiscent of Mr. Ed."

As Maggie put it: Coming soon to a vanity publisher near you!

Barry came across this page today while testing. He has made my day.

Barry: you should get http://www.hasanyoneseenmypants.com/ as a domain for your blog

Kate: is it taken?

Barry: yes, but it's for sale. $10 i think (because it's about to expire)

Kate: i dunno…maybe

Barry: haha.. serious?

Kate: sure, why not? who doesn't like pants?

Barry: i'm sure you can find something shorter, possibly more memorable

Barry: poopiepants is taken

Kate: poopypants?

Barry: reg'd too

Kate: what about oopsicrappedmypants

Barry: .com is reg'd

Kate: sob

Barry: icrappedmypantsagain.com is avail

Kate: but i only did it once

Barry: heh

Kate: i'm worried that dooce has the market cornered on blogging about poo. She has a tag for poop stories. You would like them.

Barry: who says it needs to be about poop?
Barry: it can be for "all new things emerging"

Kate: haha

Have I mentioned that we lilke to talk about poop? Yeah, we're seven.

When I was walking to catch my BART train this morning, I saw one of my coworkers loading an electric fan into the backseat of his car. We said hello to each other, and he asked if I were heading to the office and if I'd like a ride. I said yes.

At the time, I figured that he wouldn't have offered if he didn't want to give me a ride, but sitting here and typing this, I think that maybe he was being nice and didn't expect me to take him up on his offer. On the other hand, I've often thought that when someone offers something to you that doesn't put him out, it is polite to accept. Plus, a ride to work? Hells yeah!

So I thought it was very nice of him but I have to wonder, because I am paranoid, if I totally ruined his morning routine of listening to liberal-bashing talk radio or of smoking a hand-rolled cigarette in the comfort of his car, because he instead had to make small talk with me.

I had lunch with Barry at Bistro Burger, which was nice. We talked about frat boys, the Bay Area housing market, and falling in love with people you can't have. He said that he could never love someone based on casual contact, and I tried to explain the other side of this.

Oh, and we had two fire drills today--one in which we had to evacuate the building and another in which the upper floors had to rendezvous with "floor wardens" and basically come and stand on our floors (what the hell?).

My counseling appointment is tomorrow at 10, and I'm looking forward to it. I'm starting to feel better and less hopeless, but some of this is because of the counseling appointment. When I saw Faye in St. Louis, she helped me to see things in ways that I never really could--she showed me howto be less melodramatic and how to solve problems. I need another crash course in these things.

Also, I received another email from Dirk. It was a bunch of pictures of him and some Canadian guy who has been staying with him the last few days. The two of them have been biking and partying and watching the World Cup, and I'm not entirely sure why he sent me these things after what he wrote yesterday, unless the email is just an extension of friendship. Of course most of you don't think I should accept. I'll write him back later when I think of something smart to write.

"Some people just don't appreciate a good poop story. I'm glad you and I have this in common though; it really makes the time pass."

-Me, just now, to my coworker Barry

This morning, I visited the coffee shop on the first floor of our building to spend a gift card that I won in a raffle at a marketing meeting. I rode the elevator back up with a woman who I have pointed out to my coworker Barry as a cute girl he should ask out. She's one of about ten different Jennifers who work here.

Kate: jennifer and you have something in common
Barry: ?
Kate: coach wallets
Barry: how do you know?
Kate: she was in the elevator with me and she had it out.
Kate: it may have been a clutch and not a wallet though. It was kinda big.
Barry: which one?
Kate: black signature
Barry: no.. i meant which jennifer
Kate: Ooooh. Haha.

It's much funnier without all that setup, I guess.