I am cutting out a boring introduction in which I explain why I haven't written lately. Who cares? I've been busy, and now I finally have the time to write about my trip to the Netherlands, which was amazing.

It was a hash weekend, and I have written about these before, but it’s basically an excuse for a bunch of zany people to get together and get drunk while doing running/walking trails and generally having a good time. I did one of these weekends before, and that’s how I met Dirk. That was the last time I did one: April 2006. It was ok. This time? I loved it.

We were in bungalows near the beach, and I went with Caroline. Leslie was supposed to go too and flew into Amsterdam with us, but she had a man waiting for her at the airport there. They’d been chatting on the internet and she ended up spending the weekend with him. She phoned me a few times during the weekend to check in and I told her to have a blast. I think she felt guilty for ditching the weekend we’d planned to have but I couldn’t blame her one bit. I’d have done the same, and I know she had a great time.

Anyway, here’s me and Caroline on the first day, on the beach:



Dirk was there too. We spent a fair amount of time together, but I managed to meet a bunch of new people too, which was nice.

My favorite was this fellow, who dressed as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the costume party on Saturday night:



His name is Kev, and he’s a Brit who lives in Belgium. We’ve chatted a lot since I got back but don’t get the wrong idea: he is very happily married. And hilarious, which is part of what drew me to him.

Anyway, I think that a big reason why I enjoyed the weekend so much was because I received a lot of attention from men. Nothing happened, so, again I tell you not to get the wrong idea, but I think I was among the more attractive people there. When I told this to my therapist, I think he had trouble believing me. Fair enough. I’m no great beauty and this is Prague, where all the women are thin and gorgeous. But at this party weekend, most of the women were older and less likely to scrape on gobs of makeup to go on a hike. Plus, I arrived at Saturday’s costume party with my tits hanging out of my dress, so, any men who may not have noticed me the day before certainly did that night:



(It was also at the costume party that Dirk told me I was clearly the prettiest woman there but I wouldn’t go that far. I know that wasn’t the case but I was possibly the easiest to approach.)

And so the men flocked to me. Well, some of them. And it was mostly quite innocent.

At the after party of Saturday’s costume party, a couple dozen of us gathered in the living room of one of the bungalows and I plopped my chair down in front of a man who simply started massaging me (just my shoulders). Which was fantastic! And then another man decided that he, too, would massage me. And then another. And another.

And at least two men were trailing me like dogs. One asked me, at this after party, to come to his room (he gave me specific instructions) and surprise him. He said he’d have no problem kicking out his roommate. The following morning, he asked me if I had gotten laid, and I said no. He was really shocked how I could have so much male attention and not do anything. But I wasn’t interested (and I think I’ve almost managed to close my relationship again, so why would I muck that up?).

Anyway, what was so interesting about it all was that I had been talking to my therapist about how I think my life would be so much better if I were thin and beautiful. And then I felt like I got to experience it. Ok, still not thin but certainly attractive to many (who were drunk, but I didn’t mind). And what did I learn? I learned that I was right. Life is better when you’re attractive.

My therapist insisted that there was more to it—that the men were flocking to me for other reasons and so I humored him and I talked about this thing that Chris refers to as a “bitch shield,” which is that front that a lot of women put up to keep men they are uninterested in at bay. He has told me that I don’t have this, and he’s right. I am very approachable. I’m quiet, so I have to be approached--I rarely do the approaching. But men who buy me drinks in bars or hit on me on the street will get my attention and a smile.

And so I offered that some of these men at the hash are perhaps used to getting a bitch shield and they flocked to me because I didn’t have one. I offered friendliness. And the relatively small selection of people (120 or so over the course of three days) meant that it was likely that they’d all at least talk to me at one point.

It’s an idea. Whatever it was, I really enjoyed the attention. It was great.

It has been useful to my friendship with Dirk as well. He wants me to visit him in July. I doubt very much that it will happen but he at least had one of those very drunk moments where he told me what a gift I am in his life. I love those moments so much.

And I’ve made a great friend in Kev, who I hope to see at one of the next hash weekends I attend. Hopefully that’ll be some time this year, but it is an expensive hobby to travel around to different countries for these weekends, so we’ll just have to see. Besides, I think it was mostly luck that I happened to be one of the more attractive hashers in the Netherlands. The stars will probably never align like that again.

Despite my better judgment and despite my emotional ties to Chris, from whom I have heard nothing since May 2nd, I decided to give Kosta a chance, romantically.

It was against my better judgment for several reasons, not least of which is that, on the day he met me, he told me that I would be really hot…if only I would lose 30 pounds.

While that may be true and that may be honest, it simply didn’t bode well.

Less than a week later, he followed that up by telling me that he didn’t want to show me pictures of his ex-wife and the woman he dumped to pursue a relationship with his ex-wife.

He said, “They are very beautiful, and I don’t want you to compare yourself to them. I know it’ll make you feel bad.”

Eventually, I did see his ex-wife (actually, possibly even that same day), and I didn’t know what all the fuss was about. She wasn’t ugly or anything, but she wasn’t off to shoot the cover of Vogue, either. After that, I’m not sure if the initial comment was more insulting at face value or because he thought that an average looking woman could destroy my self esteem.

We moved forward.

I started to notice that he had a very preachy way of talking, like he was always making a point, always proving himself. And he was always disagreeing with me.

(I know I’m saying “always”—all of these observations were made in about a month’s time but from frequent meetings.)

I could say something as simple as, “I'm feeling really tired from that beer,” and he would say, “No, it’s not the beer” as though he knew my body and my metabolism. It’s okay every now and then to assert another opinion but I soon realized that I couldn’t say anything without him disagreeing with it.

Plus, it wasn’t as if I were saying things that were wrong and therefore needed correcting. Sometimes he sounded like he was talking out of his ass.

Here’s an actual conversation with some liberties taken because my memory isn’t fantastic.

Kosta: The best way to match two people together is to look at their genetic codes.

Kate: Really? But my genetic code doesn’t tell you what kind of people I like to hang out with or what kind of music I like.

Kosta: Yes, it does.

Kate: What? The kind of music I like is in my genetic code?

Kosta: Yes.

Kate: ...Really?

Kosta: Well, what is music to you?

Kate: I don’t know; what do you think music is?

Kosta: No, what is music to you?

Kate: Listen, this isn’t a class and you aren’t teaching me a lesson. Please, just explain yourself.

Kosta: Well, this is the class of life and you are learning every day from things around you.

Kate: Oh dear Lord.

And then he went on to talk about music as a series of tones and sound waves, and I realized that I just had to nod and agree.

...And now we’re broken up, and I feel sad about it or at least by the failure of the relationship, the failure to connect with him.

Meanwhile, Kosta isn't sad; he's angry. He sent me a long Facebook message about how I’m too young to know what I want and how to enjoy a relationship and he said that he could “cultivate” me but he’s too busy working on his science projects.

I just don’t even know where to go with that.

But I do know that I want to reestablish contact with Chris, although he still gets some sort of communication from me every day, so I don’t know what else there is to do. I’d also like to feel at peace with Kosta.

On another note, I’m glad that the fascinating person that caused me to write my post about “oversharing” isn’t either of these blokes, or else things would look pretty bleak. Although, actually, it is quite bleak at the moment. Give me a few days.

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.

Despite the massive amount of errands I have had to run in order to prepare for tomorrow's journey, I still managed to get in a pedicure today. Actually, I counted the pedicure among the things that had to get done and if you have seen my feet, then you understand. Sometimes I think I could rival Frank Costanza for the Most Unpleasant Feet in the Western World. But then I remember that he's a fictional character and know that the title is mine, all mine.

Okay, so they're not so bad. But I do think my nails look better with a fresh coat of paint on them, and so I decided to acquire said coat of paint. The salon I go to has O.P.I. among their brands of nail polish, and if you're familiar with the brand, then you know that O.P.I. doesn't give their polishes color names like "crimson" or "berry"--they use fun, cutesie names like "I'm Not Really a Waitress" and "Decades of Shades."

So the color I picked out today?

It's My Prague-ative!

I think I'm ready for this trip.

Yesterday a homeless woman was giving me her usual begging spiel when she stopped mid-sentence to tell me that I have beautiful skin. Naturally, I gave her five dollars.

I have decided to buy my mom a spa gift certificate for Mother's Day. I think this is about as close to a perfect gift as I can get, because this is something that she would never buy for herself but would absolutely love. And it's not just another tchotchke that she'll need to find display space for.

In other news, Leon and I have new neighbors. He and I had close to seven months in a nearly empty building after the landlord paid everyone but us and the crazy lawyer to move out so the building could be renovated. These renovated units are now being rented out at $300 a month more than what Leon and I are paying.

The new neighbors are two undergraduate guys who began moving in at something like 11 PM at night. They were there less than three days before setting off the fire alarm.

To their credit, they have a venus fly trap that has been sitting on the railing outside their apartment. Leon and I have spent quite a lot of time watching the thing even though it hasn't done anything since it was placed outside. Still quite fascinating, though.

Finally, when I was walking home from work yesterday, a plump 50-year-old man stopped me to tell me that I was beautiful. Sure, he wanted me to give him money, but he repeated it again even after I had given him a dollar. So, obviously, he thought I was beautiful.

Or he was delusional from lack of food.

But Leon confirmed my beauty by telling me (when I relayed the story) that I am not "beautiful," but "exquisite." So obviously I am quite full of myself today. I should totally buy myself some kind of spa package with facial and manicure to keep up facade of beauty. Let's work on that now, shall we?

It was a (three-day) weekend of fixes.

1. My lips. They still aren't completely healed, but they are much better. I started off by covering them with some tomato skins. This didn't last too long because my lips were so raw that the tomato treatment was painful. Also, Leon was laughing hysterically at me, because I looked like a cartoon character with those things on my lips (they were about three times the size of my actual kissers).

I then bought some Burt's Bees and some Neosporin. Both hurt, but the Neosporin less so. So I've been using it to heal my lips, after which I'll switch the the Burt's Bees on a regular basis. I may even spring for the Clinique stuff that was also recommended, since I really need some color on my lips.

2. My pig. Louis was limping on Saturday morning, so Leon and I took him to the emergency vet (because not even guinea pigs are allowed to get sick on weekends), where we were told that his leg wasn't broken or even sprained--we just needed to keep him confined to a small space and to watch him. One dose of medicine and a few hours later, the limp was gone. Still, Leon won't stop calling him "gimpy."

3. My computer. This was all Leon. He worked on that sucker for nearly twelve hours on Sunday, while I sat by and wondered why I only want to use my PC when I can't. Leon went through several hard drives and finally discovered that the problem was the power source. He replaced that, and now at least my computer isn't making clicking noises. I still can't minimize my iTunes without it stalling, but right now, I want to pretend that this isn't a problem.

I enjoyed the three days off from work, but it was very dull. I watched a lot of Olympics, drank some honey wine, and clung to Leon. And kept slathering on the Neosporin. I am such a bore sometimes.

I woke up this morning with my lips looking as though they were pumped full of collagen. It was like those bad plastic surgery pictures of Jessica Simpson that have been circulating the past few months.



The main difference is that mine are the result of severely chapped lips--a phenomenon that has plagued me nearly all winter, despite no recollection of having chapped lips before.

Now they're pealing and cracking and so irritated that they actually hurt.

Anyway, I'm nearly through an entire tube of Chapstick this season with no noticeable signs of improvement. So I guess it's time to up the ante and try something more heavy duty.

Amy suggested Neosporin, but I'm somewhat wary of that not being the product's intended purpose. Also, saying no to spicy food would be helpful, but after last night's heavenly hot and sour soup, I'm making no promises.

I went to the doctor this morning. I finally found a primary care physician who can refill my prescriptions and do my annual peek and poke. Her name is Carmelita and she's amazingly friendly and beautiful. I seriously wonder if she is a former (or current) beauty queen, because she's totally gorgeous. Naturally, I think I'd much rather have some ugly old hag dealing with me when I'm sick and poking around in my nether regions, but there's no sense in being critical as long as she doesn't make me uncomfortable.

...Poor thing. I'm making judgments based on her appearance. Gosh it must suck to be beautiful.

Anyway, when I got to work, my female supervisor Lindsay greeted me and told me she had a book for me. Sure enough, she had brought her copy of Miss Manners On Weddings to give to me. She said that she doesn't plan on getting married again, so she hopes the book will be of use to me. Talk about thoughtful! I was so touched.

But it's going to be a long day since I got in late this morning. At least I'm fortunate enough to have a flexible schedule, and I can maybe leave a little early and make it up tomorrow.

I think it's only natural that we associate the image in a person's icon with the person using it.

There's a woman who posts regularly in debate and uses an icon of Lucy Liu. I know perfectly well that the image is Lucy Liu, but I can't help but think that Liu and this livejournal user must share a resemblance. Some part of my brain decides that because the woman in her icon is beautiful, then she must be too.

I wonder how I can know what my mind is doing but still fall victim to it.

On a related note, I could use some more icons of super models. At the very least, I should probably stop using those pictures of Jon from "Survivor." He's not pleading my case very well.