My brother-in-law sent along a copy of my brother's speech at grandpa's service, and it was just beautiful. It's funny how the memories my brother chose to highlight in his speech are the exact same ones I would choose: 7-Up in plastic cups, Lincoln logs and wheelchair races in the basement, games of Uno in the dining room. When I think of these memories, they are so powerful that even the smell of them comes to mind. It makes me happy to think of them, even if that happiness is tinged with the sadness of knowing they are over. The funny thing is that I think it has been almost two decades since we last had a wheelchair race, maybe 15 years since our last Uno game, but it is just now that I am saddened at the thought that all of that has come to a close. The three of us -- my brother, sister and I -- are truly blessed to have built such a wonderful repertoire of positive memories with our grandparents. It is wonderful to feel nothing but love for Grandpa after almost 28 years of knowing him. He had such a kind soul, and I think anybody who knew him would attest to that.

I am saddened, too, to think that he never got to meet Mateo. My parents brought him pictures but of course that is not the same. Thinking back on my childhood and the role my grandparents played, I am determined to keep Mateo in my parents' lives just as much (if not more) than I was with my grandparents. I am confident that my mom and dad -- who are kind-hearted in the same way Grandpa was -- will have their own rituals and memories to build with my son. I look forward to discovering what those might be.

And because life moves on, and because Grandpa would have liked to see asmile on his great-grandson's face:

Teo is going through what I think is his second big growth spurt, and he is changing so much every day. He spends more time than usual both sleeping and eating, and last night he slept 8 straight hours. He has started growing new eyelashes, the hair on his head is beginning to fill out, and his eyes seem to be getting bigger. A few days ago, he propped himself up on his shoulders during tummy time for the first time, and then looked around as if to say, "Well, goodness, this gives me a whole new perspective." Yesterday, I pulled him up to a sitting position using his hands, and he kept his head fully upright. He still is a major grump whenever he wakes up, but is otherwise smiley and curious.

So one life ends and another is just beginning. That is the cycle of things, of course, but it is a pretty powerful experience, on both sides.

I hope that I am lucky enough to grow old with somebody.

If I've done anything right, maybe that person would be like my grandpa. During visits, I've always been amazed at how much attention he gives me grandma. It is beautiful to see. Pulling up to a restaurant in the car, he would insist on opening her door and helping her to the front door. Not so steady himself, I guess he always figured that, even if he is a little wobbly on his feet, a true gentleman is a gentleman for life.

And that's what he was. Grandpa died on Monday. He was in his 90's and, I think, pretty much ready to go. Of course, if I could buy him some more time I would, and I would go visit him and watch him hold my grandma's hand one more time. Maybe he could fall asleep during another story, or tell us one of his own in his Minnesota accent. Life was slow and simple for him at the end, and we are all grateful that my grandparents were both in decent enough health to be able to stay together, in their own home, for so long.

My family has all flown out to take care of things out there, and to help my grandma who is going to have a tough go of things without her Howard. Although I think we were all braced for this, I am just so sad about it. My grandpa was an amazing sweetheart, and I will miss him.

On a personal note, I am struck by how much this has driven home the fact that I have been so far from my family for so long. I guess the distance doesn't feel so strong until it becomes an obstacle. Now more than ever, I am glad I have made the decision to return to be nearer to my parents and siblings, even if that just means being on the same continent if not in the same city.

I wish I could be with them now.

I am winding down from a whirlwind of a day.

Last night, I had a long conversation with The Boy about the new apartment, what we're doing, why. It turned into a semi-argument, before we both decided it was pointless to fight over anything. The main line was: he's not coming to the new apartment with me. I need to accept this. We need to work on moving out. After said discussion, we went to bed and looked at one another in the eyes and said that this is too hard, that this is so weird, what are we doing? And then we fell asleep. So once again: confusion.

This morning, he came with me for the first time to the new place. The Boy is one of those people who rarely compliments -- if he doesn't think of something negative to say, then I usually consider that a mini-victory. Walking around the neighborhood, he said, "Oh, I thought it would be a little more dead. It's pretty lively around here, yet still pleasant and calm." Point one. As we walked into the building, he commented on the ceilings and walls (they have cracks, like every old building in Paris) and he said it doesn't correspond to the photos he saw of the place. Minus one point. Once inside the apartment, he didn't like where the fridge was placed - subtract another point. However, beyond that, he had nothing negative to say. As a matter of fact, he was very positive, and it felt nice to share that with him. I'd say we walked away with 5 or 6 points, total. He was very happy with the new apartment, and it's the kind of place that makes one want to linger for a moment. So we spent awhile just chilling out there, and then we went to the carpet store to find stuff to fit out his house.

We bought the carpet and organized shipping dates, and then motored over to Beaubourg to buy some paint at Leroy Merlin. Oh so many people! Oh so hard to decide on paints! Oh, just get out of my way, Old Man With the Basked Full of Home Deco Goods! But we found what we needed. Then we hustled back to the crib and dropped off our purchases. Tomorrow we have measuring and guesstimating to do... all of this moving is a monstrous task.

Once we got back to the house we nearly collapsed. There had been so much walking and deciding and pointing and stairs-climbing and the rest, we were just exhausted. We hung out on the bed for awhile and just gabbed -- something we rarely do anymore. It was so nice, and yet so out of place because we had just spent the whole day preparing our seperation, in a way. Relaxing in bed, I thought about what great friends we are, beyond all the crap that is going on in our couple, and how much we make one another laugh. The thought was bittersweet.

Afterwards, I asked him if he would go to my friend's party tonight. It is nearly impossible to convince him to leave the house on the weekends, at it is the only time he gets to work on his own business (during the week he has a paying job to go to). Surprisingly, he agreed. We went to the party, had a lovely time, had a wonderful discussion on the way back, and then we both hung around in the living room thanking one another for such a great, bonecrushing day.

Last night I was feeling really low. I was so upset about the direction of our relationship, the feeling that he was just abandoning me completely. Today, I am much more optimistic. Yes, I believe we will live in our seperate quarters for awhile, or that there will certainly be a huge difference in the amount of time we spend together. But I also know that we are incredibly close, and that he and I are best friends despite all of the troubles we are having right now. Mainly, I am just happy to have spent a great day with him, doing what was technically a series of very painful tasks with a smile.

I know The Boy and I have our problems right now, but I request he do one small, fairly insignificant thing to relieve some of the stress in my life. It's not big, it's not difficult, but apparently it's impossible to actually do.

He has a habit -- oh God, it's so awful - of singing these two lines from some African song he loves. He sings them constantly, all the time, and repeats them throughout the day. I can't reproduce the words here, exactly (because I don't speak the language) but that doesn't matter. Just imagine somebody singing, at least 40 times per day, "Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who claims that I am the one." And just singing that one part. Just those seventeen words. Over and over and over again. Constantly. But wait! Then, make the tune be to zouk-like music, and change the lyrics to a language you don't speak. And THEN repeat it forty times. Sporadically, too -- never just all in one go.

So ok, it would bother you a little bit, right? I mean, this is a day-in day-out kind of thing, and he doesn't seem to get why it is so incredibly annoying. Plus, it's not like the song he is singing is even good. It's a bad, bad song and I hate it with an even greater passion now that I have had to listen to those same lines at least 4,278 times.

But it's worse than you think. This has been going on for at least six months, as I firmly remember getting into a little tiff about the whole thing while I was still planning my trip to India.

When I can't take it anymore, I say, "Do you think you could at least change the lyrics? Sing a different part of the song? Sing a DIFFERENT song, maybe? I don't care!" and he always answers, all huffy-like, "Does it really affect your life in a negative way if I sing the song?"

To which I answer, "Yes!!! Good Lord, it does! You MUST STOP NOW!!!"

But he doesn't.

Somebody either validate me (for feeling this is totally absurd and that I am not crazy for not being able to handle it anymore and that he needs to stop) or shoot me. It's an either/or situation here.

A few days back, The Boy and I had an all-out, screaming, terrible argument. It's the same all-out, screaming, terrible argument we had a few weeks prior, and the same as the one two weeks before that.

It's funny: I guess I always saw couples and their problems and thought that I just wouldn't be that way. But The Boy and I have some major stumbling blocks, and we both know it. I got mega-upset the other day (perhaps enhanced by some off-kilter hormones... a story for another day) and knew, just KNEW I was easing my way into hot water. And yet, I pushed the issue (rather shrilly, I admit) and he responded with his usual "Oh please, this is just annoying..." One word to the fellas out there: never, ever say that to a woman already bordering on tears. She'll get REALLY mad. And she'll cry. Lots.

Anyway. Post-fight, I spent a long while a bit upset about it. And then I went out to dinner with Kathypath, and she said, "One thing I have to admire about you guys is that you fight so hard to stay together. If there's an effort to be made, you'll both try to make it, even if it doesn't totally work. That's what adults do in adult relationships. They try."

And I realized she's right. We DO work to stay together, even when we're tearing each other's hair out. That's love, I guess.

Today is Sunday, and I spent all night sick and feverish. I took two naps today and I still have a sore neck and back in that way they can get all icky when you're sick. The Boy has been cute; we spent most of the day just talking quietly. We got some work done, and he urged me to take it easy. And we both sort of apologized, without really saying it, by being extra snuggly with one another.

He's a gem. Talk to me in a few days, and I'll probably bitch about him. But I know he's worth fighting for. And with.

Yesterday was wonderful. I've been needing to have a really good day; thank you Yesterday.

TheBoy and I took the 7.40 train to Bruxelles, heading out to Belgium to spend the day at The Little Guy's house for his NINTH birthday. I'm still getting over that whole almost-a-decade-old thing. When I met The Boy, The Little Guy was not yet three.

We took a commuter train to a smaller town - where the family lives - and upon arrival, TheBoy realized he had forgotten to bring their phone number. Ordinarily, they pick us up at the train station. Yesterday? We walked. But oh, yes... it had snowed the night before. Our ten minute walk turned into a 30-minute adventure, avoiding slush puddles and ice patches. Of course, I had worn light socks and flimsy shoes without traction. The beautiful thing was that on four hours of sleep, no food, and just a cup of coffee, The Boy and I giggled the entire way, making fun of one another when a foot slipped or we came to a particularly disastrous crossing. I just felt GOOD, even with the wind and the cold and the wet feet.

Once we got there, we spent the morning watching the baby - almost two - laugh at his mom's feet-stomping skills. He regularly made desperate attempts to imitate her, but would fall into a laughing fit and lose his concentration. The game never got old.

The older boys - The Little Guy and Strauss - are half-brothers. There are only two years between them, and they are best friends. Their extended family, in a move I still have issues with, refer to them as Chocalate and Vanilla. This plays off of the fact that The Little Guy is mixed, with a beautiful head of curly hair, and Strauss is white, with BRIGHT blond hair and green eyes.

The Boy likes to spoil The Little Guy when he can, probably because of some latent guilt or just natural parental pride. I can never tell. By extension, he spoils the crap out of Strauss, hoping to keep brotherly jealousy at bay. A lot of the way The Boy has handled the delicate situation with his son has made me proud of him. Even his son's mother - hitherto refered to as Angie - had to admit that he has not been a complete asshole over the years. That's almost a compliment, coming from her.

Angie has two other children with the Pops, a man who was obviously put on this earth to do two things: raise children and do home improvement. After a rocky start with the two of them, I can honestly say I enjoy their company and look forward to the next time we see one another. I've always gotten along with the Pops - he's one of those people who isn't happy unless everyone in the group is happy. He constantly goes the added length to make sure I'm comfortable... I notice it, appreciate it, and wish I could find a proper way to thank him for it.

With Angie, however, it was a little bit more difficult. This might have been because of the fact that she is the mother of my boyfriend's child, and I can't help but be intimidated/jealous/somethingothernegativeemotion because of that. It also might have had something to do with Angie herself. Although I've now come to realize she's a nice person, she has a funny way of showing it, and getting to understand that takes some time. But I think I've got it down now.

The morning of our departure, I was thinking about how my self-esteem has improved over the years. Then I thought about how that first encounter with Angie several years ago was like an ego-crushing bulldozer; it just knocked all of that esteem I supposedly had for myself right down to the ground. Slowly, I've been getting more comfortable around her, but it was really, really hard at first. She also didn't give me much leeway. But the last time we saw one another, we warmed up a bit. I caught myself hoping that I wouldn't revert back to the way we had interacted before.

And I didn't. I just felt good. In the company of a family I wouldn't have met without knowing The Boy, I felt perfectly at home. We went out for The Little Guy's birthday - accompanied by 12 of his screaming, fourth-grade friends. Angie and the Pops kept rolling their eyes, praying for the whole thing to be over. As I don't have any kids myself, I watched the whole thing with fascination. We went bowling, ate chips, and sang "Happy Birthday."

On the way back from the bowling alley, a huge snow-fight (slush-fight, really) broke out, and The Boy really got into it with all 12 of the Little Guy's friends. They made him their personal target, and he then had the brilliant idea to use me as a barricade. It was crazy, cold, and hilarious - and the boys had smiles stretched across their faces so tightly, I was worried they'd pop.

Angie later told me that The Little Guy was really proud to have The Boy there, to show off to his friends how fun and cool his dad is, and how lucky he is to have TWO dads. This is a huge improvement - he used to be embarrassed by The Boy - and it warms my heart to see The Little Guy change. His friends obviously thought The Boy was the coolest dad in the world, as he pummeled them with snowballs and later played a raucous game of foosball with them. He couldn't understand a word they said, but the general language of cheering when someone scores is the same everywhere.

At the end of the night, when all of the boys went home and the house resumed its relative quiet of two boys wrestling, the stereo playing, and a baby alternating between laughing and crying, we all breathed a sigh of relief. After awhile, Strauss, The Little Guy, and The Boy picked up a game of foosball, while I watched from the sidelines, cheering each goal as it was made (I had already played three games, and I'm not a big foosball fan). Suddenly, The Little Guy stopped the game and said, "Attends! Attends!" He ran to Angie in the kitchen and asked her something in a hushed tone. I thought he was looking for another ball to play with, or asking if we could open up the ping-pong table, or something. So I was pretty surprised when she walked back into the living room and looked at us and said, "He'd like to know if he could go back home with you guys tonight."

I couldn't tell if she was hurt or surprised or happy - she can be hard to read. But I was touched, and so was The Boy. Unfortunately, we couldn't bring him. It would have been cool to reward the first time he instigated a visit with an affirmative answer. But I was really happy he asked, and it closed out a fabulous day in a brilliant way.

TheBoy and I just played volleyball in our bedroom for about an hour. We started at midnight, and didn't stop until the neighbors hit the ceiling in warning.

I love volleyball and think it's the only sport I've ever been really good at (at one time basketball was in there, too, but I never pursued it after I turned 14).

What started as an innocent game turned into an all-out battle, and we managed not to break the computer or stereo... although I further broke my already fucked up lamp.

Still though, I believe we have found a new activity. Pesky ceilings and walls are a bit of a hinderance, but otherwise, good times.

So remember the Christmas Present I got from The Boy? The bracelet?

Yeah. I lost it.

And I lost it like, four weeks ago. But I sort of kept dreaming it would show up in my purse or my glasses container or SOMETHING, but it never did.

Today The Boy reminded me of it, and had the gall to tell me that the fucker cost 400 EUROS. I don't know if those of you in the normal world realize how much money 400 euros is, but that's like, an entire month's budget. That he spent on me. On a bracelet for me.

That I lost.

Just like that.

The guilt is so severe, I don't know what to do. I was already upset about losing the damn thing, now I feel even worse. 400 euros? Are you crazy?

Friday Night Fever is riding by my house, screaming and yelling and playing some bad disco music. It still doesn't bring back the fucking bracelet.

The Boy is working on a big, scary project. When someone you love decides to do something crazy, you can either ask them what the hell they're thinking, or you can shut your eyes, clench your fists, and say, "I'm with you all the way, sweetie!"

I don't know why I chose the latter technique, but I did. Sometimes it's hard, because I have my own fears about everything falling through, but I've decided to support him and I do it 100%.

Still, his project is truly insane. Part of the craziness involves making contacts with record companies and editors from all over the world. This might be easy for those of you in the business, but both The Boy and I are pretty much small potatoes, and we know it.

On Friday, I noticed and ad for an expo featuring North African writers. I pointed it out to him and he promptly forgot, but on Saturday night, I re-suggested the idea of going with a bit more insistance. This morning (Sunday), we woke up early, ate breakfast together, and walked (it was sunny today!) to the expo. It was a small affair, thrown together in the luxurious rooms of the Paris City Hall.

We wandered through the bookstands for awhile, and I noted down some names and addresses, but I think we both started feeling overwhelmed. Neither of us are well-versed in North African literature, and honestly I wouldn't know the last thing about contacting publicity people in-the-know about that sort of thing. The Boy turned to me and said, "This project is too big. I was wrong. I can't do it... it will never work."

"If you don't think it will work, we should go home right now and you can get a job in an office somewhere," I said, and kept looking. He was glum. So glum.

We decided to leave and on our way out, we encountered some people from a non-profit group that worked to promote Arab litterature. We talked, and it turned out the man in charge was very helpful and could actually form some sort of deal with The Boy when the time is right. He also gave us lots of names and addresses and told The Boy his idea is great, that he needs to go forward with it full force.

When we went to say our goodbyes, The Boy could hardly contain his excitement, but he kept his cool until we rounded the corner, outside of our new friend's view. Then he grabbed my head, rubbed it, and said, "Did you see that? He thinks it can work! He was receptive!" There was a bounce in his step and he was grinning from ear to ear.

Next, I suggested we head into a small room set up for various companies interested in the expo. For the next hour or two, we wandered around, talking business and proposing ideas. I played the role of the supportive woman, reminding The Boy of our phone number when he blanked on it and smiling when required. Embarrassingly enough, I found the little act pretty amusing, and had a great time.

Not, however, as great as a time as The Boy. Man, did he ever walk the walk, and talk the talk! He got names, business cards, ideas, OKs, positive feedback, emails, and so on. He got a few definite "oui"s on a deal or two, and he came out of that little afternoon affair high as a freakin' kite.

It may seem insignificant - just a lazy Sunday afternoon gabbing with small-scale editors - but I was so happy to see The Boy getting affirmation from all of these editors and publishing houses. A CD producer also gave him the thumbs up, and he got a lot of receptive and enthusiastic nods throughout the room. One man even told him, "Hurry up with your idea before someone else beats you to it."

Afterwards, we went out for coffee and The Boy was giddy as I've ever seen him. He kept replaying the conversations he had, sharing with me the ideas he has, and commenting on how he didn't realize how important going to events can be.

"You were looking out for me," he said, "None of this would have happened if you hadn't said we should go. I'll buy you your coffee to thank you, ok?"

Dumbass. Just seeing him that happy is reward enough.

When The Boy saw me today, he looked up behind a wall of sleepiness and yelled out "La Frontera!" from under the covers. He had waited up all night for me because he thought I was getting in in the morning, but he gave up at 10.00 am. Although my plane landed at 11.00, I didn't get into the apartment until around noon, and he was just too tired to stay up.

I ran over to the bed and gave him a big kiss. We snuggled in bed and he told me we were going over to his mom's for New Year's Day lunch. I got almost panicky at the thought of going to hang out with his (very, very loud) family for several hours on only three hours of airplane sleep (which is only worth half). Exhausted and borderline Grumpy Bitchy, I asked him if we could push it back a few hours, and we did.

"But you have to wake up for a minute, before you fully go to sleep, ok?" he said, and put a little bag on my back.

"What's that?" I asked, confused. For frequent readers, you might remember the embarrassing history of presents in our relationship. It's not prettty. Five years of being together, and the last present I got from him - three years ago - was less than glamorous.

But you know what? This time around, he bought me a beautiful bracelet that I love. He was obviously a little nervous about giving it to me, but I was almost speechless when I saw it in my hands. I was so touched that I just kept saying thank you over and over again.

"It's funny," he offered, a few hours later as we were on his way to him mom's. "It's sorta sad, or it might seem sad to say this. I don't know."

"What?" I asked.

"Well, it's like I rediscover you when you come back," he said, and paused. "... I see your smile again for the first time, am struck again by how beautiful you are, am reminded why we're together... I just rediscover you again. It's such a wonderful feeling."

"Why is that sad?" I asked, in absolute shock at his display of emotion. This is more sappy talk than I have gotten in years.

"Well," he said, "Because I should do that every day. I'm just so spoiled that I forget how amazed I should be to be with you. I should be more aware of it daily - you deserve it," he said matter-of-factly, and we were on our way.

My heart was all gooey for the next hour, at least.

And plus? Do you know what? My mom bought him a new outfit for Christmas and he looks MEGA hot in it. I mean, I might have to ask my mom to stock up on all varieties of the pants she bought him, because DAMN! I love coming home to that. Amen!

----

PS Comments have to be authorized now because I got attacked by spam while on break, and am just putting up this solution temporarily until I figure something else out. So if you comment, don't be sad if it doesn't appear right away. It will soon enough.

My Dad organizes tickets for me to come home every Christmas. Most years, I fly back to France on Dec 30, arriving the morning of Dec 31. The Boy and I have managed to flee Paris after my arrival by taking trains to Brussels and Amsterdam each year.

This year, I found out that I'll be flying back on Dec 31, arriving in France on Jan 1. It's not a big deal, but I felt a little bad about leaving the Boy all alone with nobody to kiss (I hope!) on New Year's Eve.

When I went in to the living room to tell him, he said, "What? I thought we had a year!"

Confused, I looked at him like he was crazy and he repeated, "You told me that was in a year."

"What are you talking about? I said I'll come back to France on New Year's Day, so we won't get to do New Year's together," I said, trying to clarify in some way or another.

Suddenly he understood. "Ohhhh..." he said, "I thought you were leaving for good."

Beat.

"No," I answered. "That is in a year. I'm just talking about going home for Christmas."

Beat again.

"When you put it that way," I said, "New Year's seems very trivial."

"Yeah," he answered, sort of to himself. "I've started thinking about your leaving a lot... It makes me so unhappy."

My eyes had already started brimming with tears, but I just looked away. Then we hugged and he said, "Hey, can you help me with this? There's something I don't understand..." and he went on to show me some internet problem.

But you know? For some reason that was very touching. He has never said anything that emotional to me, ever.

On another note, do you think they'll hand out champagne on the New Year's Eve flight? What a strange way to bring in 2005.

The Boy has been living in France for almost 15 years. He saw his mother for the first time since leaving Congo (at the age of 20) about two years ago (at the age of 33). They recognized one another immediately at the Brussels airport. She was half her normal weight, but he told me later that he had been expecting worse: her trip over to Europe was an emergency attempt to save her life from the weight loss, fainting, and fevers she was suffering as a result of AIDS. Luckily, it has been a success and she is now both pleasantly plump and a working woman. She is a perfect example of someone living with AIDS (active in the church, working part-time, laughing a lot) instead of dying of it.

Today marked the second installment in what is sure to be a story that unravels year by year. The Boy managed to get his youngest brother enrolled in a school here, and at 2 am last night we received the call that he had received a visa and was on a plane heading towards Paris. The plane was to land at 6 am. Shocked and excited, The Boy went to sleep in the wee hours of the morning and slept through the alarm. I woke up at 7 and said, "What are you still doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at the airport?"

He freaked out, but I think he was just nervous. His brother - whom he hadn't seen since his brother was a little kid - was now arriving in Paris. He's now 22, a grown man that The Boy later said he didn't even recognize at first glance.

His brother, a sweeter, gentler, taller, thinner version of The Boy, came to France with only one suitcase. When I saw it in my living room this morning, I asked, "Is that all you brought?"

"Oh, well, I just came like this," he said, motioning to his clothes. "The suitcase is for maman." He essentially moved to France today, with only the clothes on his back. We promptly went out and bought him a warm coat and pants. Obviously, Paris' climate is not the same as in the northern Congolese jungle.

I like meeting The Boy's family, even in these most extraordinary of circumstances. I am forever in awe of what he has managed to do, how he has managed to bring his family together since his father passed away and disaster has struck. They are a mighty bunch, and I admire his effort to keep them together despite time and difference. "I am the head of the family now," he tells me matter-of-factly. "That means I have to do my best."

When I think of the incredible duty he has - and fulfills - towards his family, I get tears in my eyes. He can be a moody little bastard, but he's one of the most honorable and amazing people I have ever met, a true pillar of strength. Right now, he is sleeping in the bed next to me (with Tracy Chapman as a lullaby) after spending over 24 hours arranging and meeting and helping with his brother's adjustment. The Boy is such a turbulant person, so full of pressure and worry and fear, that when I see him sleeping like this I can only hope he is having soft, pleasant dreams. He deserves a few moments of peace more than any other soul I know. My only wish is that he enjoy today's small victory for at least a day or two before he tries to tackle the next problem.

Actual conversation on the café terrace the other day:

The Boy: Ah! Ah! Look over there! See, it's another mixed couple: white man/black woman. I'm seeing more and more of them these days.

Me: Yeah, I agree. Still, black man/white woman is far more frequent.

(We watch the white man/black woman couple for a moment in silence)

Me: Do you really think they're a couple? He's twice her age.

The Boy: I don't know. I was just asking myself the question. He's gotta be - what - like, ten years older than her? At least. Did you here that Lance Armstrong is dating Sheryl Crow? I think he's ten years older than her, too. What's wrong with people? Everybody is dating people with a ten year age difference.

Me: Hey! WE have a ten year age difference.

(beat)

The Boy: Oh yeah.

(beat)

The Boy: We must have set a trend.

You see, this is the thing: if you're a man, and you feel like talking about soccer at high volumes at 2 am on Saturday night, then that's fine. Just don't expect me to participate in your testosterone-driven conversation with the waiter and the other man on the other side of the restaurant. Just don't.

Because, you see, we were talking about pressure. About how women put too much pressure on men. How women have timelines and hidden agendas and plots to rule the world, and how they let them seep out in manipulative ways to their mates. The male then feels enormous pressure to be or do whatever his woman desires. Simultaneously, he feels like pushing her away because too much pressure is bad for his heart, and he knows that. You say women need to learn to go molo, to take life easy and to stop controlling men by freaking them out, forcing them to make big decisions without having the time to fully think them through.

"Name one way I've done that to you," I say, defensively, because, honestly, I think I'm a pretty molo girl.

"Two weeks ago when you said, 'I'm going to leave France after I get my master's and I'll probably go back to the US. What do you think about that?' Do you think that you could say that and I wouldn't panic a little?"

A short pause.
"Yes," I say. "Yes, I can see how that can really put some pressure on you."

But then, the monologue:

"So you see, I've been thinking a lot about this. I've been thinking about it and I've decided that I want to go with you to the US. I don't see why I should do web development in Paris. It's in the US that the web has its roots. I'll launch my site here. Then we'll go to the US and market it there. Once both markets are developed and reasonably stable, we can go back to Africa together and run it from there. I don't see this site as being only an American or European thing. I want all of Western Africa to be involved. At base, I want it to be an African site, but I need investors and visitors and technicians and offices from the US and Europe.

You can go back and get your degree - maybe we'll stay four or five years. Then what will you do? What do you want to do? In the last two years, you've done a lot of teaching and you seem to like it. So who will you teach in the US? Do you want to become a professor at a university? You'll just be helping rich people get richer. Why not come with me to Africa and teach people who really need teachers? Why not teach people to read and write? You're good at teaching, and you like people, and people like you. Isn't it better to make a huge difference to people who really need you than to make a small one to people who only sort of do?

And you know, because we'll be running an international site, you won't be far from home. You have to understand that I am Congolese. My home is the Congo. I can go with you for awhile, but my future is not in the US. And I understand the same about you. If you want to live with me in the Congo, I'd understand if you went back to see your family for a few months every year. You wouldn't be as far away as you think.

You don't understand how beautiful it is there. In the West, life is all about stress. We don't need that. We can both have jobs, we'll make a decent living compared to most people there. We can live comfortably, and have a house and go to the ocean and eat from the mango trees in the backyard. It's not all dreamy and perfect, but I'm here in Europe because my family needs money. I can work and help people, and I've been able to get a good education in France. But for me, life here is stressful. People are unhappy.

And plus, when I'm in France or the US, I have to deal with racism on every corner. But in Africa, nobody would ever refuse a job to you because you're white. It could only work to your advantage. Plus, you'll be Madame Nkou. That's a name to be respected..."

I break it off here and remind him about his views on marriage: He's against it. He thinks it's stupid. He will never, ever get married. I need to accept that about him if I want to be with him. If I can't handle being with someone who will never marry, then I might as well just move on now, because there's no point in hoping he'll ever view marriage any differently.

"Yeah, well, people can change. I've thought a lot about that, too."

Speechless, I sit back in my chair for a moment. This is one of those big moments. Mentally, I had been planning on having to end things with The Boy because of geography. I love him but still feel young and like I need to think about career and location and development and tons of other things. Our relationship is complicated by the fact that I can't stay in France forever, or that staying here is extremely difficult in general. Once I decided that I'm not sure how much longer I wanted to fight to stay, I guess I had just thought that our relationship would have to end. Not because I want it to, but because I don't want to sit around and wait for a relationship if I have nothing else going for me.

It's taken me months to admit this to myself. Months for me to determine if I want to stay or go, fight or flee. And with accepting that I've got some tough, tough decisions ahead of me, I guess I also let myself accept that I might have to let go of the best man I've ever been with.

But now here it is. He doesn't want it to end. He's willing to move to another country for me, maybe even marry me if that's what it comes down to. Drop everything he's known for the last twenty years and move to a country where he doesn't even really speak the language so that I can pursue a career.

I had always pictured myself doing all of this alone. What do I do now that he's willing to come along for the ride?

So, I see what he means about pressure. The tables turned in just under ten minutes. Move with me? Marriage? Africa? I don't know what I think of it all... I just don't know. Frankly, I'm just shocked. And I need some time to think about it. A lot of time. And we'll definetly need to talk this through some more.

And so this is what I'm saying: this is the wrong time to start talking about soccer. I know that the Italian interrupted our moment of reflective silence to ask you if you had seen the match the other day, but that's the point where you admit the truth (no, you hadn't seen it) and you even clarify further by saying, "I haven't watched a soccer match since the World Cup." This should shut up the waiter and let us get on with our Very Important Conversation. It would help me digest this rather hefty serving you just gave me. A little bit of clarification, precision, and further discussion would be necessary at this juncture.

But instead, the three men are yelling back in forth about some really great soccer player's goal record. Was his last goal in Argentina or Spain? Because, apparently, that's the really important issue at hand this evening, not the 30,246 things going through my head.

The halogen lamp in the living room died, and so I gave The Boy my reading light to work by. His desk is in the living room and mine is in the bedroom, so I was short a lamp but could still see.

After a day with the bedroom lamp in the living room, we realized we preferred the mellow, calm lighting of a desk lamp to the office-like look of the halogen. Halogens are good for brightly lighting an entire room, need be, but they otherwise diffuse a rather ugly and agressive light. Unless they're on a dimmer setting, in which case they just diffuse an ugly and dull light. We agreed that we preffered the natural look of the normal lamp, and would do away with the halogen.

This is a strange thing. The Boy is very into modernity, everything that is slick and clean and streamlined. I'm a little bit more into something that shows its age with grace: a weathered leather notebook to me is far more impressive than a brand new one. I am also a fan of old tables and hand-made chairs.

But I don't know what's going on, but we're falling into step with one another in strange ways. When it was he who suggested we replace the halogen permanently with the calmer light, it sealed it for me. We're melding.

The first shock came when he announced that he only wanted to eat organic produce. This is coming from someone who smokes a pack a day and ate at McDonald's four days a week until I started cooking meals for him. I'm sorry, did you say you wanted to eat natural foods? "Yes," he replied, in all seriousness. "I'm sick of putting crap into my body."

So organic products it is. I've gotten a little carried away, altering my cuisine entirely and stocking the fridge with all new products. I am also going half-vegetarian on his ass, although I doubt he's noticed. I half-expected him to say, "Sweetie, I didn't think you'd take me that seriously," once he saw how much I have altered my regular buys at the supermarket. Instead, yesterday he said, "I saw you bought me organic oatmeal."

"Yeah," I answered, bracing myself for the response I was expecting ("I know we said organic food, but I've been eating Quaker oatmeal all my life, and it's not that bad for me...").

"Great! I didn't know you could find that here! Did you have to go to the organic store or could you find it in the regular supermarket?" he asked, all excited. "I'll try it tomorrow morning."

Along with my general attempts at stress-reduction and healthy living, I've also become a little obsessed with the kinds of products we use to clean our house. Greenpeace has a whole pamphlet about how incredibly toxic home cleaning products are, and how they release toxins into the air without our really being aware of it. Other household fixtures such as linoleum and aluminum siding are also apparently quite toxic, and their chemicals get into our bloodstream and can even be passed onto fetuses in pregnant women. These kinds of pollutants aren't discussed about very much, but I am convinced that we will need to stop using so much bleach in our damn bathtubs and so much Windex on our windows some day soon, or we'll not only destroy the environment, but also ourselves. I figure, I may just be one person, but that's one person less who is destroying our environment day by day. Why not make the effort to cut down - or even cut out - these kinds of household pollutants?

This is the type of rant The Boy would positively laugh at in years past. Why worry about that when there are starving people in the world? Dictators still in Africa? Children working for pennies in India?

But the other day, we sat down and had an entire talk about our cleaning products, garbage bags, and laundry detergent. It was decided that we will use up what we have, but that we will now try to always buy environment-friendly products. We will also use the refill-type of dish soap, so as not to put more and more plastic to waste each time we need more soap. The same goes for anything we can minimize: less waste is better waste.

I never expected him to even see the point in my slightly hippie-leaning ways. I think I actually expected him to laugh at them. But he has totally blown me away with his interest in it all. It's extraordinary. The last three weeks have been an enormous turnaround for the both of us.

So all of this is to come back to the lighting. I feel it's symbolic somehow. I've been listening to a different kind of music (Middle Eastern, African) and have been reading different kinds of books (history, world politics). I can't seem to stop lighting incense, and candles are also becoming more and more important. Pretty soon I'm going to start discussing meditation and buddhism, I can just feel it.

Seriously now, I think this is just a realization that I've had that I can do little things in my life to keep relaxation a priority. And it seems to be working. I'm also healthier and getting better sleep than I have in years. And I am taking an active interest in protecting others while I eat better, cleaner and safer foods.

The lighting is just a part of the overall theme. But I was really surprised when he decided to go for the more mellow lighting in his "office." It really was the kicker.

Of course, the decision required me to go out and buy another 35 euro lamp for the bedroom, but I thought the price was worth it for laid-back lighting and some peace of mind.

After much deliberation at the lamp store, I finally picked out my lamp and headed across the street to the grocery store. I shopped amongst the organic goods for quite awhile, and also picked up some tupperware because I can't believe I have managed to live for so long without it. Once I hit the yoghurt section, a terrible realization hit me: I had left the lamp over in organic goods. And that was at least ten minutes ago.

I'm not kidding, I immediately started taking the fact that I had just lost a 35 euros lamp as a sign that I am doing something wrong. That I was overestimating myself or The Boy or something... that this whole "lighting scheme" idea was a scam and that I could never be the relaxed, organic, recycling type. That yes, I might have been that way when I lived in California, but Santa Cruz had two entire AISLES of organic goods at the supermarket, and then three OTHER supermarkets that were ENTIRELY organic. It was almost easier to go natural than to go synthetic. But here I am in Paris, and it's just not do-able. That I shouldn't trick myself into thinking that I can go back to caring about what I eat, how I eat it, and how I dispose of it. No, I had simply gotten carried away.

I walked around the store saying, "Shit shit shit shit shit" as I maniacally searched for the lamps. Admit it, I said to myself, They're gone. You were so wrong to think that lighting scheme could work, you fool!

Out of desperation, I went up to the information center on the main floor to see if anyone, by any chance, had handed in my lamp to the woman working there.

"Hello," I said, and eyed my bag behind her, "My goodness! Someone returned my lamp! It's in that bag, right there! That's my lamp!" I couldn't believe it. The woman seemed hesitant to hand it over to me (probably because I seemed a little crazed at the time), but after quizzing me on the bag's contents, she let me take it.

My entire faith in my mission and mankind was restored in one kind soul's simple act of civil responsibility. They could have walked away with my lamp, but they handed it in to the grocery store's information lady instead. It was a miracle.

What was not a miracle was my 75 euro organic food and tupperware total at the grocery. Where can one find cheap organic produce in Paris? That's like asking where cocktails are under five euros. I just don't think that exists.

Tangent: has anyone ever had the Chinese red-bean dessert. It's made of red-beans (with a slightly sugary taste) and then sweetened milk, put into a glass. It can't be that simple because it's soooo delicious. Although really, it just looks like they put some red beans in a cup and poured milk in the cup. Anyone know how to make it taste like more than just red beans with milk over it? I want to eat it every day, and I can't go to the restaurant where they serve it because it's too far away. I want to make it at home. Any ideas?

Some days are better than others. Michelob said it best.

I started off the day with an argument with The Boy. Our fight was over my current organizational skillz. Underneath it all, I hated myself for fighting with him: what spells L-O-V-E better than a man who is willing to sit in a library with you for several hours for nothing? Let me explain:

My sister and I work on a project together. She has finished her part. I still had a good portion of mine left because I am regulated by the library as to how many files I can consult daily. They only allow 10 files per day, per person.

I hired on a friend to go occasionally with or without me, but she headed out of town this week and couldn't lend a hand. The Boy and I wanted to leave on vacation together by Monday, but I couldn't possibly leave without having finished my job first. With over 60 files left, it would be impossible to get them done in time. I told him at the beginning of the week that I wouldn't be able to go with him and his son to Marseille, and that I would have to catch a later train - in the middle of the week - and catch up with the two of them halfway through their vacation.

Instead, The Boy decided to go with me, every day this week, to the library to pull ten files of his own and help me make photocopies. And although I can't stand the fact that he doesn't know how to make proper photocopies, or that he has to talk whenever he's doing boring, semi-manual labor ("Ok... so now I have file number 0225, for 1997... oh... file 0376, 1999. Oops, there it is again, 2001..."), I have to admit that he's given me a major hand in all of this.

Today, at the end of our researching foray, I turned to him and said, "I don't know how to make this up to you. Technically, you've worked 8 hours, which entitles you to 160 euros. Do you want me to pay you? That seems silly. What can I do to repay you for what you've done for me?"

He looked at me and said, "I just wanted you to come on vacation with me. That's all. So you can repay me by being on the train with me and The Little Guy on Monday. I just want you to be with me."

Christ Almightly, my heart almost turned to goo right then and there. Could you be any better of a man?

The rest of the day was zoo-ish, but fucking brilliant:

16.10 Leave The Boy and head out to buy birthday presents and so on.

16.43, Realize I have spent more money than is in my bank account and that I have to refer to my French account as a back-up source. Birthday presents get put on the credit card.

17.00 Head to the bank to ask them where the hell my checkbook is that I ordered a month ago. Meanwhile, I pull out all the cash I'll need for the next few days. As I plan on spending the next 72 hours in front of a computer, I pull enough to last me a week in Marseille with a seven-year-old and the man I love.

17.25 I run into Pennsylvania Boy and Kimbo in the bank. "What the hell are you doing here?" and so on are discussed until we decide on dinner for 9 days from now. I love them both dearly. Such a random encounter, but so fabulous at the same time. Pennsylvania Boy is wearing the scarf that the Palestinians gave him. Kimbo is wearing a great red hat. They came to the bank during their 5-minute coffee break during their 2-hour seminar. What luck to have run into them.

17.45 Jump out of the metro at Chatelet in order to see a 17.55 showing of Viva L'Algerie at Les Halles with Kathypath and The Cameleon. I announce that I will most certainly buy the soundtrack. I also find out The Cameleon will spend four months in Korea next year. Whoa.

20.30 Walk out of movie theater and get drink. Talk about Korea.

21.15 Kathypath and I set out for her birthday dinner. We are only three weeks late in the celebration, but have both been so busy that we have never found a common time to do the necessary celebration. We walk up to the Chatelet station which has been entirely shut down. It is pouring rain and cold outside. We walk to a bus stop only to realize that that particular line has stopped running. We walk more in the rain to another metro stop and finally head to our destination.

21.50 We arrive cold, wet and shivering at the restaurant of our choice. We are given a seat just under the heatlamp on the terrace. Absolute perfection. My clothes are dry within minutes. We have a glass of champagne.

21.50-1.00 Eat, drink, gab. Kathypath and I spend an evening reminiscing. I feel there is nothing better than sharing an amazing meal with an even more amazing friend. Both of us are wrapped up in nostalgia. It's that kind of evening. I'm dangerously on the verge of tears of joy.

1.00-2.00 The night is young and we head to the neighborhood cafe for after-dinner amarettos. This is life.

2.00-2.30 We drunkenly stumble to our respective homes while accompanying one another on our cell phones throughout the entire walk (in opposite directions). Seperation proved difficult this evening. I'm reminded of how lucky I am to have a true friend, who I trust 100% and who knows me through and through (and still thinks I'm alright). She's the best. And is a real smart cookie.

2.30 I walk into my house and The Boy celebrates my arrival. I kiss him and thank God I can come home to someone so wonderful each night. I am truly blessed. I thank him again for what he has done for me throughout the week. He says, "Baby. I just wanted to help you. I'm glad I made you happy."

Life is good. It started out shitty, but good friends can go a long way. Sometimes I wonder what I did to be so lucky.

I'm feeling much better now, thank you. The Boy and I had a big, long talk about things, I made a huge fuss over things we can't do much about, and then we agreed to spend some quality time together. He even pulled himself away from the computer screen to talk to me for a bit. We went out to dinner and were in bed before midnight.

Life is so much better when you sleep enough and hug enough.

Anyhow, I just wanted to point out that I know my comments aren't working. I can't figure this out. Very, very strange indeed, because I haven't changed my code AT ALL since at least November of last year. Meanwhile, the pornographic advertisers keep managing to make comments elsewhere on my site. Why one and not the other? Anyway, if you have anything really important to tell me, follow Lottie's lead and send me an email.

I also wanted to tell everyone that I saw the most amazing film yesterday. I think this film is at least 50% responsible for the improvement in my mood. If you are a Spanish-speaker, or a lover of the Spanish language, or just interested in seeing something from Argentina, go see if you can get your hands on a film called El Hijo de la Novia. It was a fabulous, wonderful chick flick. Calling it a chick flick doesn't do it justice, though: it is not very cheesy, not super romantic, but just right in all ways. I only call it a chick flick because it's about love - and old man's love for his dying wife and their son's troubled love for his family and friends - and is one of the most endearing and charming films I have seen all year. When it ended, I turned to Colleen and said, "Can we watch it again?" We were both grinning from ear to ear, but with tears in our eyes as well. Walking out of the movie, we could't stop sighing and thinking about things wistfully.

They refused The Boy's visa to the US today. I'm so upset about it I actually cried. Already I'm spending five weeks away from him when I go to southeast Asia (not that I'm complaining...), then I'll come home for a week and leave again for another two or three.

Beyond that, I'm sure I'll have a mini-breakdown alone in some part of the cruise ship because no matter how much I love him, I'm sick of having to deal with this shit. I hate that I can't bring him along to family functions, I hate that I always end up feeling like the odd one out at every family get together. I hate that he can't come to see where I grew up and get to know my country. It feels like a slap in my face every time my brother leans in to kiss his wife, or my sister holds her husband's hand. It's not that I don't want them to do that. It's that I want to be able to do that, too. But when I'm on the other side of the Atlantic, I can't. And it's starting to feel like I will never be able to, either.

They declined his request because he's currently unemployed. If we were married, they would have granted him the visa, but I guess being with someone for five years doesn't mean shit to people at the embassy. Now, after the visit, I really, really wish I had gone along with him. I don't know that it would have made a difference, but I at least could have said a little something to that bitch that told him no.

Not that I'm knockin'. She was just doing her job, sticking to the rules. I can still have a bit of animosity towards her just to make myself feel better. But my enthusiasm for my trip home has just dropped several notches. I was so excited. It just sucks to get excited about something and then realize it's not going to happen. I can feel the disappointment in my body as if it were a physical sensation. It's sitting right in those little pockets below my clavicle, and just above my armpits, where my arms meet my body.

What's worse: a) his visit to the embassy cost him over 100 euros because they charge you for your visit (and the phone call to set up the visit) and b) he can't apply for a visa for another year. Had we known all of this, we may have done things differently. The thing is, they don't provide information online or on paper or anywhere for you either, like, say, the Canadian embassy does. Who, by the way, granted him a visa within a day. But whatever.

Ugh, I'm just fed up, let-down, and frustrated. If I thought it was hard to spend four days as a seventh wheel without him during Christmas, I think eight days on a boat is going to be one helluva challenge. I'll be sure to bring a lot of books and learn a few more solitary games before I leave.

The childish giggle I've been hearing throughout the past week is missing from my house. I packed up all the legos, the paper airplanes, and the cadeaux found in the three boxes of Frosted Flakes we've eaten this week, and now my floors look bland without the spots of toys and color dotting our carpet. After kissing goodbye to The Kid before he got on the train to go back to his mom's, I closed the door, frowned, and tripped over the fort we had made with the pink broom. I quietly cleaned it up, looked around, and realized how much fun I've been having with him.

This week has been a crazy one. I've babysat before, but nothing is like having a six-year-old come and stay in your two-room apartment for a full week. The Little Guy had more energy and enthusiasm for anything and everything than I have seen in years, and being with him made me look at the world a little bit differently. Everything was a mystery to be solved, a flight of stairs to jump down, a door to open for him, and it was like I was discovering it all over again alongside him.

Almost seven years ago, my boyfriend had a kid with another woman. They had already broken up and she had moved away by the time she found out she was pregnant, but she decided to keep the baby despite the bad timing. The two of them had been together for several years, and although he protested and said he did not want to have a child if he couldn't be there for him properly, she held strong in her decision. Since then, the Boy has kept up his end of the parental bargain by going to see his son once every month or so, helping out with the bills, and setting up a trust fund. It's about all a father can do when his child is living in another country. A few months after The Kid was born, she got pregnant with another man's child, and the two of them have raised the half-brothers together. Soon, just after The Kid's seventh birthday, she is going to have her third child - bringing the family total to five.

The funny part about having The Kid around is that he speaks Dutch - the language he speaks at home with his mom, brother, and "dad" - and neither The Boy nor I do. English comes closer to Dutch than any of the five languages that The Boy can speak, so I could occasionally decipher things ("You stole my money!" and "Where is my bag?" are amazingly easy to understand in Dutch) that escaped The Boy entirely. Not surprisingly, I was able to make out more and more things The Kid said as the week wore on, and he began turning to me as his makeshift translator.

At first, I had been hesitant about having him come to stay with us because of the language barrier. But really, who needs language when testing how quickly paper airplanes drop from a sixth-story window, how long The Kid can do a headstand against the wall, or how far a wind-up car will drive on its own before burning out? As he knows how to count in English, French, and Dutch, all we really needed besides that was gestures, which we're both pretty good at.

I've been amazed at the warmth and affection The Little Guy has given us, how patient he has been when we can't understand him, and how well he's managed to explain things to me so that we can communicate on some level. He's taught me how to count in Dutch, the basic colors, and important words like eat, drink, sleep, and trashcan.

Yet, I think, I've been even more amazed with myself. I've always known I wanted to be a mom, but now I'm even more sure of it. I never bored of his endless lego games, his nutty stunts on the bed, or his constant need for attention. I was also surprised at how laid-back I was with him, as I always thought I would be a sort of paranoid mom. Maybe it's because it's not my kid, but in a way I would think I would be more paranoid with someone else's little one than with my own. Still, I noticed that his dad is a far more authoritarian than I am - when The Kid wanted to put his lego skateboarder in his water cup, I nodded and said, "Sure" with a shrug, while his dad got a stern look on his face and forcefully said, "Don't put that there." Or, when he wanted to eat a tic-tac before dinner, I said, "Ok" while his dad said, "No, we're going to eat." I guess I just don't see the point of certain rules, whereas I clearly think that running across the busy streets of Paris without looking first is a bad, bad thing. Together, however, I think The Boy and I made a good team with The Little Guy: The Boy took over the physical stuff like picking him up, wrestling, and making him dangle by his feet, while I handled the more homely things like showering, brushing teeth, and pillow fights.

Overall, I'm just happy to know how much I liked making The Little Guy breakfast. How much fun it was to chase pigeons with him. How silly we could both get together and how much, I guess, the kid in me still lives on. That's gonna come in handy whenever I have kids of my own.

Last night at dinner, The Boy looked at me and said, "You never really get bored of him, do you?"

I looked at him while prepping the wind-up Lego car once again, and said, "No. Why would I?"

"Some people do," he said, and proceeded to do a magic trick with the car's tailight that had fallen off during our previous time trial. "I'm glad you don't."

Yeah, me too, I thought, as the two of them began their second farting contest of the night. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life.

I've got a big sister named Kari. She comes by here sometimes. She's a great person. A fabulous, hilarious, makes-you-laugh-pop-out-your-nose-sometimes-cause-she's-so-funny type. A little spoiled brat like myself didn't realize it for a long time, but I've got a kick-ass sister. Maybe it's better this way: childhood we spent fighting, but we're spending adulthood as friends.

I suppose at some point in my teens (once she was out of the house), we started telling one another more about ourselves. And then a bit more. And then some more. And even though time and space has seperated us more today than it did in the past, I think we're closer today than ever before.

The cool thing about getting to know my sister more and more is being able to see somebody who has always been in my life in a new light. Like, for example, how sometime in the past four or five years I came to realize just how incredibly determined and motivated she is. Or, in many ways, how I have come to appreciate her intelligence in new, goofy ways (she's always been a smartypants, but I think her wit has grown on me). And maybe above all, I've seen how giving and caring of a big sister - and person - she really is. To everybody. To like, the whole friggin' world.

And I could go on and on about some of the wonderful things she has done for others, or of the particularly hilarious jokes she has made, or of how she has picked herself up by her bootstraps more times than I can imagine, but instead I'll give you the proof of all of those things wrapped up in one recently made decision: Kari's going to to do the Cowalunga bike tour for a second year.

What's Cowalunga, you might ask? Well, it's a 190-mile bike ride (in three days) through Illinois and Wisconsin. Bikers fundraise and their efforts go towards the American Lung Association. Get it? COW (because they're in cowville) ALUNGA (for the American Lung Association). Cute.

It's a great cause on a global level and an inspirational one on a personal level. Kari's trying to raise money as part of the deal, and she's super-excited to hit the road (again). You see, Cowalunga is representative of Kari in all her greatness:

determination - damn, did you just say 190 miles? In three days? Is that what you said?
intelligence/goofiness - well, the damn thing is called Cowalunga, for crying out loud.
caring/giving - all that biking FOR CHARITY, folks. Charity.

So if you can spare the cash, just a teeny-weeny bit, you would be making a wonderful person very happy, and her little sister happy vicariously. Vi-kari-ously. And you would be helping out the ALA and a lot of people dependent on the ALA's hard work. You can find Kari's donation page here.

Remember : I am a firm believer in karma. That's not a threat. But it is a warning.

You know that first hot, hot day with lots of sunlight? The one where you stay out far too long, and you eventually have to retreat to the shade? The day where people stare at other attractive people's asses a bit more? Where everybody is outside - walking, traipsing, talking, conspiring? Where most forms of public transportation become moving sweatmobiles in a matter of hours?

Today was that day. It was great, beautiful, wonderful (besides the moving sweatmobiles). Some friends and I took advantage by going from a to b to c and back to a again together, laughing and chatting all six hours we managed to wander in the stifling heat.

The only thing better than running around all day and soaking up more cancer-causing rays is that sleepy moment around seven pm where the sun starts to wind down and your energy goes with it. Summer annually requires a few days of adjustment - moments of rest to exorcise the UV rays that your body reacts to as a foreign invader after so many months of gray skies. Early summer moments of evening sleepiness are precious reminders of the importance of seasonal adjustment. This evening, I felt that moment creeping up on me, and I happily settled into my bed (window open) knowing full well that I would soon drift to sleep.

That was not, however, an open invitation to come into the bedroom, turn on the stereo, start downloading onto my computer, and to blast African music at high volume through the speakers - one of which was three-four inches from my left ear.

I like African music. I do. But if there's one problem I have with it at this moment is that it is not conducive to sleeping. There's a lot of energy involved in those rhythms, and they always makes me feel like I'm in an overcrowded bar and everybody's dancing on tables. This can be a great feeling. But not when I'm sleeping and I am trying to exhaust an entire day's worth of excessive - albeit welcomed - exposure to sunlight.

The real injustice here is that men can sleep through anything. So he who first turned on the music is out like a lamb on the bed, while she who once was sleeping is staring blandly at the computer screen, unable to do anything constructive and entirely too foggy-headed to even consider making an attempt.

What is it about men and apologizing? Or rather, lack of apologizing?

This weekend provided the opportunity for an emotional, tearful fight. I was very upset, something that doesn't happen often. It was all the Boy's fault, no way around it. No ifs ands or buts. Just plain hard facts. His fault. Not mine.

So after my tearful pleadings for understanding, he turned on his computer and gave me the silent treatment. This is what he does when he knows he's wrong and knows he should apologize, but can't bring himself to do it. It's a defense mechanism. Men do these things.

I got so mad that I ran into the bedroom and slammed the door, thereby closing myself in because my doors are too big for their frames thanks to all that humidity over the years. My desperate attempts to open the door again later sort of took away from my previously dramatic exit.

I therefore felt rather cool when my pleading for understanding became a pleading for release from my one-room dungeon. He had the doorknob on his side. That just didn't seem fair. I kept ramming my body up against the door, but it wouldn't budge. I tried from every angle. I tried with ass, I tried with shoulder, I tried with palm. No force of mine would budge that fat door.

I could see through the keyhole that he was still just sitting in front of that fucking computer, acting as if it wasn't four am and I wasn't starting to get hysterical on the other side of the door.

Eventually, he sauntered over and opened the damn thing. I tumbled out on the other side and said an exhausted "Thank you." We didn't speak for the rest of the night - which wasn't very long because by the time the whole door episode ended it was time for bed.

The next morning we both had to get up and be out the door rather quickly. Good thing it wasn't stuck anymore.

We still said nothing. As I was leaving, I said, "Bye" coldly while he was brushing his teeth. He didn't respond. I got angry and my eyes got big. How dare he?

He saw me in the mirror and said, "Why are you looking at me like that, Sweetie?"

"I said 'Bye.' You could at least say 'Bye' back to me."
"Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you. Goodbye. Have a great day." His voice was sickly sweet.

I walked out without wishing him a good one, too.

"Hey. Wait. Why are you mad?" he called after me while hopping out of the bathroom in his boxers.

I unlocked the door. "I might have slept but I'm still pissed off. You are still an asshole."

He was on the brink, I could see it. An apology was forming in his mind. It was gonna erupt. He knew this was all pointless. That he had been wrong, so horribly wrong, and had to admit it. That he had to be a man, for once. And that I was going to go on like this until he was one.

"Oh. Ok. Well...ok."

Hm. That was no apology.

He had a morning train to go away for the day. I went to class before he left to catch his train; later I went out with a friend before he came back. He got home around midnight and the house was disturbingly dark. And there was no note, either. "Let the bastard worry." I did it intentionally, of course. He called me at one am wondering where I was. I said I wasn't going to be home too late. I got in at five (with an hour time change). He was still up.

I think I was making it pretty clear that I was angry and I wasn't going to let it go. Yes, it's childish to act that way, but sometimes its the only means us ladies have to getting our well-deserved apology.

Still, no nice frilly words were going to come out of his mouth that day. So I went to sleep, and he did shortly thereafter. We still said nothing. The tension was mounting.

Sunday morning we got up and I was still a bitch. By then I was getting pretty good at it. He again turned on the computer in his easy-to-read avoidance strategy. I cleaned, did some homework, read some, and then announced I was going to a movie.

He said, "Wait for me. We'll go together."
"It's in 15 minutes."
"But I won't be done with my computer stuff by then. Can you just wait for me?"
"Movies don't wait for people." And with that, I headed out the door in an overdramatic huff.

By the time I got back I think he had decided life was going to be a living hell if he didn't say something. I came in and told him about the movie - the most amount of words I had said to him since the whole stuck-behind-the-door incident almost 48 hours prior. He listened intently. Maybe it was just to soften me up a little, I don't know.

Then he said, "Would you still want to go to a movie with me tonight?"
Surprised, I said, "Well, sure. Maybe not right now, but in a couple hours."
"Ok. That'd be fun. Let's do that."

Strange, I thought, so I walked over to him thinking that he might actually be trying to taxi down that apology runway. Might we have liftoff? I couldn't help but let the right corner of my mouth turn up in a rather quirky smile as I moved in for closer inspection.

He put his arm around my waist and said, "We shouldn't be like this. It's better when you smile."

"Yeah. We shouldn't." (still mad)

Strange moment of silence. He was feeling the words rolling around in his mouth. I could see it. They were forming, slowly but surely, in their grotesque and unappetizing form that he was trying so desperatly to get his mouth around. Maybe he just wanted to spit them out and be done with it. I wanted him to savor them in all their bitterness, and then I wanted him to lick his plate clean.

"I wasn't good Friday."

Ok. Not the words I was looking for. But somehow they were even better in all their ridiculousness. It was like in the movies: that guy who just can't say "I'm sorry" ends up stammering and saying something even more painful and slightly embarrassing. "I wasn't good Friday" became not only his apology (the baby eyes helped), but an outright confession of his wrongdoing, albeit in a nervous and rather choppy form. It seemed as if it just sort of spilled out beyond his control. It wasn't an apology per se, but his heart was in the right place.

"No, you weren't. You really weren't. But I'm glad I don't have to make you suffer for it any longer."

Neither of us liked the movie, but we're both glad we went.

I asked my mom once how she knew she wanted to marry my dad. They've been married for 35 years.

She said, "Oh, I didn't. I just took a leap of faith. I really didn't know it would work out like this." She and my dad had been dating for, oh, I don't know...a year or two maybe.

Don't think I'm posting about marriage because I'm thinking about doing it. I'm only 23. The Boy is anti-marriage. And we already have the joint bank account, remember, which is close enough.

No, that's not it at all. But today I was walking through the Luxembourg gardens yet again. It's been just lovely here over the last few days - cool enough to need a coat but warm enough to sit comfortably on a terrace or in the gardens provided you find a spot in the sun. Naturally, my "commute" through the gardens has changed a bit because of this - my usually solitary walks have become rather crowded. This does not make them any less pleasant, as I enjoy seeing people happy, and they usually are in the gardens.

Today I am passing through and I see an older couple sitting on a park bench. They're a bit off of the main paths - away from the fountains, the tennis courts, the playgrounds, or the petanque land. Her: slender, rather stylish, late 60's, early 70's, hair up in a loose, light brown bun. Him: mild belly, mid-70's, a bit frumpy in a comfortable grandfatherly way, full head of very white hair. Them: sitting as close as possible to one another on the far left side of the bench, each reading a different book - him at a few pages to the end and her just within the first chapter, her left arm crossing his lap, her left hand falling on his left knee.

And I think to myself, "How beautiful is that? I wonder how many times they have come here and sat like this. Do they do this every year when it turns nice? Have they been together for years and years? Or did they just meet one another in the last ten or so, and are accompanying one another in old age?"

I keep on walking through the rest of the gardens. A little kid runs into me because she is suddenly in a hurry to go somewhere and hasn't looked for possible obstacles along the path. I notice a really attractive haircut on one of the young mothers. The usual men are crowding around the petanque "field" as they expertly toss their heavy, metal balls despite their slow, arthritic movements.

And all the while, I can't stop thinking of that couple. Dreaming of how lovely it must be to grow old with someone.

Within fifteen minutes, I'm home. Mom's voice comes echoing through one of those corridors of thoughts, telling me it was all just a leap of faith. Her marriage was just a leap of faith just happened to work out. A leap of faith that can change forever. A huge risk.

And suddenly, all I could think was, "Anybody that gets married must be fucking crazy. Leap of faith my ass."

So although seeing an older lady alone on a bench reading provides a bit less food for thought than seeing an adorable older couple, I'll be sure to wear a really eccentric hat or something to make up for it.

If you are a heterosexual man and you are looking to please your girlfriend or potential girlfriend, I can help you out. I am a fabulous girlfriend. I'll just come right out and say it. Why? Because all those things that girls expect that guys freak out over, well, I understand that it doesn't really matter in a relationship. Things like birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine's Day, hell, around here, even Christmas - these are the ways a girl periodically tests her man to see what kind of quality gift-giving he's made of.

Hogwash. What matters is honesty, openness, commitment, togetherness. I understand that, and I don't even blink when I don't get chocolate on Valentine's Day or even a hug and kiss on our anniversary.

My boyfriend has yet to remember my birthday (although one year he came home two days later and said, "You're going to kill me." and I said, "Why?" and he said, "I forgot your birthday" - as if it was news. I said, "I know. But that was two days ago. Why would I kill you now?") or our anniversary, and to him Valentine's Day and Christmas are just ridiculous holidays celebrated by sentimental saps.

I'm ok with that. Of course, a girl can always go for an occasional surprise present, too. But I don't get those either.

No matter. In my entire time with the Boy, I have gotten three - count them: one, two, three presents. That's just under a one-per-year average. The problem is, the first two presents were within the first three months. And the third present is the subject of this post.

Here's my piece of advice to you men. If you don't get your girlfriend presents, if it's really just not your thing, explain that to her calmly and, if she's cool, she'll understand. But then, two or three years later, don't come home with a gift all wrapped up in a pretty bag and say, "Here. I got you something. I was walking by today, I saw it, and I thought of you."

Because then your girl is going to get all excited. I mean, blown away holy-shit-you-didn't-just-surprise-me-with-a-present-did-you excited. Or if you like, wiggling-in-her-seat-clapping-her-hands-like-a-little-kid-on-Christmas excited. Or more simply put: really fucking excited.

So if you let it get to this point - where you haven't bought her anything for years and there you are, out of the blue, smiling with your arm extended while dangling a little bag by your index finger - by all means, just know that she is going to be so thrilled by the precious sound of tissue paper as it is slowly being pulled away to reveal her extraordinary gift wrapped so carefully within. Know that she's going to be imagining great things, as if this one gift will erase all the missed gift-giving opportunities throughout the years. Know that you should seriously weigh the thought of what you get her before getting her something as thrilling as what I received:

A paperweight with a duck inside.

This is not a joke. Three years into the relationship, and he got me a paperweight. A friggin paperweight. With a duck inside.

I've kept the damn paperweight on my desk for almost a year now. I'm not really sure what to think of it. First of all, why the hell did the duck-filled paperweight make him think of me? (This brings up mediocre memories of a boy in middle school that was head-over-heels for me - his best friend told me so - for two years, and he called me "The Duck" because, for some reason, I guess I reminded him of a duck. How exactly that conjured up romantic feelings for him is something I still have yet to understand). Second of all, did he not realize the kind of reception this paperweight would have? Let's look at the facts: He doesn't get me anything for years, literally YEARS. Not for a single, damn holiday. And all that time I'm hearing stories of my sister's husband who, in an attempt to save money on Valentine's Day, made an entire bouquet of hand-colored plastic bendy-straw flowers put together by him when she wasn't around. A big bouquet of 'em. Or another story of a boyfriend who wrote friggin' SONGS to one of my friends because he wanted her to have something special, unique, not available in stores.

So sure, I'm not complaining that instead of getting plastic bendy straw bouquets or love serenades I get a 24/7 fart parade. I accepted that long ago when we decided to move in together. What I am saying here is that all of those moments of holding my breath - of not saying "Jesus Christ, I've only "celebrated" three birthday's with you now, is it really that hard to remember?" and instead just laughing it off (I will take the opportunity to point out that my birthday is very easy to remember - October 8. Oct, like an octagon or an octapus, means eight. So he only has to remember the friggin' MONTH and everything is hey-howdy handy), of getting him presents for Christmas and knowing I wouldn't get anything in return, of seeing the boys in the lingerie shops around Valentine's Day nervously shopping for their girlfriend's panties and thinking how cute it is that they put themselves in such an uncomfortable position for their girl - all of those little moments were somehow all bundled up in that one little tissue-paper filled bag. And that bag suddenly became extremely important. Excessively so.

I think I've been clear : my Boy is not at all romantic. I knew this from the get-go. He told me this on our fourth date when he, in perhaps what was the most romantic thing he has done yet, said, "So, I'm sort of thinking that I want a real relationship with you, something committed and stuff" and then clarified the terms and conditions of our relationship contract. One of said terms was that, hell, he just isn't that romantic of a guy, and it was better that I understand that early on. And knowing this, I still jumped aboard. So I can't be angry that he's not romantic - he was honest about that side of himself from square one.

He thinks boys that make plastic bendy flower bouquets are pansies (not yours specifically, Kari). He whispers nothing in my ear instead of sweet nothings. The romantic way he looked towards the future with me was by suggesting we get a joint bank account.

This is all ok by me. But he didn't have to prove himself to be totally romantically hopeless by means of a pathetic paperweight. Don't all men know that a girl just doesn't want a paperweight? That's something a boss gets a secretary, or a co-worker gets another during "Secret Santa" in the office.

What I am trying to say is that a girl who has no expectations whatsoever is even more floored the moment a gift comes her way. And so at that moment, the gift she receives - whatever it is - better be one helluva gift.

That's my advice to you men. If you're going to get her a paperweight, just don't get her anything at all.

The Boy decided to go out and buy a beautiful new 17-inch flatscreen monitor for himself today. He came home at 18.00, breathless from climbing the six flights of stairs with his precious package, and as he set it down gingerly on the carpet he said, "Whoa, that cost a lot!"

Ok. I never understand why people have to buy the super-delux version. I sometimes go out of the way by a little bit - for example, when I recently bought my new monitor, I also got the flatscreen variety. But I thought this was a wise investment because it was only $100 more, and I had had to set up an entirely cumbersome contraption to hold my previous non-flat monitor. There was practicality to the issue - my new screen would be a space saver. But here, he couldn't just buy the practical flatscreen. He had to buy the one that cost four times that. But he's a boy, and I always say that I will never understand boys and their toys. The attachment men seem to have to tangible technological objects seems to far surpass the attachment I have ever had for the stereotypically cited item on which women spend a fortune: clothes.

Anyway.

The Boy starts setting up the thing and doing God knows what with it. Something about installing some set-up thingie was murmured, and a few swears went along with it. This carried on for about an hour, and I have learned to keep my distance in such situations. I had no problem with this, cause I was reading "The New York Trilogy" and could feel the end of "City of Glass" was at my fingertips.

But then it carried on for another hour. And another. And the swearing got louder and there were several poundings of the fist. Lots of exasperated sighs. Far too much stress just hanging in the air.

I had moved on to another activity by this point. But our apartment is very small, and I couldn't escape the tense sighs and forced whispers of "Goddamn this fucking computer, why the hell can't those assholes over at the store sell me a product that fucking works. Just once for Christ's sake..." and so on and so on. And this is my peaceful Saturday night at home.

Nevertheless, I keep my distance, and go about my business. And then he says he is leaving (to go to his mother's, where he should have been two hours prior). He hasn't fixed the screen, but has just decided to take a healthy break to reflect.

Here's the problem: our computers are set up on a network, and his computer is the "main" computer, which hooks up to the internet. If I want to go online from my computer, I have to turn on his. This is never a problem.

But without a functional screen, there was no way I could get online. This also would not be a problem, except that I have a friend coming into Paris tomorrow, and he had emailed me contact info and flight info so that I would know when/where/how we would meet up.

And I pretty much needed that info tonight, because I didn't know if we were meeting up at 7 am or 7 pm or some hour in between.

So I casually mention this to him and say, "I don't need it right now, but maybe after you get back from your mom's you can hook it all up?" I say this rather timidly, cause he's obviously in a bad mood.

He stops and pauses. Takes a moment. Gets back on the ground and goes back to work. Asks me to unhook my screen and bring it over. I show up, screen in hand, and say, "Here." He viciously says, "Jesus Christ, what do you want me to do with that?" I say, "You asked for it." and he says, "Put it somewhere" with an annoyed wave of the hand. There's nowhere to put it (Our apartment is, I repeat, very small. And now covered in all the packing material used for his monitor). I silently nestle it between some packing. I bring over the adapter. Toss it in his direction. He audibly mutters something about how I shouldn't throw it. I ignore him. He's taking out his aggression on me. And then he busts out, as if there had been this well of anger brewing within him that he could no longer control, and forcefully says, "I'm only doing this for you, you know. You said you needed the internet, so I am giving you internet." and I answer, "No, no...I said after you get back. Honestly, I would prefer you leave right now than sit around cursing your computer. You're stressing me out with all your pouding and profanity." He doesn't answer to that. Bad sign. He swears some more, and then figures out the problem after another twenty minutes. He says, "Ok, it's fixed. I'm leaving." I say, "Ok." The air is tense. He stomps around the house like a childish boy. I calmly put my monitor back on my desk, and set to plugging it back in and such. He says, "Ok, I'm gone." and slams the door behind him. Without so much as a goodbye. No kiss. Nothing. That means he wants me to know he's mad. At what exactly?

After he leaves I think, "Asshole. Just because the computer stresses you out, you don't have to be a dick to me. I didn't do anything."

I sit there sort of silently stewing for a minute or two while I continue hooking up the monitor. I turn on the computer and make sure everything is working. All clear. Then I hear his steps coming back up. His keys in the door. He walks in, shuffles a bit, and says, "I'm gone" in the same asshole tone he had used a few minutes prior.

I say, "You could at least say goodbye" from the bedroom. My tone is a bit edgy. He walks into the room and says, "You got your screen back up and running?" (he always points out the obvious when he knows he was outta line). "Yeah." I say coldly.

Silence.

"I had to come back up because I walked down three flights before realizing I was about to leave the building in my slippers."

I'm not looking at him. I hold try to hold back my smile. I end up laughing instead. Relieved I'm not mad anymore, he says, "Sorry. You know me. I'm an asshole when the computer doesn't work." and I say, "Yeah. You really are."

Then he kisses me and says goodbye.