SPRING BREAK, WAHOO! Okay, so maybe it was not spring break, but this past weekend I did feel and act like an undergraduate college student again. I have the sore shoulders, still lingering hangover to prove it and gaps in memory to prove it.
Under the guise of a massive birthday party (April 21st Evil Twin #2; April 23rd Manolo; April 26th Kentak3), we had a Columbia reunion in New York City. It had been almost 3 years since we had last all seen each other at B and S's wedding and the next person to get married may take a while. W flew in with a toddler in tow from San Antonio, Texas. Manolo with a girl in tow flew in from Miami. And B and S with me and Ch in tow drove in from Boston.
The weekend started weeks ago. ET#2 served as cruise director, organizing places for people to go, choosing restaurants and party locales, coordinating schedules, and hosting us in her new apartment. Flurries of mass emails, flurries of phone calls, flurries of flurries. I managed to attach myself as birthday girl on the Evite even though my birthday was much earlier in the month. I abstained from partying because I knew this would be a weekend for the ages.
Friday morning, B, S and C picked me up from school. There is no better way to start off a weekend then with a road trip. The afternoon was filled with traffic and junk food. By the time we got to the city, it was already time for dinner, drinks, and Manolo. Manolo and his friend were in Time Square. Getting off the subway during rush hour traffic, walking on one of NYC's busiest streets, getting bumped by the crowds, and feeling the energy of the city reminded us we definitely had left Boston.
The 6 of us headed down to the West Village for food and margaritas. Delicious. ET#2 met us there in her work clothes. Snazzy. In my sport-centric, cheap ass student, dirty jean wearing ways, I had forgotten the life of a New Yorker. That the people both men and women (even students) dressed well and did not wear baseball caps all the time. Variety of restaurants and bars were enormous and the food was good. We went to another bar and then for a late night snack of pizza at 12am.
The next morning my friend W and the baby, came to ET#2's apt.. Weird that even though I had not seen her in 3 years, and 22 months ago she gave birth to this kid, the first thing that she said to me was "so did you see Heroes last week?" That's what happens with close friends, 3 years melt away in seconds.
We took went for a walk and then to a local playground. It was a Saturday morning. The weather was nice. Spring was in the air. Children seemed to have invaded the City. As we commuted down to our brunch gathering, we noticed strollers and sticky hands everywhere. I am not sure if there had been a sudden baby boom or if this was a product of finally being aware children existed because we were with them.
At brunch, it was interesting how each one of us reacted to the kid. None of us have our own, and it is about time that our biological clocks start ticking. Manolo tickled her, ET#2 made her dance, but B waved to her from across the table. But my favorite moment is when Kentak3 went to say goodbye, he shook her hand and in the sincerest of tones looked the toddler in the eye and said "it was nice to meet you." And she shook his hand right back.
We walked around for the next 2 hours. Once again more food. We brought the baby to her very first bar. Aren't we all such great influences? It was getting late and W and the baby had to head back out of the City.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Underwear pockets
Nice weather. YAY! Boston is glorious. The sun shines brightly and you can feel it warm up your soul or at the very least your back. The air is dry. The pollen count is low. I've spent a productive week in the lab. A productive weekend out in the sun. Yet for some reason today all I can think about is underwear pockets.
Two years ago, in my neverending attempt to evolve, I started to wear more skirts, replacing the khaki short that was my staple on warm summer days. Now, I wear flowing cotton skirts, khaki skirts, and on occasion a form fitting mini. The transition has been difficult, but I have stuck with it. Riding my bicycle is a little more challenging. When out, I remind myself that I always have to keep my legs closed. The most difficult part is that cute skirts almost never have pockets. Pockets to stuff your keys, wallet, and iPod. Pockets to store that good luck penny you just found.
But let us go back even further to a time before I was even born. My mother had just married my father and was meeting her mother-in-law for the first time. Crazy in my family is an inherited trait, and I think I inherited a lot of my crazy from my paternal grandmother. She had lived her whole in farm country and had little notion about the rapidly changing world. Like all the other women of her village, she wore traditional Korean countryside attire: a brown wool skirt, a white cropped tied cotton jacket, and long underwear made out of hemp. Now in her long underwear, my grandmother, also like many other women, had pockets for money and valuables.
In 1968, my mother was a stylish modern European inspired woman. She worked full time as a nurse, she was well educated fluent in German, English and Korean, she wore short skirts and little neck kerchiefs, and she carried around a purse and a wallet. She was the polar opposite of my grandmother.
On this short visit, my grandmother expected my mother to finish a list farm duties, a list of domestic duties, and to act subservient to my father and his relatives. And since it was such a short visit, my mother tried her best. Soon there would be the whole Pacific Ocean between my father's family and her. Unfortunately, even her best attempts were not good enough. My grandmother yelled at my mother's inabilities to be a good farmer's wife. While my mother to this day insists that she worked so hard and that my grandmother was just being ridiculous, I cannot help but wonder why my mother bothers insisting. She simply was not built for hard labor.
I don't know what transpired next. But this is how I imagined it. My grandmother lays into my mother for being lazy. My mother is exhausted and goes for a little nap. My grandmother starts to feel bad. She thinks about ways she can make it up to her new daughter-in-law. Okay maybe my crazy grandmother was not that nice, but since I don't remember her well that is how I'll picture it.
As the story goes, my mother walked into my grandmother's room. She was surprised. Why? Because my grandmother had taken all of my mother's panties out of my parents's luggage and she was sewing pockets into them. She told my mother it was difficult because she could not sew big pockets, but at least there would be a little place for my mother to carry her money. My mother cannot help but laugh when she recalls it. I think it is her fondest memory of my grandmother.
As I so often do, in 2007, I am daydreaming at my desk. The sun streams through our window and our Hidamari no Tami is bobbling his head. I am wearing a cotton pinstripe skirt with no pockets. I cannot help but be a little annoyed that everything is stuffed in my backpack front pocket. But then my mind keeps wandering to underwear pockets. And I think my backpack is superior to underwear pockets.
Two years ago, in my neverending attempt to evolve, I started to wear more skirts, replacing the khaki short that was my staple on warm summer days. Now, I wear flowing cotton skirts, khaki skirts, and on occasion a form fitting mini. The transition has been difficult, but I have stuck with it. Riding my bicycle is a little more challenging. When out, I remind myself that I always have to keep my legs closed. The most difficult part is that cute skirts almost never have pockets. Pockets to stuff your keys, wallet, and iPod. Pockets to store that good luck penny you just found.
But let us go back even further to a time before I was even born. My mother had just married my father and was meeting her mother-in-law for the first time. Crazy in my family is an inherited trait, and I think I inherited a lot of my crazy from my paternal grandmother. She had lived her whole in farm country and had little notion about the rapidly changing world. Like all the other women of her village, she wore traditional Korean countryside attire: a brown wool skirt, a white cropped tied cotton jacket, and long underwear made out of hemp. Now in her long underwear, my grandmother, also like many other women, had pockets for money and valuables.
In 1968, my mother was a stylish modern European inspired woman. She worked full time as a nurse, she was well educated fluent in German, English and Korean, she wore short skirts and little neck kerchiefs, and she carried around a purse and a wallet. She was the polar opposite of my grandmother.
On this short visit, my grandmother expected my mother to finish a list farm duties, a list of domestic duties, and to act subservient to my father and his relatives. And since it was such a short visit, my mother tried her best. Soon there would be the whole Pacific Ocean between my father's family and her. Unfortunately, even her best attempts were not good enough. My grandmother yelled at my mother's inabilities to be a good farmer's wife. While my mother to this day insists that she worked so hard and that my grandmother was just being ridiculous, I cannot help but wonder why my mother bothers insisting. She simply was not built for hard labor.
I don't know what transpired next. But this is how I imagined it. My grandmother lays into my mother for being lazy. My mother is exhausted and goes for a little nap. My grandmother starts to feel bad. She thinks about ways she can make it up to her new daughter-in-law. Okay maybe my crazy grandmother was not that nice, but since I don't remember her well that is how I'll picture it.
As the story goes, my mother walked into my grandmother's room. She was surprised. Why? Because my grandmother had taken all of my mother's panties out of my parents's luggage and she was sewing pockets into them. She told my mother it was difficult because she could not sew big pockets, but at least there would be a little place for my mother to carry her money. My mother cannot help but laugh when she recalls it. I think it is her fondest memory of my grandmother.
As I so often do, in 2007, I am daydreaming at my desk. The sun streams through our window and our Hidamari no Tami is bobbling his head. I am wearing a cotton pinstripe skirt with no pockets. I cannot help but be a little annoyed that everything is stuffed in my backpack front pocket. But then my mind keeps wandering to underwear pockets. And I think my backpack is superior to underwear pockets.
Friday, April 20, 2007
East vs. West
There is nothing I love more than a good massage. I think my love of the massage started during college when ET#1, our various roommates and I would give each other massages (a "massage train" if you will) as a way to destress, and also as a way of procrastinating. Since I no longer have a 95 pound room mate to walk on my back, I have been shelling out big bucks for so-called professional massages in order to de-stress and unwind.
I am always torn between going to "high end" spas such as Bliss, and the always cheaper asian "massage parlors". The spas are always super clean and offer you soothing music, a selection of teas, bottled water, and samples of their otherwise overpriced products. Acqua Beauty Bar has a fantastic Russian masseuse that I thought was going to break my arm with the stretches he was doing, but afterwards I felt fantastic (this was perhaps one of the best massages ever). The massage parlors are easy to go to (no appointment necessary), are cheap, offer lukewarm green tea, and sometimes get a little "too close" for comfort. At the 24 hour "spa" in koreatown, one of the female masseuses climbed onto the table (surprisingly limber for a middle-aged korean lady) and straddled me during the massage.
I am always torn between going to "high end" spas such as Bliss, and the always cheaper asian "massage parlors". The spas are always super clean and offer you soothing music, a selection of teas, bottled water, and samples of their otherwise overpriced products. Acqua Beauty Bar has a fantastic Russian masseuse that I thought was going to break my arm with the stretches he was doing, but afterwards I felt fantastic (this was perhaps one of the best massages ever). The massage parlors are easy to go to (no appointment necessary), are cheap, offer lukewarm green tea, and sometimes get a little "too close" for comfort. At the 24 hour "spa" in koreatown, one of the female masseuses climbed onto the table (surprisingly limber for a middle-aged korean lady) and straddled me during the massage.
My birthday is tomorrow and I wanted to treat myself to a massage. Bliss did not have any availability so I was going to go to my favorite chinese massage parlor (scary that I even have a favorite). But, sadly, while surfing the web this morning, I came across this. I guess I'll have to find a new favorite massage place...
Monday, April 16, 2007
Cambridge chronicles
B was a little blue and the truth was so was I. It was Friday night, and the week was long with presentations, gross work confrontations, and emotional roller coasters with boys. B and I needed a night out. B wanted to meet new people. She wanted to get away from the medical area and the hospitals.
With little or no plan in mind, B and I hopped on the 66 bus. Harvard Square is always a good transitioning point. It is full of yuppies and that wish to to be hipsters. So to slowly acclimate to Cambridge, we went into Daedelus. It is a bar slash restaurant with 20 dollar entrees and non college student clientele. B and I sat the bar. As I tried to get my chair out to sit, the man next to me introduced himself as S and pulled out the chair for me. How fortuitous! 20 minutes into our night to meet new people and here they were introducing themselves to us. Sitting next to S was a good looking couple in their thirties. We played the guess what we do for a living game for a while. Apparently, it was obvious what B and I did, but guessing our new friends careers was a little more difficult. The lady was an opera singer. Her boyfriend and S made parabolic dishes out of used car parts as an energy source. They had just gotten a grant from the World Bank NGO to install these dishes in West Africa. We even got to see their immunization records.
However, it became time to move on, so we left our new friends at Daedelus. B and I walked on Mass Ave towards Central Square. Plough and Stars had a loud band playing and People's Republik scared B a little, because last time she was there it was invaded by a woman's rugby team. We looked into the window of one bar but it seemed kind of dead. Outside of the bar under the its green awning stood three guys smoking cigarettes. They were wearing leather jackets and Boston Redsox hats.
"Hey, ladies you should go in. It's a nice place, especially if you want to dance."
"Hmmm... No that's okay I think we are going to move on."
"Come on. Would you please dance with me here?"
"Sure."
His friends started singing "In the Still of the Night" and snapping their fingers as I danced with some random man on Mass Ave.. You might think that I was highly intoxicated, but I was not. It just seemed like the right thing to do and probably the closest thing I came to movie like romantic gesture in a long time. The song ended and I thanked him for the dance. A homeless man with newspapers in a plastic shopping bag tried to convince B that the beer was cheaper in this bar. Really was not a good selling point.
We walked to Inman Square and settled into Bukowski's. Hipsters galore. The bouncer, J, was super friendly and I will be sure to look him up at his new job at the Rattlesnake. B ordered a peanut butter burger and I ate all her french fries. The night turned into a very cathartic bitch session about our trials and tribulations with men. Even when single and happy, men always seem to somehow creep into our lives. We drank PBR and wondered about life, flirted some more with the bouncer and stared at the hipsters in the room.
It was 1am, time to go home. We were worried we would not find a cab. As we walked down Prospect, a cab pulled right in front of us Letting off three very giggly and drunk girls. As we waited for the cab to empty so we could take it, Another cab came up the sidewalk behind us. The driver yelled in a heavy Lebanese accent "It is illegal for this cab to take you." (In Cambridge, Boston cabs are not allowed to pick up fares.)
The chances of getting one cab on a cold Friday night is rare, but two fighting for you even rarer. We did not care so we got into the crazy Lebanese cab. The other driver started yelling at our cabbie. To which our driver responded, "You are a very handsome man. I said you are very handsome man, but this is my fare."
Our driver was the most entertaining cabbie of all time. I spoke to him in Arabic, and in English he told us a story about his roommate. The story went something like this. "So I was talking with my roommate Tony and he has a big gap between his teeth. So I say to him Tony when did you eat tabbouleh, because you have tabbouleh in your teeth and he say to me three days ago. I say that is disgusting. My roommate is so dirty can you imagine three days with tabbouleh in your teeth. Then I see him eating beans....."
B and I could not stop laughing. Even in the apartment, we barreled over in the foyer trying to catch our breath from cabbie's stories.
Sometimes my stories of night adventures border on ridiculous. Ridiculous that someone in their thirties behaves like me, the strange encounters with even stranger people, and the sheer randomness of events. But all the events I report are true, and I would not want to have it any other way.
With little or no plan in mind, B and I hopped on the 66 bus. Harvard Square is always a good transitioning point. It is full of yuppies and that wish to to be hipsters. So to slowly acclimate to Cambridge, we went into Daedelus. It is a bar slash restaurant with 20 dollar entrees and non college student clientele. B and I sat the bar. As I tried to get my chair out to sit, the man next to me introduced himself as S and pulled out the chair for me. How fortuitous! 20 minutes into our night to meet new people and here they were introducing themselves to us. Sitting next to S was a good looking couple in their thirties. We played the guess what we do for a living game for a while. Apparently, it was obvious what B and I did, but guessing our new friends careers was a little more difficult. The lady was an opera singer. Her boyfriend and S made parabolic dishes out of used car parts as an energy source. They had just gotten a grant from the World Bank NGO to install these dishes in West Africa. We even got to see their immunization records.
However, it became time to move on, so we left our new friends at Daedelus. B and I walked on Mass Ave towards Central Square. Plough and Stars had a loud band playing and People's Republik scared B a little, because last time she was there it was invaded by a woman's rugby team. We looked into the window of one bar but it seemed kind of dead. Outside of the bar under the its green awning stood three guys smoking cigarettes. They were wearing leather jackets and Boston Redsox hats.
"Hey, ladies you should go in. It's a nice place, especially if you want to dance."
"Hmmm... No that's okay I think we are going to move on."
"Come on. Would you please dance with me here?"
"Sure."
His friends started singing "In the Still of the Night" and snapping their fingers as I danced with some random man on Mass Ave.. You might think that I was highly intoxicated, but I was not. It just seemed like the right thing to do and probably the closest thing I came to movie like romantic gesture in a long time. The song ended and I thanked him for the dance. A homeless man with newspapers in a plastic shopping bag tried to convince B that the beer was cheaper in this bar. Really was not a good selling point.
We walked to Inman Square and settled into Bukowski's. Hipsters galore. The bouncer, J, was super friendly and I will be sure to look him up at his new job at the Rattlesnake. B ordered a peanut butter burger and I ate all her french fries. The night turned into a very cathartic bitch session about our trials and tribulations with men. Even when single and happy, men always seem to somehow creep into our lives. We drank PBR and wondered about life, flirted some more with the bouncer and stared at the hipsters in the room.
It was 1am, time to go home. We were worried we would not find a cab. As we walked down Prospect, a cab pulled right in front of us Letting off three very giggly and drunk girls. As we waited for the cab to empty so we could take it, Another cab came up the sidewalk behind us. The driver yelled in a heavy Lebanese accent "It is illegal for this cab to take you." (In Cambridge, Boston cabs are not allowed to pick up fares.)
The chances of getting one cab on a cold Friday night is rare, but two fighting for you even rarer. We did not care so we got into the crazy Lebanese cab. The other driver started yelling at our cabbie. To which our driver responded, "You are a very handsome man. I said you are very handsome man, but this is my fare."
Our driver was the most entertaining cabbie of all time. I spoke to him in Arabic, and in English he told us a story about his roommate. The story went something like this. "So I was talking with my roommate Tony and he has a big gap between his teeth. So I say to him Tony when did you eat tabbouleh, because you have tabbouleh in your teeth and he say to me three days ago. I say that is disgusting. My roommate is so dirty can you imagine three days with tabbouleh in your teeth. Then I see him eating beans....."
B and I could not stop laughing. Even in the apartment, we barreled over in the foyer trying to catch our breath from cabbie's stories.
Sometimes my stories of night adventures border on ridiculous. Ridiculous that someone in their thirties behaves like me, the strange encounters with even stranger people, and the sheer randomness of events. But all the events I report are true, and I would not want to have it any other way.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Letting the crazy out
Television. You can learn so many things from it. For instance, to this day I remember the path of the circulatory system, from when Patsi had to learn it by song for his college anatomy class in "Happy Days." Or that amphetamines are addictive and smart people are suceptible to taking them. Think Alex from "Familiy Ties" or Jesse from "Saved by the Bell."
On an episode of "Scrubs," Carla, the sassy nurse, when giving advice on love, tells the young doctors that they need to hide the crazy. What fantastic advice! But the real question is when can you let the crazy out?
Today has been a roller coaster of a day. It started out well. I woke up with the sun. A brand new "Regis and Kelly" was on the television, with a brand new host chat with Martin Short sitting in for Regis. The weekend was full of events to report to V. Friday night there was phone drama with the G, the leprechaun ex. Went out to dinner with the roomates. Last night, I went on a date with the astrophysicist and so had much fun. My computer that was under the weather was fixed and happy. Yes, it was going to be a smashing Monday morning.
But as soon as I walked in the door, my advisor barraged me with a million questions. We were collaborating with another lab and he wanted me to go down and give them something to start the experiment. Unfortunately, in his haste he did not realize that the other lab had no idea what he was talking about, and basically I looked like an ass. Oh well.
The day hit a high point when I sent an e-mail to the astrophysicist and he e-mailed back almost immediately. Sigh.(Guess boys are not all bad.)
Then I went to tell my boss something. He started to talk nonsense so I just walked away. Then he said "What is wrong, ET#1?" I stopped at the door and thought about it for a while. I closed his office door, so no one would hear me from the outside, and said "Do you really want to know?" He went to tell me what a disappoinment I was, how his heart was broken because the chinese postdoc was crying in his office, but he had no choice but to fire him and that was my fault. He told me how every other student was more competent than I, and on and on and on. In turn, I told him that he was freaking out, and was the most uninspiring leader, that his apathy towards my project over the years was disappointing, that it was his fault that 4 postdocs came through this lab without a single publication, that he was not my responsibility I was his. Yes, there were harsh words exchanged, and nothing got accomplished.
Once again I was sad, and then I got yet another e-mail from the astrophysicist. It read "Are you having a good day? Did the french fries help?" (I had given up french fries for lent and he bought me some Sunday night.) The answer was yes. The french fries, the e-mails, and memories of the date helped make my day better.
Later, I went shopping with A. She was breaking her lent and I was happy to go to the basement with her. We tried on many dresses and chatted over dinner. She thought it was funny that in a week I already had so many things to report to her. She wanted to know what I would say to the astrophysicist next.
I didn't know. What was I to do? We really don't know each other very well. How much crazy do you let out? Does it come out in increments? How long do you wait? It would be unwise to e-mail him and tell him how much better he made my day, but I kind of want to. Yes, I will listen to the sassy Carla from "Scrubs" for now, but I can't hide the insane me forever....
On an episode of "Scrubs," Carla, the sassy nurse, when giving advice on love, tells the young doctors that they need to hide the crazy. What fantastic advice! But the real question is when can you let the crazy out?
Today has been a roller coaster of a day. It started out well. I woke up with the sun. A brand new "Regis and Kelly" was on the television, with a brand new host chat with Martin Short sitting in for Regis. The weekend was full of events to report to V. Friday night there was phone drama with the G, the leprechaun ex. Went out to dinner with the roomates. Last night, I went on a date with the astrophysicist and so had much fun. My computer that was under the weather was fixed and happy. Yes, it was going to be a smashing Monday morning.
But as soon as I walked in the door, my advisor barraged me with a million questions. We were collaborating with another lab and he wanted me to go down and give them something to start the experiment. Unfortunately, in his haste he did not realize that the other lab had no idea what he was talking about, and basically I looked like an ass. Oh well.
The day hit a high point when I sent an e-mail to the astrophysicist and he e-mailed back almost immediately. Sigh.(Guess boys are not all bad.)
Then I went to tell my boss something. He started to talk nonsense so I just walked away. Then he said "What is wrong, ET#1?" I stopped at the door and thought about it for a while. I closed his office door, so no one would hear me from the outside, and said "Do you really want to know?" He went to tell me what a disappoinment I was, how his heart was broken because the chinese postdoc was crying in his office, but he had no choice but to fire him and that was my fault. He told me how every other student was more competent than I, and on and on and on. In turn, I told him that he was freaking out, and was the most uninspiring leader, that his apathy towards my project over the years was disappointing, that it was his fault that 4 postdocs came through this lab without a single publication, that he was not my responsibility I was his. Yes, there were harsh words exchanged, and nothing got accomplished.
Once again I was sad, and then I got yet another e-mail from the astrophysicist. It read "Are you having a good day? Did the french fries help?" (I had given up french fries for lent and he bought me some Sunday night.) The answer was yes. The french fries, the e-mails, and memories of the date helped make my day better.
Later, I went shopping with A. She was breaking her lent and I was happy to go to the basement with her. We tried on many dresses and chatted over dinner. She thought it was funny that in a week I already had so many things to report to her. She wanted to know what I would say to the astrophysicist next.
I didn't know. What was I to do? We really don't know each other very well. How much crazy do you let out? Does it come out in increments? How long do you wait? It would be unwise to e-mail him and tell him how much better he made my day, but I kind of want to. Yes, I will listen to the sassy Carla from "Scrubs" for now, but I can't hide the insane me forever....
Monday, April 02, 2007
Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me....Happy Birthday to me....Happy Birthday E-T-number oo-one....Happy Birthday to me....And many more....
I love my birthday. I really do. It is the world's greatest self esteem booster. All my friend's e-mail and call. Over the years, I have convinced family memebers and friends to leave singing voicemails. And since I know few talented singers, the renditions of Beatles "I know its your Birthday," or the traditional "Happy Birthday" always brings a smile to my face. I save these messages until that dreaded power outage or I have to reset things on my cell phone, so for a good six months when I am down I can listen to them.
On my birthday I tend to go all out. I feel like it is a license to over indulge. This year I spent it working, but that did not mean that I did not spend time and money the week before purchasing things on the internet so they would arrive in time for my birthday. I bought myself books that I I would normally be embarrassed about such as "Why Men love Bitches." I bought myself a Hanson CD. Yes, that's right, Hanson. And it is fabulous. I'll admit to liking their song "Penny and me." I bought a pair of kelly green rubber rain shoes.
So if I seem a little crazy, who cares? It's my birthday.
I love my birthday. I really do. It is the world's greatest self esteem booster. All my friend's e-mail and call. Over the years, I have convinced family memebers and friends to leave singing voicemails. And since I know few talented singers, the renditions of Beatles "I know its your Birthday," or the traditional "Happy Birthday" always brings a smile to my face. I save these messages until that dreaded power outage or I have to reset things on my cell phone, so for a good six months when I am down I can listen to them.
On my birthday I tend to go all out. I feel like it is a license to over indulge. This year I spent it working, but that did not mean that I did not spend time and money the week before purchasing things on the internet so they would arrive in time for my birthday. I bought myself books that I I would normally be embarrassed about such as "Why Men love Bitches." I bought myself a Hanson CD. Yes, that's right, Hanson. And it is fabulous. I'll admit to liking their song "Penny and me." I bought a pair of kelly green rubber rain shoes.
So if I seem a little crazy, who cares? It's my birthday.
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