Chris and I accidentally had a heart-to-heart talk last night. I say “accidentally” because I fully intended to shelve my issues until after his birthday celebration. But we were having a Skype call and I decided to share with him an article I recently read about sexuality and relationships. This led to a discussion of our relationship.

The nut of the conversation was that he has feelings for me and it hurt him when I emailed him on Tuesday to say that he needs to be more accepting and loving. (His response to that was “Yes, I do.”) He said that he was being stupid, possibly getting too comfortable in our relationship to the point that he was taking it for granted. He said he almost lost me and he doesn’t want that. He is very sorry for what happened, for making me cry, all of it. He does not want it to happen again.

He implied that we’re going to have a conversation in person, and the implication was that it’s about Love. I think he is going to tell me that he wants our relationship to be built on love and that he wants to be in this for the long haul and so on. Maybe he’ll finally say “I love you.” A few nights ago, I dreamt that he did, and I woke up immediately, feeling like something magical had happened to me.

After this conversation, we had a conference call on Skype with Leon and his brother Sam, and the four of us played Guild Wars (an online RPG) together. I really enjoyed it and hope that we can do it again in the near future.

And today I am incredibly excited about seeing him. He’ll be here in about four hours, and I cannot wait. I feel like everything is resolved, and while I’m still a bit anxious about giving him a great birthday, I think the weekend will be fun even if it’s not his Bestest Birthday EVAR!!!!

I wasn’t able to fall asleep last night until nearly 5 AM, and, while I think there are several culprits for that (I’m looking at you, instant coffee), it was primarily because of Chris’ birthday. Oh, stress.

Chris is 30 today. He will arrive in Prague tomorrow, and I’ll take him out for dinner and drinks. On Saturday, we have reserved a karaoke box, i.e., a small room where 6-8 of us will gather for a couple of hours to belt out our favorite songs. And then there will be dinner and more drinks and general celebratory things.

…And I am nervous about all of this! I still haven’t bought him a present, because I can’t come up with a good idea. I am hoping to remedy this during my lunch today, but it’s not a done deal. Plus I am hoping that the karaoke will be fun but it could suck for a number of reasons.

It’s much deeper than this, though, surely. Last night, he and I talked briefly about what it means for him to turn 30, and he told me that he has been thinking about it for the past few days and he needs to make some changes in his life. He went on to say that these changes have nothing to do with our relationship—they will either have neutral or positive effects on our relationship. And he also said something about how he thinks it’s meaningful that I was the first person to wish him a happy 30th, that it’s great (but not that word, exactly) that he’s starting this new phase of his life with me.

But I felt concerned for some reason. It may have to do with some other things he said, like about how he chose to give up something in order to date me, and how he missed it for a while but doesn’t miss it now. However, he needs to fill that part of his life with something. And it’s not that I mind him filling that part of his life. He should, and it shouldn’t be with me. I mean, he needs other things in his life to satisfy himself, and I know he’s fully capable of finding those things.

But maybe it’s because I’m a romantic, and I don’t like thinking that, earlier in our relationship, he was missing this old life and not feeling completely fulfilled by me. Whatever it is, it’s stupid of me, and I know it, but I can’t shake it.

There is also this odd somber tone as we head into this weekend together, and that’s not something I’ve ever felt before spending time with him. Usually I’m bouncing off the walls in anticipation and cannot wait to see him. I’m guessing that my hesitation this weekend is due to my anxiety about giving him a good birthday weekend. It’s a lot of responsibility, and I’ll feel bad if I fuck it up, because 30 is a big one.

I think that, also, we haven’t completely gotten rid of our baggage from Monday night’s argument. My wounds are not completely healed (let's see how many cliches I can throw out in a single paragraph), and, while he stressed that we need to communicate better regarding these things, I feel whiny bringing anything up. That was another complaint that he had on Monday. He thinks that I’m whiny and that I worry unnecessarily. So, on the one hand, I’m supposed to tell him when things are bothering me so we can fix them, but voicing concerns can be irritating to him. If he’s in the right mood, he will laugh and say, “Oh, Katie, you are so sweet,” and launch into a diatribe about how amazing things are with us and how I have nothing to worry about. If he’s in the wrong mood, he will sigh and roll his eyes, and, presumably, resent me for a short while.

We could talk about these things this weekend. But it’s his birthday celebration, and I don’t want to be a buzzkill.

I basically feel like this weekend will make or break our relationship. If we have a great time, a lot of my worries will be put to rest. If it’s shit, well, so much for that.

But I know it’s not that simple. I think I am still capable of enjoying my time with him and still having these fleeting thoughts of discontent. Really, he and I need to have a frank discussion. I will try to shelve everything until Sunday.

Last night, after a glass of milk, some fluff television, soothing music, and a bath, I finally relaxed to the thoughts that I don’t have to fix this. It’s hard enough being responsible for my own happiness; I don’t want the weight of someone else’s on my back. As much as I adore Chris, if he can’t handle that I can be content in a quiet, mellow state and that I am not prone to bouts of giggling ecstasy, well, we probably aren’t going to work out together. Even his will power and my love can’t fix that.

Today I signed an email to Chris "Love, Kate." That was a first, but he didn't respond to the use of "love." His answer came back signed with "kisses," one of our standard closings.

David invited me to his place on six consecutive nights last week. He called it quits with the woman he was seeing because he really does not want a relationship. Well, in his words, he doesn't want to start something serious when he doesn't plan to stay here for more than a year and a half. That's down from the three years he originally told me. I think he hates it here. That's his business.

Chris turns 30 on Thursday and will be here this weekend. I still don't have a gift for him.

I woke up this morning to the sound of construction in my building. I got up and went into the bathroom, where I discovered that whoever was doing this construction had turned off the water. Which makes today the second time in ten days that my water has been shut off.

The last time that it was turned off, someone had posted a notice on my building's door to let us know ahead of time that it would not be operational. It still annoys me greatly when the water is off (it's been off 5-6 times since I moved into this apartment in January), but at least I know in advance. Today? No warning.

I tried to find the men doing the construction work so I could ask them when it'd be turned back on--I'm a bit horrified at the thought that they'll forget to turn it back on and I'll be without water for the weekend or longer--but they didn't answer the door of the apartment they're working on when I knocked.

Also, the construction, in and of itself, is incredibly annoying. Last spring, they were working on this same apartment for a couple of weeks and I would wake up to buzzing and hammering on Saturday and Sunday mornings. And, of course, no one notified me in any way of this construction.

Chris will be here next weekend to celebrate his 30th birthday, and I pray we don't have a repeat of last spring's noise. Couple that with the water turned off, and he may think twice about dating someone who's willingly living in such a hellhole.

But his opinion of the Czech Republic is already incredibly low, so I imagine that this would scarcely faze him. And that sort of indifference might be well-earned. I mean, this is Eastern Europe. How could I possibly expect to have running water at regular intervals? That's just crazy!

Tonight is Date Number Four with David, my French Un-Boyfriend. My FUB. We’re going to a wine tasting and having dinner. I’m actually not too concerned that I'll come across as a complete idiot at the wine tasting; I’ve already admitted that I don’t know anything about wine, so I’ll let him do all the talking. But he makes me very nervous so I intend to actually drink my wine while he spits his out.

Anyway, my birthday was nice. I had lunch with my friend Amy and dinner and ice cream with Kosta. Yes, I know what I said about Kosta before, but he’s turning out to be a good friend. There’s still some awkwardness between us but it’s otherwise good. I also got calls from Dirk, Caroline, and my family. And then some emails, like from Leon, whose message was especially nice.

I was planning to go to London this past weekend but I ended up rescheduling my flights. But I do have a lot of travel lined up. I’ve got my week in Spain with my parents, and that’s coming up in about 10 days. Then in August, I’m spending five days in Germany with Dirk, and then the following weekend I’m heading to the UK (not London, though) to visit a friend who I met in June when he vacationed here in Prague. And then I’m planning to do London in September.

Can you tell I’ve got my visa now? I’m all clear to travel, and so I shall.

Good news: David, the French guy, and I went on date #2. He also emailed me the day after our first date to say that he had a good time and to clarify his thoughts on relationships. And it was he who suggested date #2. I'm pointing this out because it takes a hell of a lot of restraint on my part to avoid seeming overly interested and therefore desperate and scary.

I did, however, write to him today to say that I enjoyed date #2 and he responded with a friendly note. I think we'll get together again next week. The problem is that he's just so damn busy and, also, he doesn't want a relationship yet, which is rather unsettling to me.

Bad news: I feel like I'm on the brink of getting very depressed. I have a four-day weekend and no plans. My birthday is Wednesday. Caroline has left for three weeks of camp. I'm not so far off from that special time of the month. And, yes, I am afraid that I'm falling for someone who just wants to be pals.

Anyway, I'm going to try to use my next few days well. I will let someone fix up my disgusting Czech mullet (the result of not speaking the same language as my hair stylist), open a new bank account, do some shopping at Tesco or the Hypernova, and majorly clean my apartment.

I've also put out some feelers in the hopes of meeting up with some friends and keeping myself socially preoccupied. I've also emailed Dirk so that I have someone to talk to about some of the minutiae that I wouldn't burden most people with.

The next 5-6 days are going to be brutal, but I'm bracing myself.

Monday, just as we were about to serve Caroline's birthday cake (store-bought, because I am a bad friend who doesn't bake), my phone rang. It was my grandma, and she told me that my grandpa's health is extremely poor and almost certainly not going to improve. She wanted me to know that when the funeral arrives, I shouldn't feel obligated to go home for it.

Now, I know that we're all going to die at some point, but the certainty in her voice really bothered me. She was certain that he will die soon, and I find that horrifying.

Of course, all news in relation to my grandpa has become so grim that I've nearly come to terms with this certainty myself. This news--in the form of increasingly depressing health updates from my mom--coupled with the fact that my family nearly neglected to tell me about the last two deaths in my family so as not to disturb me, has influenced my decision to begin checking the obituaries in my hometown newspaper.

In other words, I don't trust them to let me know. When I was a sophomore in college, they almost didn't tell me about the death of an uncle with whom I wasn't even close, so why would they tell me that my grandfather died when they know I would have difficulty making the funeral? Waiting for a more appropriate time to tell me would relieve me of the stress I'd surely have in deciding to take off time from work and pay a thousand dollars to go home for three or four days.

I understand their reasoning in this, but, if something happens to my grandpa, I want to know immediately. And I think that my grandma's phone call is an indication that I will know as soon as possible.

Still, the phone call from my grandma has taken quite a toll on my body. Prior to the call, I had nearly three days where I was able to eat normally but Monday evening, I was so stressed that my body was rejecting food again. I decided to avoid eating yesterday, as much as possible. I halved a granola bar and ate one half for breakfast and the other for lunch. At dinner, I managed a few bites of mashed potatoes.

I also took two Klonopin to combat the stress, but then I was so tired that I gave in and had some coffee at work. This led to horrible cramping, as you might imagine, and I wanted desperately to go home early but that would look terrible on week two.

Anyway, I decided about 90 minutes ago to get rid of one giant stress in my life: Fouad. The plan is/was to dump him tonight, but I'm already thinking that I'd much rather put it off another day or two. We'll see.

Yesterday was the first of Caroline's birthday parties (the second is tomorrow, on her actual birthday), and I posted a bunch of pictures on Flickr. Here are some highlights for those of you who don't want to go to another site:


This is Lenka, me, and Caroline. The way I'm sticking out my chest is really unflattering, especially beside such petite girls, but I'm posting this photo anyway because I adore these two.

EDIT: Leon verified that I look really fat in this picture. Ugh.


Caroline with Jirka.


Melissa, whose birthday was last week.

About half of the guests were people I had never met before, but they were all sinfully gorgeous. Seriously, Caroline has the most attractive friends I've ever seen! Just look:





It's hard not to feel like a cow amidst so many beauties, but I think I walked away with some self confidence. I'm not sure if the conversation I had with Caroline helped or not--a conversation about how I "look sooooo much better now" in comparison to two years and forty pounds ago. She assured me that she never thought I looked bad before but looking back on it is pretty...wow.

I do know what she means, and if I ever lose 50 pounds, I intend to do a before and after post. Of course, you could just look back at old photos if you want to make the comparison on your own.

And I'm too lazy to post my weight loss ticker right now, but I've lost about 47 lbs. as of today.

I haven't been posting much lately, in part, because I started my new job on Monday, but largely because I've been sick. I finally realized last night that the sickness is stress-induced (or stress-exacerbated).

I think I need to have a really good cry to let out some of the emotions that I'm bottling up, and I almost managed it earlier this evening. My mom has been sending me updates on my grandpa's health. Two days ago, the news was that he has been placed in the "long term care" unit of the hospital. Today she told me that when she went to see him, he was crying, because he's tired of the constant hospital visits.

(I've decided not to document a lot of these visits over the past several months because I personally don't enjoy reading about the health of someone else's seemingly distant relative--it always seems like comment whoring to me. And I hate explaining how close I am to my grandparents--that I saw them daily when I was growing up, and it was really hard to see my grandpa this past August because it looked like he had aged a decade since last winter. But there. Now you know.)

Anyway, I cannot imagine my grandpa crying, because it was something I never saw in the 18 years that I saw him every day and in the seven years since. It makes me ill to imagine him looking so vulnerable and defeated. But I choked back all of my tears because Fouad was here, and I didn't want to talk about it with him.

I am also stressed about my health insurance, about my overpriced rent, and about my (presumably) unfaithful boyfriend. I'm stressed about my new job--not because the work is stressful but because big new situations like that take a tremendous toll on me. I'm stressed about my friendship with Leon and even felt homesick for him, the guinea pigs, and our home in California. He knows this; we had a Skype video call, and I bawled and expressed regret, after which he told me that he finally feels single now.

Last but not least, my stress-induced illness has made me stressed, because I wonder when it will go away. I can't eat. My sleep is disturbed. I am in a lot of physical pain--the kind that justifies sick leave but, of course, I couldn't possibly take a sick day during my first week of work.

I think that I just need rest, but Caroline's birthday party is this weekend, and that also stresses me out a bit. The last time that Caroline got drunk in my (and Jirka's) presence, she got so upset about having such shitty birthdays in the past that she cried, set a quota for the number of party attendees, made specifications for a type of cake that is not commercially available in Prague (and neither Jirka nor I bake), and jokingly let me know that she's expecting a pretty damn good gift from me because Jirka won't be paid in time to buy her anything for her party. And, of course, I don't know what I'm giving her.

Caroline took most if not all of these requirements back when she was sober, but she won't be sober at her party, so I can't expect complete rationality.

(And, by the way, I love Caroline, so I'm not complaining and I ready don't mind it, although it does fall at a pretty inopportune time.)

Anyway, this isn't helping matters. I need to rest.

On Saturday, Caroline and I went to a birthday party for an American girl named Melissa, who seems to know every English speaker in Prague. The party was at a bookstore/cafe/performance space, and not only did Melissa know all of the musicians, but the incredibly long table that she had reserved for the evening didn't suffice for all of her friends. There was an overflow of party goers onto nearby sofas and into the balcony. Others had to sit on the floor. It was incredible.

After the party, Caroline and I paid a visit to the pizzeria where Fouad works, so that we could each grab a free slice of pizza. I feel kind of slimy about this, but not slimy enough to turn down the free food. Besides, I think there's a lot of sketchy business concerning that pizzeria--like the fact that nearly all the employees are illegal. I hardly think that losing two slices of vegetarian pizza is a matter of concern for them.

After leaving, I girlishly remarked to Caroline that Fouad is "sooo cute" or something equally pathetic, to which she responded that Fouad isn't really cute; he's more handsome.

Later, I relayed this compliment to Fouad, but I should have known that this bit of semantic information might be lost on him.

Earlier this summer, I taught him the word "cute," which, for him, means "like a baby." He understands "handsome" to mean the same thing as "beautiful," but when met with this new situation of being specifically "handsome" and not "cute," he wanted to understand the difference.

So I watched as he Googled (for the record, yes, referring to search as "Googling" still makes me cringe) images of "cute men" and "handsome men"--images that were nearly identical. I should have pulled up a picture of Brad Pitt to personify "handsome" and another of Topher Grace, Tobey Maguire, or other baby-faced actor for "cute," but I frequently use the words interchangeably so I wasn't much help at explaining to him why Caroline thinks he is handsome but not cute.

Back in June, I too learned personally how it feels to be labeled something in another language and the desperate desire to understand the connotations of that word. For me, it was a Czech word that Jirka used to describe me.

When Caroline looked it up in her dictionary later, the translation for this word was "plump." But Jirka swore that it didn't have a negative connotation, which I think the "plump" translation has. My guess is that the Czech word is one of those polite methods for calling someone fat, like "big-boned" or "full figured."

Perhaps Googling (ugh) images of this word would give me a better understanding of what Jirka meant, but I doubt it. I think that to truly understand it, I would need to learn Czech and use it regularly so that I could comprehend the nuisances of the language and of this word.

But, for now, I'll probably just eat another slice of free pizza and delight in my incomprehensible "plumpness."

Today is Leon's 26th birthday, and I hope he's having a great one. I haven't been able to reach him yet, but I want him to know that I'm thinking about him and wishing him all the happiness in the world. He deserves it.

He also deserves a poster of a dragon, but it will be late, because I currently only have a list of finalists and not the ultimate choice.

My big news today is that I have a second round interview on Thursday for the job that I really, really, REALLY want. I hope I can pull it off.

I'm stuck at home right now, waiting for Jeannie, the girl from whom I'm subletting this apartment. She's supposed to drop by and help me remedy the fact that the only working lights in the apartment are the one above the sink, a small desk lamp, and the bathroom lights. I think this is my fourth day of darkness, as the landlord hasn't responded to my knocking or ringing his bell nor to the note I left on his door. I'm not sure what Jeannie thinks she can do to fix the problem (unless she knows where the extremely well hidden fusebox is), but my rent was due on the 10th (flexible, though) and I don't intend to pay it until I have light. I think electricity is a reasonable demand for a tenant to make.

Anyway, I turned 25 on Monday, as many of you noted in your journals or on MySpace and Facebook. Thank you for that. It means a lot to me.

The birthday was less than ideal, but since I am always such a negative Nellie, I'd like to focus on the positives, of which there were many.

First of all, I seem to share my birthday with Prague's Charles Bridge, and as I turned 25, it turned 650 (and still I'm the one having the life crisis). There was a celebration on and around the bridge from midnight until roughly 6:30 in the morning, and I was there from start until maybe 4:30 when I decided I should get some sleep so my whole birthday wouldn't be a wash.

Some Charles Bridge photos:



Yes, I know that my eyes are closed there. It was after 4 AM, though, and I was very tired.



It's not a good photo but the girl in the kerchief was about to double dutch jump rope with flaming ropes. It was awesome.



There were lots of people on horses, and, consequently, the bridge was covered in horse shit.

Anyway, after sleeping for a bit, I was awoken by a phone call from Dirk, which was very nice. I also received a present from my newest friend, Fouad, which was completely unexpected and thoughtful. Caroline also got me several presents and baked me rice krispie treats and a red velvet cake, which she put 25 candles on. And, my lord, everything she made was very tasty.

We had a little party on Tuesday but two of Caroline's roommates came home Monday night and saw us watching TV and, remembering that it was my birthday, decided that we should be celebrating. So we opened a bottle of wine and chatted for a bit.

But I think the best part of the day was actually after midnight, if I can still count it. I talked to Leon for a bit on Skype and it was very nice, very calming. I was having my usual I-Hate-Birthdays cry-a-thon (but I'm NOT focusing on the negative!), and talking to him made me feel much better.

And that, my friends, was the birthday. Still no sign of Jeannie. This is going to be one dull evening.

Milo died Tuesday evening.

Leon had gotten another vet appointment for Wednesday morning, so he sent an email to the students in the class he TAs, explaining that he might be late to section. One of the students replied with the subject line "LOL" and a message that said a sick guinea pig was the funniest excuse he'd ever heard.

On my 19th birthday, I recall my sister's boyfriend showing up with the puffy eyes of someone who has been crying. The reason was that his ferret had died. My memory of this event is that I didn't really "get" it--how someone could be so upset over the life of a ferret. I was strictly a dog person at that time and while I had bawled like a baby when my cocker spaniel died 18 months earlier, sadness over a ferret didn't quite register with me. It wasn't until I received Louis as a birthday present two years later that I finally "got" it.

Nevertheless, it is because of these incidents that I feel compelled to explain why I was in hysterics shortly after Leon and I noticed that the recently immobile Milo had migrated from one side of his cage to the other and Leon, placing a hand on Milo's back, shook his head to indicate that he wasn't breathing. It is because of these incidents that, were I slightly more self-conscious, I would have felt silly kneeling and crying beside Leon as he held Milo's lifeless body or screaming at Leon not to close the lid on the box where Leon placed Milo's body, because I wanted to believe that Milo's breathing was merely shallow and that he would wake at any moment. Obviously he did not.

I was up until 4 AM that night, just feeling…sad. I wanted there to be an understandable reason for my grief--one that even the rude student in Leon's class would comprehend. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub with my head in my hands, I alternately blamed the vet, Milo's bad genes, and myself. I told myself that I was not simply upset because something I loved had died. No, what bothered me was that the circumstances that led to his death were inexplicable.

I recognize that Milo was "only" a guinea pig and, as such, was an insignificant creature. Hell, most (all?) humans are insignificant so it shouldn't matter what he was. But, in seeing his insignificance--in knowing that the world would be the same if he lived or died and that he had no great purpose--I wonder why he had to suffer.

Of course, I don't know that he suffered. Guinea pigs probably don't have the cognitive ability to understand suffering; they probably aren't asking their guinea pig god about the meaning of life or why he has forsaken them at times of great need. The reason that Milo ultimately starved himself to death (a situation that, to me, justifies the term "suffering"), despite vitamin injections and saline injections and syringe feedings of mashed up food and Pedialyte, is because it hurt to eat. And in his little guinea pig brain, this might have been processed as simply as "eating=pain; not eating=no pain."

Because I do not believe in a god or a heaven to which all dogs (and presumably other pets) go, I cannot be happy that Milo is now "at peace." And because, in my mind, he was suffering to such a great extent that he starved himself, I cannot be happy that he lived a good, full life (Leon's brother Sam sent a very nice email that sort of captures this sentiment but it is not within my belief system). As Milo was an insignificant little guinea pig, it just seems…fair…that he could have had a fun, pain-free existence. And for some reason, he did not.

I don't have an answer for this. I may only be asking this because it is my way of grieving and of saying that it's not fair that Milo had to die. Because I can't get on board with religion or any circle of life bullshit, I just have to ask why.

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.

Yesterday was Leon's quarter-of-a-century birthday, and we celebrated at Radio Alice's Now and Zen Fest (site is currently down). Our primary interest in the concert was Carbon Leaf, who opened the five hour show with a set that was no longer than twenty minutes.

After this, lead singer Barry Privett signed autographs at the merchandise booth, so Leon and I waited in line with a bunch of teenage girls to get their latest CD signed. In fact, Leon was one of only a handful of male fans, not because Carbon Leaf is a pretty boy band, but because Privett is attractive enough that, coupled with the allure of being in a band, he might be called "dreamy."

He signed a lot of the girls' arms, which I guess is the twee version of a Sharpie to the breast. One of Privett's newly branded groupies walked away from the merchandise booth exclaiming how she was, like, never going to wash her upper arm again. Like, seriously.

Leon stood in line thinking about what he would say when it was his turn. I told him that he didn't have to say anything; he could just thrust the CD at the guy and he'd probably know what to do with it. But I think Leon felt this would be a waste of a perfect opportunity to let Privett know that his music had made Leon's world a better place.

Ever since I introduced Leon to Carbon Leaf earlier this year, he sings their songs as he does the dishes and pipes their music through the apartment when he's on his computer. He purchased all of their CDs and has enthusiastically begun introducing other people to them. In short, Carbon Leaf's music has had a big impact on Leon's life.

And so, when the last gaggle of giggly girls stepped away from Carbon Leaf's singer--each of them now sporting green ink on their soon-to-be-filthy biceps--it was Leon's turn. Leon inched forward towards Privett, who was difficult to see beneath a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but Leon seemed to look beyond him, determined to deliver the two sentences that he had rehearsed while standing in line.

"I-like-your-music-will-you-sign-my-CD?" Leon said.

Privett took the CD, signed it, and handed it back, as Leon and I each let out a laugh at our success and the absurdity of the entire situation.

"I like your music; will you sign my CD?" I said back at Leon.

"He told me 'thank you,'" Leon said. I hadn't heard him say it, but Leon insists that he did.

And it's a good thing that he did. Otherwise, Leon might have felt foolish, amidst all those teenage girls on his 25th birthday, wanting to tell the musician that he has subtly improved upon his life. Thank you, Carbon Leaf.

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.

My Sunday birthday somehow turned into a birth-weekend, and I managed to eat out at six different establishments. (That's all birthday celebrations are, right? An excuse to eat out?)

Friday was The Macaroni Grill. I am generally a chain restaurant snob, but I have a weakness for Italian food. I ordered some sort of prosciutto and shrimp penne pasta, which was rather delicious.

Saturday afternoon was Baja Fresh, which is chain Mexican and not so much a celebratory meal as a let's-get-out-of-our-really-damn-hot-apartment meal. We followed this up by seeing the new Pirates of the Caribbean.

For dinner, we headed into San Francisco and had Indian. Then we saw Second City perform along with two other Improv groups as part of San Francisco's Improv Festival. When we stopped back into Berkeley, we went to Mel's Diner and ordered bread pudding, for which I have an inexplicable weakness.

Yesterday I went to The Castro for a late lunch, and I walked around and had some greasy, cheesy diner food. Back in Berkeley, we stopped at Foster's Freeze, where I had a chocolate twister ice cream thing and Leon ordered a pineapple milkshake.

Then we cooked paella for tomorrow's dinner because we were too stuffed to eat another meal. Although I may have snacked on said paella.

So, yes, I ate my way through the weekend and had a tasty, tasty birthday. But it's time again to start watching what I put in my mouth.

My nephew Harrison turned one yesterday, and, as some sort of lame tribute, I wish that I could explain just how much I love that little guy (and his sister, but this is his time).

I worry about both of them and fawn over both of them and adore both of them to pieces. But I feel something for him that I don't feel as much about Mattie, probably because she is older and therefore not as helpless.

But Harrison? I wish I could scoop him into my arms and protect him from the world. I'm not worried about Mattie like this, because I think she can already assert herself pretty damn well for a two-year-old. But Harrison--with his fat little thighs and concerned expressions--just makes me feel sad from all the worrying.

Earlier this month, my mom sent me some pictures of the kids, and I smiled as I looked through one. But there was one picture of Harrison that made me feel sick inside. He was wearing this pastel blue romper with a frog on it--a softer-than-soft outfit that I had given him when I visited last July. But the paleness of his clothes only helped to accentuate all of the red sores on his body.

Harrison has eczema, a condition that I know practically nothing about. I don't even know if it's especially painful or if it will ever go away completely, but I can tell you that nothing makes an infant look even more helpless than red blotches all over his skin. I just want to snatch him up and save him from the world, I tell you.

And when I was at my grandparents' house a day or two after Christmas, Harrison slipped off of Mattie's toddler bed and hit his head on the bed frame. He ended up with a bruise and a small cut and after her initial concern, my grandma kept saying, "These kids use their heads like battling rams" to insist that he was just fine. And he was. But I was so concerned and wanted everyone to promise that the entire house would be covered in bubble wrap the next time I visited.

But he's not my kid and even if he were, kids are bound to get bumps and bruises and rashes like eczema. But I want to protect him, and watching him grow up will be hard for a long time before it gets easy.

My birthday was pretty kick ass in a very slothful, gluttonous way. We ate out at four different establishments; I received calls from many people but was out, so I didn't have to speak to anyone; Leon's parents, grandma, and uncle sent me surprising amounts of cash; and I used my membership card at The Body Shop (and their semi-annual sale) to purchase more than $82 worth of goodies (pre-tax) for $23 (post-tax). Awesome.

I saw War of the Worlds, watched a DVD, went shopping, ate crepes, and went to Cold Stone creamery. Yes, my diet and exercise regime is working out great, thanks for asking.

Friday night, I ducked out of going out with friends to see The Fantastic Four and have dinner. It turned out that The Fantastic Four was sold out, so Leon and Co saw Batman Begins. They also went to Cold Stone. When Leon told me this, I gave him this fake pity routine about how all I wanted for my birthday was to go to Cold Stone and see Batman. Wah, wah, poor me.

When the Tibetan Cafe was closed and we had to find somewhere else to eat, I said, "Wah, wah, all I wanted was to have Tibetan on my birthday." I continued this for several other events that didn't quite go my way.

But when we went to Cold Stone, I think I actually forgot that it was all just a stupid joke and I actually felt entitled because it was my birthday. You see, they were out of cake batter ice cream--the essential ingredient in a Birthday Cake Remix. They had replaced it with--get this--wasabi ginger. Yes, I tasted it. Yes, it was gross. Imagine ice cream that tastes like horseradish, if you don't know what wasabi tastes like. Mmm, doesn't that make your mouth water?

Anyway, I actually said to the woman who was scooping ice cream, "What do you mean there's no cake batter ice cream? It's my birthday!" I mean, who says that? Apparently, I say that. This is only the first in a whole series of recent events in which I've been ballsy to the point of annoying--I'll probably share the American Airlines story at some point.

At the end of the day, I felt sad. "Is it because your birthday is over?" Leon asked. I told him I didn't know. Truthfully, I thought it was wrong that I didn't speak to my parents or my grandparents or anyone else that called. And ending up at the same restaurant where we celebrated my birthday last year made me feel a bit stuck.

But I still think I'm happy, so I'm sure I'm just overreacting to turning 23. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel old.

Caroline called this morning while I was in the shower. If she weren't in Europe, Leon would've taken a message. Instead, he rushed into the bathroom and handed me a cordless phone and a hand towel to dry off. Yes, a hand towel. So I stood there naked and cold, trying to cover up the coldest parts with this 12"x8" piece of terry cloth.

I knew it had to be an emergency. Why else would Caroline call at 8 am on a Friday when she knew I had to go to work?

"Happy birthday," she said. Oh yeah, that. "I wanted to call today because I don't think I'll have time tomorrow."

She asked if I'm doing anything and I said that I probably won't. "I'm not turning a very exciting age," I told her.

"Nobody likes you when you're 23," she answered. "That's a song, so that means it's special. You have to go out and celebrate."

I told her I'd think about it. After being gone all last weekend, I don't think I really want to go out tomorrow. Besides, we're going out to dinner with friends tonight. It's not at all birthday-related, but it's good enough for me.

I kind of wish Leon would plan something, like when I took him to Yoshi's for his 23rd last September. But I really don't need fanfare; I'm not that girl. Talking to one of my best friends who currently lives across the globe was gift enough--even if I was shivering and wet.