Shortly after midnight last night, Leon picked me up at the airport in San Francisco, drove me through In-N-Out Burger, navigated around the Bay Bridge construction detours, and brought me back to Berkeley.

It was incredibly strange to walk back into our apartment after being gone for nearly four months, but I'm not sure if it was the familiarity after such a long absence that freaked me out or the fact that it was so clean.

Now that I'm here, I'm thinking a lot about my trip back to Prague and what I want to accomplish before I go. Here's my list:

1. Go bra shopping at Nordstrom's.

The best bras I've ever purchased came from there, and I just ruined one in the washing machine, which makes me fear for the fate of the others. Better stock up!

2. Purge possessions.

It is no great surprise that I am personally sickened by the amount of crap I own. The great purging of possessions began months ago, but if you opened my closet now, you'd never guess that I got rid of trash bags full of clothes and other random items. In less than a week, it will be very obvious.

3. Refill prescriptions.

Ugh. I wish I didn't need them. They're expensive and inconvenient.

4. See one of my therapists.

I'm going tomorrow. Hooray!

5. Deposit some money into the bank.

Birthday checks that came to Berkeley.

6. Eat Thai peanut sauce on chicken.

VERY IMPORTANT!!!!!!

7. Set up automatic bill pay for my insurance.

Because it's shitty of me that I've asked Leon to do this.

8. Visit some local folks.

You know who you are.

9. Assorted Organizational Things

I know there's more things to get in order and arranged, but I can't think of them at the moment.

Gah, I need to cross something off this list so I don't start to feel overwhelmed. Maybe I'll start with number 6.

The HR department of the company at which I recently applied emailed me. I will be contacted "shortly" so they can interview me.

Not to sound cocky, but I think I'd have to botch this interview pretty badly for them not to offer me a position. And botching the interview is certainly a possibility, as I've given some pretty lousy answers to interview questions in the past. So I'm trying to think of what they're going to ask me and there are three potential questions for which I'm struggling to think of answers.

1. What do you do if you aren't able to make a deadline?

I was asked some version of this question at the first interview I had post-college, and I failed to give them a satisfactory answer. We must've spent five minutes on this one particular topic, as the three or four people interviewing me kept rewording the question in an attempt to extract something of value from me, but I just couldn't deliver.

I was all, "You do whatever you have to do to make the deadline."

And they were all, "But what if you can't?"

"What do you mean you can't? You do what you have to do; you pull out all the stops; you make the deadline."

This was obviously not the right answer.

2. What are some of your bad habits/traits?

I can't quite think of how that question is usually phrased, but it's generally a call for something negative about the interviewee.

A couple of months ago, I was out to dinner with Leon and some of his grad student friends, and they were joking about this question.

"Oh, gosh!" one of the said. "I just work too hard and I never ask for raises and I never complain about anything!" And everyone laughed, of course.

"But what is the right way to answer that question?" I asked, and no one had an answer.

3. Why did you leave your last job?

The challenge of this question is to say something that makes neither me nor Ask look bad. Typically, interviewees answer something about personal growth or exploring options (or whatever). But I, unlike most, quit my job without securing another one, and this requires explanation. And even though I've had to explain myself to many (many) people over the past two months, I still haven't cultivated a great, interview-appropriate answer.

Anyway, I hope they take the six hour time difference into account and call me before too long. This waiting around isn't as fun as it sounds.

Not even a minute had elapsed since I posted on Tuesday proclaiming all is going well here in Prague that I received a Skype message from Caroline telling me that her cellphone had been stolen. So much for peace and tranquility in our little lives!

Caroline was furious. It was an anger that I understand but have trouble explaining, largely because my American cellphone never meant to me what my Czech cellphone means.

That's partially because I never got into text messaging but also because I maintained a lot of contact with people through email. But here, my main (or only) way of contacting certain people is through that phone. I have text messages stored with directions, and losing that phone would suck.

But it was much worse for Caroline, who had dozens more contacts than I have and who had been texting someone about a job. When her phone was stolen, she lost all contact with the potential employer. It was infuriating for her, especially considering that the thieves will just throw her sim card away.

Plus, this is the second or third time that Caroline's phone has been stolen in Prague.

So I went over to her apartment to console her or at least be with her (not sure I was any good at the consolation), and she and I walked to the store together because she had started to make dinner and realized she didn't have any pasta sauce.

She was crying when she came downstairs to meet me and crying when we walked to the store, hand in hand, as we sometimes do. Men on the street noticed us and jabbed their friends to stare and laugh because, I guess, OMGZ, they're holding hands! They must be lesbians! Or something.

But when we got closer to them, they could see that Caroline was crying, and I'm really not sure that their pea-sized brains could handle the juxtaposition. It was like you could see the thought process written on their faces: "They're lesbians, and lesbians are supposed to be hot, yet one of them is...sad. Life has lost all meaning."

Caroline turned around at a group of them who were staring at us after we had walked by and she made a face. "Czech people are so rude," she said.

Then she told me what had happened, and I was a bit relieved to learn that it was basically a pickpocket situation and not one of force. Because I feel pretty safe here, and I don't want to think that a gang of teenagers is going to threaten me for my cellphone--especially because I don't understand Czech and would really hate to get stabbed because I lacked a proper translator.

Anyway, Caroline knew that it was two teenage boys who took her phone, because they were sitting beside her at an internet cafe and they just took it out of her bag when she wasn't looking. "Fucking punk kids!" she said.

And let me repeat that:

Fucking. Punk. Kids.

This was her refrain for the first half of the evening, or, at least, I'd like to imagine it was, because it was mine when a group of teenage boys took my iPod in Berkeley.

In her fury, Caroline described several colorful scenarios for punishing not just the boys who took her phone but all teenage boys.

But I'm not quite so angry, so I'll just say this: Teenage boys, we are onto you and your shenanigans!

There. That ought to teach them.

I just came home from Target, where I was picking up some last minute supplies for my trip. When I got out of my car, a homeless man startled me in the darkness as he teetered towards me, asking, "Can I have a dollar to get a hamburger at McDonald's? Please, I am so hungry."

I told him no, at which point he said, "Do you have a penny, anything, please?"

I felt so sorry for him in this moment and wanted to help him. My instinct was, of course, to open my purse and fish out a dollar for him, but it suddenly occurred to me how unsafe it was: there was no one else on the street, which was not well lit, and I would be helpless if he decided to mug me.

So I declined him again and again as he walked towards me, begging. Eventually he went away.

I feel so terrible now. There was nothing overtly threatening about that man, and I don't like feeling like some kind of dainty flower who is scared of encountering other people on the street.

I know that you guys will tell me that this was a natural instinct and that it was smart of me to protect myself, especially after being mugged before. And you're absolutely right. But I wouldn't have reacted that way had I not been mugged, so does that mean I'm smarter now or just less kind?

After asking why I was calling ("I was robbed!"), the 911 dispatcher wanted my location and descriptions of the six boys: their ages, races, heights, body types, clothing, and hairstyles. Six times. I had actually managed to recognize the printed design on two of their hoodies and I had an estimate of their ages and heights, but I was largely at a loss for the rest of these categories. And by my third description of a black teenager with a hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, I felt like Susan Smith or any of those people who commits a crime and then blames some nondescript male minority.

What's funny is that I couldn't really remember their races. I knew that the boy I smiled at was black and the one who took my iPod was black. His friend who stayed beside him was Latino. I guessed that the other three were white. (Not to ruin the story, but it turned out that five were black and one was Latino.)

Anyway, around my third description, I was so angry with myself and annoyed with the procedure that I finally just yelled into the phone, "They looked like fucking punk kids!" It was around this time that an officer arrived and I asked the dispatcher if I should hang up and talk to him. She said yes, and I went through the whole description ordeal again.

After a moment of this, he excused himself and got on his radio, while I called Leon, who was playing badminton. Crying, I told him what had happened and then told him goodbye when the officer came back to me. Leon's friends advised him to head home to see what had happened.

It seemed like less than a minute of talking to the officer before three or four police cars rushed by, two of which had their sirens on. My officer directed them where to go. Another police car pulled up, and a female officer got out and started to patrol the area on foot. At first, it seemed impossible that this much commotion would be caused over one iPod, but soon I began to gather that all of this effort was, in fact, for my case.

…Well, it helped that I wasn't the only one to have my iPod swiped. A jogger just three blocks away had been approached with a knife by the same boy who took my iPod. He told her that if she yelled for help, he would fucking kill her. After he took her iPod nano, she ran for help and her call came in only a minute before mine.

Police swarmed the area (Leon counted eleven cop cars), and soon my police officer was telling me that they had the kids--all six of them.

He instructed me to get into his police car (front seat!), and he drove me two blocks away to a street that had been completely blocked off by police cruisers. He said that they had the boys in custody and that I needed to identify them and that it was perfectly okay if I couldn't, plus they may have changed their clothing since then (blah, blah, blah).

I figured that I would hop out of the car and point out the kids I recognized, and I was so filled with adrenaline from riding in the Front! Seat! of a police car that I was ready to get to work. I suppose this was considered too dangerous, although the kids obviously knew who I was and could see me through the police car window.

Anyway, they formed a lineup of the six teenage boys, all handcuffed, in the middle of the street. You can imagine the amount of spectators this drew. My police officer drove towards them and asked if I recognized any of them.

Yes, I did. That one there in the white hoodie was the kid I smiled at. And the little one on the end is the one who took my iPod. And the one standing next to him, I think, is the second one who approached me but I wouldn't say that on record.

And that was that.

The jogging girl identified the same boy that I did as the one who threatened her with a knife and took her iPod, and soon we were presented with a full stash of those ubiquitous mp3 players that had been taken off of the boys when frisked. Mine wasn't there (dammit), but was recovered minutes later by a cop who saw it in nearby bushes.

After this, I went to the police station to make a statement. This took close to an hour, largely because my police officer was trying extremely hard to get a lot of minute details just right.

By the time we were finished, it was dark outside, and he escorted me outside to let me through the gate. He offered to give me a ride home but, since it was only a few blocks away, I said I was okay.

As we were leaving, another police officer asked me what had happened in my particular case, questioning, "Did he have a knife or a screwdriver or something?"

"No," I said. "I was just stupid enough to pull my iPod out so he could 'see it.'" This led me to say to my police officer, as we left the station, "You know, people always tell me that I'm too nice and too naïve…" and he sort of agreed with me, saying, "Yeah, you should have just ignored them" or "Yeah, why'd you take it out?"

And that's the question that I'll struggle with for a while. Would he have pulled the knife on me if I'd ignored him? If I'd resisted? Should I have done something differently?

With me unhurt, my iPod back in my possession, and that kid in juvenile hall (only the one who took the iPods was arrested--he was 12, with no prior arrests--while the other kids' parents were called for them to take them home), it's somewhat hard to argue that I did the wrong thing. But I'm not really at peace with that.

I called Leon as I walked home in the dark from the police station. It was the first time in the entire two hours of the ordeal that I felt scared. As an unfit, unarmed chick, alone in the dark, I was vulnerable. I am always vulnerable, but I really felt it then.

As I got closer to my apartment, I approached the street where the police had made their impromptu lineup. There were still police cars on the scene, and I peeked into the backseats. A couple of the kids were still there, waiting for their parents to come and claim them.

If it was possible for me to feel more vulnerable at that point, I did. I didn't want those boys to see where I was headed or where I lived. Even though I figure that five of those boys have no reason to want to retaliate against me, I also figured that smiling at them would, at the very least, make them not want to say rude things as I passed. And certainly keep them from robbing me.

You'd think there's no end to my naïveté.

I drove to work yesterday because I didn't want to be alone on the streets (kind of stupid, I know). I walked today, but I felt a bit jumpy, like everyone who passed by me had sinister motives. I don't like this feeling of vulnerability and this lack of trust. But I figure it's something I will wear for quite some time.

There are few things in life more empowering than sitting in the front seat of a police car. This basically confirms what I have believed over the past several years: that being a traffic cop would be the most kick-ass job imaginable. Often while driving I have daydreamed about ticketing that idiot in the Subaru who cuts me off or the executive in the Escalade who slides into the carpool lane and darts out at the last minute, because he thinks he's above the law.

I hate those people.

But you know who else I hate? Punk kids.

I have been cautious not to allow this feeling to affect how I treat others. For instance, there was a time a couple months ago when I sat next to a baggy-pants-wearing, slouching teenage boy on BART, even though I didn't want to.

The reason that I didn't? I have ridden the train enough to have seen kids with this demeanor attempt to amuse their peers by being rude. Once, a boy remarked loudly about how he didn't appreciate that the man standing near his seat had his crotch so near to the boy's face. Fair enough, really, but when the train is full, that's pretty much the way it works. I felt bad for the man and hated the boy.

The reason that I did? I was walking towards the seat across the aisle from the boy but lost it at the last minute. It was obvious that I was looking for a seat and it would have been rude not to sit next to this kid, even though I didn't want to.

So I sat next to him, and, at one point, he asked to borrow my cellphone. Because I had judged him as a punk kid, I didn't want to give it to him. It was unlikely, though, that he would steal it because he would have to climb over me in order to take off with it. Given that, and the fact that I had no great excuse, I handed it to him. And what did he do? He called his mom, and he told her that he was on his way home. He then hung up, thanked me, and gave it back.

Boy, did I feel like a judgmental asshole.

It was because of this incident (and that special brand of naivete that you folks have so rightly pinpointed in me) that I bravely walked towards a group of six punk kids--all dressed in hooded sweatshirts and baggy jeans--on Saturday around 5 PM. It was still light outside, and I was on a busy street. What I feared was that these kids would say something rude to me, but I figured that I wouldn't have to hear it since I was listening to my iPod. I even smiled at one of them as we passed each other, and he awkwardly smiled back.

After four of them had passed, the last two approached me.

"Is that an iPod?" one asked, noting the characteristic white wire that ran to my headphones. I said yes. "What kind is it?" I told him that it was just an old 20 gig.

And, well, I knew what was happening but I felt somehow both that I had control of the situation (I was older, wiser, and taller) and that there was nothing I could do (I was outnumbered). I ended up taking the iPod out, after the littler of the two asked to see it ("I'm not gonna take it") and then he immediately rushed at me, unplugged my headphones, and swiped it.

"This is mine now," he said. And as I towered over him and his friend, I just couldn't believe it.

"Are you kidding me?" I said, and I looked at him like a disappointed parent who had unwisely chosen to place trust in him.

"Back up, bitch, or I'll beat your ass," he said, but in a voice that was quiet and unsure of himself. I didn't doubt for a minute that I probably could've tackled the kid or, at least, if he tried to "beat [my] ass," he would quickly find out that my being twice his size was not going to work to his advantage. I also knew, though, that I couldn't outrun a physically fit 12-year-old, and as he and his friend took off towards the other four boys, who were waiting for him at the nearest corner, I didn't even bother to run after him.

Instead, I followed him at a swift speed-walking sort of pace, whipped out my cellphone, and dialed 9-1-1.

Yesterday the power was out in parts of Berkeley for 3.5 hours. I have no idea what the reason was, but it caused a lot of businesses in the downtown area to shut down for the rest of the day. Everything from McDonald's to one of the movie theaters, from Long's Pharmacy to Starbucks: closed. Most of them posted signs on their doors stating the reason as the lack of power. My favorite was from one of the smoothie places: "Closed. No juice."

The power wasn't the only thing that didn't work yesterday: Leon and I picked up lunch in Montclair and parked our Honda at a meter on a hill. When we tried to start it back up, it stalled and died. I tried this several times before Leon had the brilliant insight that we were...uh...out of gas. So he walked less than a block to the nearest gas station, bought a gas can, filled it, and poured that in our tank. Lo and behold, the damn thing started. He thinks there was water in the tank or that we had pretty much driven it on fumes all the way to Montclair, but, whatever, the car started! It was a surprisingly convenient inconvenience, but it is certainly embarrassing to have run out of gas in Oakland.

One other thing that failed this weekend? The San Jose Stealth. I joined wookiewife and her cousin for the game on Friday night and I got my first taste of professional lacrosse. I have to admit that it was pretty damned entertaining, although I think we all could have done without the SpyGirls (page currently under construction), the pro lacrosse cheerleading squad. But the Stealth lost by only one point and put up a pretty good fight, so I'm certainly glad I went. Oh, and meeting wookiewife was cool, too. She's super nice and very funny, but I expected nothing less!

Anyway, I think that Leon and I are going to go play a couple games of pool. Why? Largely, it's because I want to. We haven't been out of the apartment all day thanks to me sleeping in late and chatting on the phone while he got some homework done. And, of course, we both played Guild Wars for a couple of hours (I'm almost level 20!). It's time to greet the world--I mean, it's only 5:20.

I found a dollar in the pocket of my jeans this morning. It was the kind of omen that would have signified, for some, that this would be a great day. For me, it was an omen that the day had peaked and that I had better crawl back in bed and lie in the fetal position until the sun went down. Unfortunately, my limited sick leave doesn't allow me the luxury of returning to bed whenever I sense a bad omen, so here I am at work.

On my walk here, I saw a crucifix lying on the sidewalk. It was a pendant, no more than three inches in height and attached to a silver chain. I stopped to look at it and debated picking it up. I thought that the person who lost it would probably retrace their steps and find it, as long as I left it lying there. I also thought that I could turn it in to the lost and found at Berkeley's police department and prove that cynical woman wrong that, sometimes, people do turn in jewelry.

Turning it in, I thought, would be the kind of good deed that would restore that one person's hope in humanity and make me feel good, and it wouldn't cost me anything but time. So, naturally, without having to give up money or my personal safety, I decided that this wasn't a cause worth taking up and left the necklace on the ground.

I suspect that, much like me and my engagement ring, whoever lost the crucifix won't get it back. Instead, I imagine that some homeless person will pick it up. I even picture a specific older gentleman, whose shopping cart bears the sign "VIVA BUSH" and who has shouted racially-charged epithets at me and Leon, finding the crucifix and putting it around the neck of his German shepherd. Why? Because it would make as much sense as anything else.

I am obviously not in the best of places right now. I should have gone back to bed.

We saw Al Gore today. He was in Berkeley to urge people to vote "yes" on Proposition 87, which will tax Big Oil and fund alternative energy programs.



He showed up in a hybrid with "100+ MPG" painted on the side, but he had such a heavy police escort that I'm sure his travel wasn't as efficient as he'd like us to believe. Of course, I don't know if he'd even be allowed to travel without all of the security so it's a moot point. Besides, ever since I saw An Inconvenient Truth, I've been a big fan of the former Vice President, so a small amount of hypocrisy from a man who has done so much good seems permissable, no?

Security was on him at all moments except when he was on stage. He stood by a tree as he was waiting to be introduced, and that tree was surrounded by men in suits. Police officers were wearing riot gear. All understandable but unnecessary precautions, because this was Berkeley: the only statement that got a negative reaction from the crowd was given by some man (Steve Bing, maybe?) who said it was so great to be near Palo Alto and Stanford. Dude, duh.

But it was a beautiful California day, and Gore got the crowd excited about alternative energies or, at least, about him, and I was very glad I was able to take a long lunch to see a man who I've only recently learned to respect but who has earned so much of that respect in the past few months.

I was in downtown Berkeley on Saturday and had 40 minutes to kill before my therapist's appointment, so I decided to browse the racks of clothing in Ross. If you don't have Ross in your neck of the woods, it is probably most comparable to TJ Maxx in that they sell a mishmash of designer and no-name brands at severe discounts.

One of the major downsides to shopping at a place like this, though, is that you have to dig through the racks to find anything. Although the store attempts to group articles by size and type, it's not well maintained and you're likely to find junior dresses in the women's tops, petite pants in the misses skirts, and children's underwear in the men's department. This means that you really need to look at multiple sizes and departments to find what you're looking for or, simply, that you have to be a dedicated bargain hunter to shop in a place like this.

Well, in that 40 minutes on Saturday, I was pretty convinced that I'd been unfair to poor Ross. I stopped going there more than a year ago because it annoyed me, but somehow experiencing it again sold me on the wonder of it. Browsing the women's department, I saw Mudd and Levi jeans priced at $17.99 and $12.99, respectively. There was an Eyeshadow brand shirt that I had fallen in love with at Macy's, marked down to 1/3 its original price. And there were cute tops by brands I'd never heard of, selling for 4-8 bucks a pop. I chose the Macy's shirt and two others and went to stand in line.

It was at this point that I remembered why I hadn't set foot in a Ross for more than a year. There were three checkout lines and I chose the one that dealt only with purchases, because I wasn't sure if I'd get behind someone trying to return an obviously worn, receiptless garment and, given the length of the queue and that I have worked retail, this was bound to happen in one of the other lines.

Unfortunately, the cashier for my line was one of the slowest motherfuckers in the history of retail service. It wasn't that she was incompetent or unskilled; she simply had the attitude of someone who doesn't care that fifteen people are queued up at her register--she's going to take her sweet time getting to everyone.

From about four people back in line, I saw that one of the things holding her up was taking clothes off of hangers and folding them, so I took my three shirts off of their hangers and then folded them neatly with their tags sticking out the side of the pile. It was my little gift to her (and something that I, as a customer, really shouldn't have to do).

When I was near to finishing my fifteen minute mandatory wait (perhaps Ross's way of asking its customers, "Do you really need that paisley turtleneck and purple scarf?") and there was finally only one customer between me and checking out, it was time for the dreaded Price Check. The woman before me was buying a 1000-piece Sopranos jigsaw puzzle and it didn't have a tag on it.

The cashier asked the woman if she remembered the price (she didn't) and if there was another (there wasn't), and then she stood there briefly like she didn't know what to do. "I need Michael," she said and she tried to get the attention of a female employee three registers down.

This employee was bent over with her elbows on the counter and her head in her hands and when asked where the hell Michael was, she shrugged and said she didn't know and continued to stand, bent over, doing nothing. I thought that maybe she was security or a greeter and this position dictated that she could not leave her post to go and find Michael but I doubt the position dictated that she could stand around with her thumb in her ass either.

Fortunately for all of us, it was less than a minute before Michael appeared but he was distracted by actual work and not within earshot.

"Michael," said the cashier. Note the lack of an exclamation point, because she certainly did not shout it.

He didn't respond.

"Michael," she said again and she looked a little annoyed that he couldn't hear her but she clearly wasn't going to try any harder to get his attention by, say, raising her voice or actually walking the fifteen paces over to where he was.

"Michael."

Nothing.

"Michael."

Nothing.

And I think at this point, I may have begun waving my arms in the air and at last he responded, quickly solving the problem of the Sopranos jigsaw puzzle and sending another satisfied customer out the door.

When I told this story to Leon, he said that it is hard to find good help and that there are people like this cashier (and the elbows-on-the-counter greeter) everywhere and they all need to be employed and contributing to society but what the hell do we do with them when they suck at life?

I didn't have an answer. But running late to my therapist's appointment, I thought that the cons of a place like Ross are simply outweighing the pros. Then again, for $12.99 Levi's, I guess I can pre-fold my purchases, stand in an unmoving line for half an hour, and even tackle the manager for a price check. Of course for all that effort, they better name me Employee of the Month.

Thanks to a recommendation from birdprints and my desire to lose weight via a healthy lifestyle, Leon and I checked out Café Gratitude last night. Café Gratitude is a raw, vegan restaurant that I imagined served nothing but salads, even though birdprints said that the menu was creative and the food looked nothing like what it actually was. For some reason, this made me think that the kitchen staff cut all of the vegetables into baby animal shapes.

Obviously I didn't get it. Instead of an assortment of vegetable bowls filled with tiny works of art, Café Gratitude mixes seeds and nuts with their vegetables to create bread and meat substitutes. For instance, their pizza crust is made from buckwheat and sunflower seeds while the "cheese" they serve on it is made from cashews.

Leon ordered the Yo Soy Mucho Mexican bowl, which was a bowl of grain served with guacamole and salsa. I ordered the I Am Flourishing Mediterranean plate, which was a nut-based falafel, hummus, and toast combination, served with a cucumber tzatziki salad. It was a little heavy on the salad portion for my taste, so I switched with Leon, whose Mucho bowl was a little heavy on guacamole. It was all very delicious, but I didn't really feel full without all the carbohydrates I'm used to eating.

He and I also split an I Am Peachy smoothie, which was quite possibly the most delicious fruit-based drink I have ever had. Aside from the peaches, it had dates, vanilla, and almond milk in it. My God, it was good. So good was it, in fact, that even if I had hated my dinner, I probably would have been tempted to go back, just to try the organic treats (Café Gratitude had an extensive dessert menu that we decided not to sample).

I should also mention that I didn't feel entirely comfortable in the restaurant. The staff and majority of the patrons were all very hippie and/or bohemian chic, and I felt way too preppy in my polo shirt and jeans. I thought I should've been wearing a flowing skirt, dreadlocks, and a tank top to showcase an ample wad of armpit hair. It felt very Berkeley, hip, and organic, but I am none of these things. We even had to sit at a communal table, which somewhat turned me off, largely because I felt so self conscious in the boho atmosphere.

And the idea of "Gratitude" was everywhere in the dinnerware and décor. Glass water bottles on each table were inscribed with words like "joy" and "happy," and our plates asked us, "What are you grateful for?" The artwork on the wall was very sharing-caring touchy-feely (I was seated in front of a painting of a one-armed boy swinging on a rope with text asking us to be accepting; beside it was the image of a black man eating a sandwich among all the workers who, presumably, went into making the products in the sandwich).

At the end of the meal, our waitress told us that the question of the day was "Why is today a good day?" and I answered by saying that I had gotten out of work earlier than usual and that I was on a date with my husband. To both of these statements, she clapped and exclaimed, "Yay!" in a surprisingly genuine voice.

Leon hemmed and hawed a bit so I decided to answer for him with what he had told me when the waitress had left our table to run our credit card.

"It's a good day because there's a revolution in Thailand," he had said. I told him that I had heard about it but didn't know enough about Thai politics to know if it was good or not. "Well, the Thai people are happy," he told me.

And so I gave this answer for him, when he became too shy to speak up to our hippie waitress. "He wanted to say that there's a Thai revolution," I said.

"Yay!" exclaimed our waitress, and she clapped.

When we left the restaurant, I felt good--like I had eaten a semi-healthy meal and like I had just experienced something that was exclusive to the Bay Area.

"I feel very Berkeley," I said to Leon.

"I feel very small town," he responded.

And we held hands and walked to the grocery store to buy produce and soy milk for the rest of the week.

Yesterday, I walked to Papyrus after work, thinking that I would buy some greeting cards for the bajillion and one birthdays occuring at the end of September and all through October. Plus I've been feeling really girly and I've been in the mood to buy some pretty stationery, notecards, and paper for no particular reason.

But when I got to Papyrus around 7:30, I saw that they had been closed for an hour and a half, so I settled for the closest store with a decent card selection: Elephant Pharmacy. It didn't really satisfy my desire for all things girly but I did find a couple of cards, so I got in line to buy them.

And that's when I saw a huge display of RedTango bags that were marked 75% off. I think RedTango merchandise is super cute and have lustily browsed their site before but never purchased anything. But last night, I couldn't resist.

So I bought this Big Kitty Tote in chocolate brown and aqua. It was $8.50.



I bought a second bag that I can't find a picture of online. It's about the size of the Carry On Bag…



...But I got it in light pink with a darker trim and that's reminiscent of the Pink Bowling Bag. It was only $12.50.



All in all, it was a very squee-filled shopping experience that may keep me from going on some crazed stationery binge for the next few weeks. And considering how expensive some shops charge for a couple pieces of paper, I'd say I did quite well.

Yesterday, Leon and I spent a large portion of time walking around downtown Berkeley--going to the bank, the pharmacy, and the library. We took with us our last watched Netflix movie to drop in the mail, but we took such an odd path that it was hours before we directly crossed the path of a mailbox.

By the time we found one, it was nearly 3:30 and Leon remarked that there was no chance for it to make it into Saturday's mail and that it wouldn't be picked up until Monday. But as we were fumbling through shopping bags full of library books to find the DVD, a postman approached the mailbox to collect its contents. Leon and I laughed at our good fortune.

"Here's one more," Leon said, as he approached the postman with our red Netflix envelope in his outstretched hand.

"Sorry, I can't take it," said the postman. "After 9/11, we can't accept mail directly. It's gotta be in the box."

Leon and I exchanged puzzled looks at this, but then I shrugged and told Leon to just put it in the mailbox then. And down it fell into the empty blue container. The postman saw our envelope sitting there, and instead of taking it with him, placed the box that catches the letters on top of our envelope and locked up the mailbox.

I was floored.

"Why didn't you take our letter?" I asked.

"It's gotta be in the box before I open it," he said.

"Why?"

"Blah, blah, blah 9/11," he said and hurried on his way.

And I just looked at Leon with my "WTF" expression, as I wondered what his refusal to accept our letter had accomplished. Oh, I'm sure that he was telling the truth and there's a rule about not taking mail directly, but once our letter fell into the box, there was no reason for him not to take it.

As Leon and I walked away, I tried to explain to him that this man was simply being an asshole. "Maybe he's having a bad day or maybe he didn't like my attitude when I told you to put the letter in the bin instead of waiting for him to finish, but he clearly was being an asshole."

And then Leon and I marveled at how this almost never happens to us. Nine times out of ten, we encounter people who are willing to accept our letters, so to speak. Very rarely do we hear "no." I don't know if this is because Leon and I are polite and respectful or because we're damned lucky, but we nearly always receive excellent service and have pleasant interactions with random strangers.

It completely threw me off to encounter someone who chose to be an asshole just because he could. He gained nothing by not taking that letter.

And to be clear, I really don't care that he didn't take the DVD; it's not as if I have time this week to sit down and watch another movie. It's the principle of the matter. And I have zero respect for people who choose to treat people poorly because they can. And I have zero respect for this man. And it makes me angry at humanity that even the rarest of my social interactions still has to be with assholes.

I lost my engagement ring today.

I wear it on the same finger as my wedding band, but it's half a size larger and loose. I frequently use my thumb to rub it up and down my ring finger when I'm bored or anxious or in need of something to do with my hands. I should've known that it was too loose to just stay on my finger any longer.

I noticed that it was missing when I arrived at work this morning and frantically checked the floor and my purse. Most likely, I left it on BART or somewhere along my walk to work, when I was untangling the wires of my iPod earbuds from the wire on my cell phone head piece. I think it may have slipped off then and I was too distracted to notice. That's my best guess.

My coworker Barry called BART's Lost and Found for me, and Lindsay, my boss, recommended the Berkeley and Oakland police stations. Of course, I knew no one would turn it in, and that's pretty much what I got on the phone from the Berkeley police: "Ma'am, we haven't had a ring turned in here in months. Sometimes we'll get keys or a wallet, but nobody turns in jewelry. They tend to keep that." Right-o.

I was tearful about it but ultimately have to accept the fact that it's gone. Sure, I'll scour the apartment tonight and dump out the contents of my purse in case I overlooked it somewhere. But it's gone.

Renting an apartment in Berkeley right now has become utterly ridiculous. While Leon and I expected that the summer would be the best time to move in a college town with more than 30,000 students, most of the places in which we've shown some interest are rented out before we even have a chance to see them.

Not only that, but we've seen at least fifteen apartments in the last month, and most of them have applications on them before we even walk in the door.

A couple of weeks ago, we visited a handful of open houses, including one for a one-bedroom unit in South Berkeley. It didn't have a bathtub, but it did have an itty bitty fridge, a nonsensical layout (the bathroom was directly in front of the front door, creating this foyer that can't be used for anything), and only one closet.

But a couple was filling out the application as soon as they stepped outside, because the rental agent had scared them into thinking that someone else might dig their claws in first.

What this means is that you can't be too picky. If you can find a place within your budget that can satisfy even half of your wants, you better move on it, and you better do it fast.

Yesterday, Leon and I saw a unit above a dentist's office that was about as close to perfect as one could hope: great location, parking space included, open layout with a very private entrance. Great price, too. Unfortunately, there's no linen closet or coat closet (just closets in the two bedrooms) and there's no laundry on site. There's also no guarantee that it's particularly cooler on hot August and September days than our current apartment, so why go through with the hassle of moving?

And, of course, the unit we saw had already been rented in the day or two between us making an appointment to see the place and actually going, but another apartment in the same building will be available soon. But if we want this place, we need to have decided it yesterday.

I'm not sure what's happening. Is the population in Berkeley growing too fast for the available housing? Are Berkeleyans becoming too smart to snatch up those cute but insanely overpriced condos that are popping up everywhere on Shattuck and University? Is Craigslist no longer the best place to find rental listings?

About two weeks ago, Leon and I saw a two-bedroom apartment that was completely inconvenient for both of our commutes. There were flies in the stairwell and trash all over the neighbor's backyard, which the large bedroom windows overlooked. The kitchen was dirty, and the bathroom needed work. Worst of all, the place smelled like fish--immediately noticeable when we walked in the door and lingering.

And still I took an application. I am so desperate to find something! Or I was that weekend. At this point, I don't think we're moving. I am dreading the thought of it, and there's really no incentive at this point.

If Berkeley has an apartment for me that is better than my current apartment, the ad isn't on Craigslist. Or five other people already have an application on it. This is not a renter's market, and I don't think that's going to change.

Did you know that it's possible to make $8000 a month as an intern? It's true!

Several of Leon's grad student friends have secured internships for the summer with companies like Yahoo!, AMD, and Intel. Now, these are grad students who have completed two years of the PhD program at UC Berkeley--programs in computer science (artificial intelligence or human computer interaction) and electrical engineering. These are not your average interns.

Still, Leon didn't apply for an internship because he has a fellowship and thought it would be dishonest to accept income from the government while raking it in for another company (although I think the fellowship can be put on hold). He's also had a difficult time choosing an area of focus, so hunkering down in his research over the summer sounds like a good idea.

Also, $8000? Who knew?!

I think he assumes I'm upset with him for not getting an internship, but I'm not. I want him to do what is best for him, and right now, that's focusing on classes and research. He can get an intership next year.

But if we can sock away an extra thirty grand next year, it would be pretty fucking incredible. Especially considering that his current fellowship only lasts three years, after which he needs to secure another one or be paid the piddly $20,000(ish) grad student salary. If that's the case, you can imagine what the $8000 a month will feel like…

Yaaaaahoooooo!!!!!!

Leon and I went for a long walk yesterday through hilly parts of Berkeley, and we commenced doing what we always do when we're out walking in Berkeley: we ate and we bought books.

I picked up a hardback copy of Sandra Cisneros' Caramelo, which I can finally take off of my Amazon wishlist. Wow, I added that book November on 2, 2002. And y'all think you have absurdly long reading lists. (That's basically all my Amazon wishlist is. A way to keep track of books I want to read.)

Anyway, I probably won't get around to reading that for another three and a half years. My bookshelf is already full of things to read.

I also bought Love Sick, which isn't so much for reading as it is for looking at all the pretty pictures! It was in the contemporary/pop art section and I tend to like things like this, only I never actually buy them. I told Leon that I might as well support an effort that intrigues me.

There were two others like it. One was called Goth-Icky and the other was Happy Kitty Bunny Pony. How can you not love that?



I also bought a really cheap paperback called A Kiss a Day Keeps the Corpses Away. It looks like horrible, horrible trash. I will devour it like a raccoon.

(Yes, I am the queen of metaphors.)

Anyway, I'm currently reading two books and listening to a third on my iPod, so we'll see how fast we get to these. None of them should take especially long, and I've got some flights coming up that I can read during. But more on that later.

Tonight, Leon and I are joining some friends in San Francisco's North Beach, which is supposedly having block parties in celebration of St. Patrick's Day. That's not why we're going, but if I can snag a green beer, I'm all for it.

We're going to have dinner and then see Colin Quinn, which is perfect and I'm sure there'll be plenty of Irish humor. I intend to get drunk, unless Leon wants me to be the sober one. I think it's my turn to be the sober one, but I would lurve to drink. Perhaps he won't mind.

Tomorrow, he and I will go for a nice long walk to Telegraph and have lunch. That's technically what I would consider "urban hiking." We didn't do any yesterday evening, because it rained. So he picked me up from work, and we went out to eat at a restaurant in Berkeley called Pomegranate. It was quite lovely inside and the food was delicious. I had lamb with roasted garlic, vegetables, and potatoes. Leon had a gyro salad. We also had some sort of nutty, red pepper spread on pita bread. Yum!

Also this weekend, Leon wants to teach me something in Unix, for work. I'd like him to teach me something in Javascript, for purely recreational purposes. I think I may buy a domain this weekend or at least fantasize some more about how I will want my new site to look, when I get it. I still haven't chosen the name for the domain, but I have some contenders.

I want a laptop computer, I realize, but I don't expect to get one any time soon. My current desktop is pretty top notch, and laptops are expensive. But I would love to go to Berkeley Espresso and share a chai with Leon while I play around on the intarweb and he does real work. That would be fun.

I'm also starting to think more and more about how we plan to move this summer. With the move will hopefully come a new sofa. I really like the sleek, modern look of this one:



But it's really not so different from our current look. And I'm not sure my guests will want to sleep on it. And I'm not sure how I feel about getting leather.

Anyway, I'm wearing a green t-shirt with a shamrock on it in honor of today's holiday. I feel like a cool dork, if that's possible. And I'm looking forward to the weekend.

Before plunking down the money for YMCA memberships, Leon and I decided to try out a cheaper alternative: the Rec Center at UC Berkeley. So we bought day passes yesterday evening and played racquetball.

Of course, the whole situation had the sweaty aroma of a Big Frickin' Ordeal (BFO) from the moment we stepped inside. I felt out of place immediately, because I'm not a student, was wearing my work clothes, and am fat (and when a fat person walks into a gym, all elliptical machines stop and there is much pointing and whispering).

We had to buy our day passes from the guy at the Power Bar and Gatorade Station, and, even though he helped everyone who was in line behind us, so we wouldn't keep anyone from their Luna Bar, there was still a line of angry, sighing customers waiting when we were finished. One guy even said, "I had to wait ten minutes for a Gatorade!" which was complete bullshit, and I almost told him so. He was waiting for maybe two minutes, but I guess when you're thirsty, time seems to stand still. He was also quite massive and could've broken me in half on one of his Giant Man Thighs, so I decided to let it go.

( I promise that there are no squat thrusts behind this cut. )

I felt my first earthquake yesterday. It was a 2.9 and about 2 miles Southeast of Berkeley, so not very exciting. Except that it kind of was. I felt our apartment building shake a little and it sounded like something exploded outside.

Leon also felt an earthquake yesterday, but his was earlier in the day and farther away. Actually, he didn't even feel it. He just saw the blinds shake and checked online if it had been a quake, which, obviously it was.

According to some little map/graph online, the chance of this area being hit with another earthquake soon has increased dramatically, and I'm a teensy bit scared that something traumatic is going to happen. I don't actually think there will be a huge earthquake any time soon, but I do worry somewhat about things that could kill me before I'm ready. Like electrical storms. Or Ephedrine.

Anyway, tonight we are going to watch "Beauty and the Geek" with Ankur. He's been hosting parties throughout the show's run, but we haven't gone to any of them, partially because some of them were hosted during the repeat Wednesday broadcast, partially because the parties were co-hosted by the sister of another one of the "Geek" contestants whom we didn't know, and partially because TiVo allows me to watch an hour-long program in about 45 minutes, whereas going elsewhere to watch the show would turn it into at least a 90-minute ordeal. I tend not to be a fan of ordeals.

But this will be one of our last opportunities to watch the show with Ankur--we're down to just three teams, as I'm sure you all know. And he is still a contender! So, obviously, he has a decent chance to win this thing. Go him!

I also met him for the first time about six weeks ago and there are photos from that evening, but they haven't made it online yet (and supposedly are really blurry), so no posting them yet. But he seems like a really awesome guy.