Happy birthday, U.S. of A. Sorry about rapidly descending into stupidity and giving up our civil liberties hand over fist. We don't mean it. Truly we don't...

Today I did nothing. Well, I did nothing that specifically relates to 4th of July traditions, unless my veggie sausage rolled in a piece of wheat toast with avocado and mustard counts as a hot dog. I went out for some ice cream around 5:00 this evening, and just a brief stroll through the throngs of 'patriotic revelers' (I'm being generous, b/c I don't think that woman throwing an empty propane tank at her man's head was a festive gesture) told me that I did NOT want to get on a extra packed train and try to fight for a square of rooftop so I could watch the fireworks. I've seen 'em. Birmingham's were better, truth be told.

Instead, I stayed in and watched "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly." Folks, if ever you need to feel simultaneously like a big, petty complainer AND a giant, lazy loser, do watch this film. I did not need those feelings, so I followed it up with "High Fidelity." Much better. Because my hands need to be busy if I'm sitting still, I finished strategically sewing the black rose appliques over the permanent stain on my vintage rockabilly dress. Hooray for new old dresses! Maybe I can wear it on a date soon.

My hearing test is in about 12 hours... This is not something for which I can study. If I fail, I can't retake--I have to have surgery. And unfortunately, hearing is not one of those things a little physical therapy will fix up, given time. This is pretty serious. This could be permanent. More permanent that it already was, mind.

Well, no reason to miss my beauty sleep.

Remember that ear infection I thought I had...? Nope. My general practitioner took one long look at it yesterday and told me to go to the ENT immediately, because she was fairly certain I had a perforated eardrum. After failing to encourage the nonplussed front desk cunt to rally herself into giving a shit about working me into see said specialist, I took over the phone and harnessed all of my powers to convince (thank you, law and double X chromosomes) the specialist's desk bitch to understand that yes, this hole in my hearing thingy is a bit of a problem and it can't wait until tomorrow.

Within four hours I was in the chair of one of NYC's best head and neck surgeons. Yes, in fact, my left eardrum is perforated. AND there's a "growth" in that hole, possibly a cyst. That's the bad news. The good news is that it's trying to heal and it seems promising. He gave me antibiotics in pill and ear drop form and told me to come back in two weeks for another cleaning and look-see, plus a hearing test. At that point he'll let me know if I need surgery. Here's hoping I can dodge that bullet AND regain the better part of my hearing in that ear.

Terrified am I? Yes. This ain't my first time at the rodeo. For the first ten years of my life I had, on average, one surgery a year performed on one or both of my ears (I thanked my mother tonight for taking me to the ENT all the damn time throughout my childhood--at the very least, that had to be a professional set-back). My ears just are not built right. Sinuses either. I distinctly remember that surgery number nine entailed a repair of my left eardrum and the removal of my tonsils. The asshole nurse served me pineapple juice. No surgery is a walk in the park, but one performed INSIDE OF one's head is especially awful.

However, there is no point in worrying. I just need to take my meds, keep that ear dry, and be more cautious. No more headbutting the ocean. I think I might take up American Sign Language (I can sign the alphabet and a few pleasantries, thanks to Girl Scouts). This latest drama has given me a deeper sympathy for the deaf and hearing impaired. I wonder if I can learn how to sign in Spanish too...

EDIT: You know what occurred to me last night? I'm clumsy because I have inner ear problems. No shit, right?!?! But when you've always been both you kind of forget which came first or that there's a cause and effect to it. Man. Wow. Who would I have been if I was born with perfect ears?

My vacation was lovely, thank you. Seeing family that's not insane (at least not in a destructive way) is divine. Everyone is well and so am I.

Well... ok, so I got a sunburn. I really took one for the team this time. Allow me to impart this wisdom so that you can avoid similar pains: do not use spray-on sunscreen in the wind. Sure, it may *seem* like the cool thing to do, and yes, it's fancy that you don't have to ask someone to rub it in, but just don't. Spray-on sunscreen is a cruel mistress. Just look at my stripy legs if you need proof (oh no, I am NOT posting a photo).

Oh, and I got an ear infection from the Atlantic Ocean too. This is not my first ocean/infection either. Large bodies of water cannot be trusted, I say. I tried to go to the doc yesterday, but after waiting 45 minutes I rescheduled. You know, I've often said that if I had to choose between sight and hearing, I'd keep sight. I mean, I already have a hearing loss, what's a little more? Know what it is: awful. I feel so vulnerable not being able to hear from my left ear. It's a unique experience.

Anyway, to sum up, my travel highlights entail...

favorite souvenir: stunt kite

second fav souvenir: new dress

favorite cousin: Shawny--she's hilarious and delightful, not to mention wise

favorite Chaseism (Chase is my 5-yr old second cousin): "Are you cereal?" (Proper response: "For real, Apple Jacks!")

did you know: In Charleston, SC, no building is taller than the tallest church steeple

did you also know: SC started the Civil War

I must admit: I really do like the DC subway system (I'm so sorry, NYC)

and finally: hot as balls down there

Ok, folks. I'm out for a week. Heading to Charleston, South Carolina, to hang with extended but cool family, then meeting up with my sister and an old college friend in Washington, DC. Maybe possibly My Sweet Nerd will join me on Friday/Saturday. We had a great date last night, btw; saw Squirrel Nut Zippers. I likes him lots. Jen met him and agrees with me in every way on the subject of this fella. Jen will also be talking care of Morrison for the week. Awesome. What a relief in so many ways.

The above is not a concise paragraph whatsoever. Oh well. It's been a long day of morning sex, Comic Art Fest., drinking, and Roller Derby. I was never a linear thinker anyway...

So! In conclusion: hold it down without me, folks. I will be back next Sunday afternoon and will have stories to impart, no doubt.

Man, yesterday was The Best. Angry wild dogs couldn't have dampened my spirits. What happened...

*Work was light, and I managed to politely convince my boss that I need more work from HIM, not my other legal colleagues. It's all part of my Master Plan. Muah ha ha ha.

*I had a really earnest therapy sessions (not fun, but necessary).

*Yoga was exceptionally challenging and cleansing. Then I ran 3.5 easy miles. I am tiny machine!

*I scored two new swimsuits (can't decide? buy both!) and a pair of shorts on sale at The Gap. I have been accused time and time again of hiding in my clothes, so with this purchase I can't possibly. And I can wear them on...

*VACATION! Yep, I scheduled a vacation June 8-15. I know seeing family doesn't *seem* like a vacation, but it will because I haven't seen my cousins since my grandmother died in 2004 and they are so much fun. Everyone is meeting up in Charlotte, NC at Aunt Kathy's, also a fun lady. She's my cousins' aunt, not mine, but that's what we all call her. Conveniently, my sister will be in Washington DC that same week, so I'm going to take a train to see her and we'll get rowdy for a few days. She'll depart Friday morning, but I'm going to stick around DC and visit some museums, catch up with a college friend, and maybe possibly My Sweet Nerd will meet up with me, as his brother lives in DC. (Who knows. Not holding my breathe.)

See? Great day! Can't wait to get out of NYC for a week. Even the greatest city in the world is daunting when you can't leave it.

I hit my head quit often. I always have a bruise (MLE, you can relate), and rarely do I know how I came by it. Celeste, also a lovely flamingo of a klutz, says it's because we're dancers--we spend half our lives making things beautiful, the other half falling apart or down. Grace is finite.

All this is preface to a little story about my date on Tuesday night...

After a deliriously great concert by one of my favorites, DeVotchKa, who not only had a tuba, accordion, and stand-up base, but also a STRING SECTION, M and I had a late dinner at Rose's Mexicana (they tout themselves as both upscale and authentic, which I think is a contradiction in terms when it comes to Mexican food). This place has a giant water feature that can be admired from the first and second floor. We were seated on the second level, where a railing/fence keeps one from embarrassingly knocking their silverware over the edge. We know this because M dropped his knife early in the meal; we giggled and were thankful for the fence.

Not to be outdone by my dates gracelessness, I spilled my tall glass of beer. To my horror, the ample amount of liquid soared through the fence and landed with an impressive splatter onto the first floor's clean blue tile. I knew the area doused was the landing for the stairs and not the dining area, but I was concerned that someone in the vicinity may have been splashed nonetheless. Thus, I leaned over the side of the railing to survey my damage. I leaned... right into the table candle, setting my hair on fire! Yes. Up like a haystack.

As we know, I was quit the fire dancer in Alabama, and still dabble a bit with the flaming arts here in NYC. Mortified as I was, I reacted quickly to the situation and smothered the flames with my hand. The smell was awful. The table next to us was shocked. I was beside myself because it would have been hilarious had it not happened to me. M was very sweet about the fiasco and told me his flaming shot/lost half my eyebrow story so as to assuage my embarrassment. The waiter brought me another glass of beer (oh sir, I think I'm done for the night) and asked if I was ok. I assured him that only my pride was injured.

In the bathroom I brushed out the dry squiggles of melted hair and assessed the damage. Luckily only a small chunk had burned down to about the same length as my bangs, which I'm growing out. A woman looked at me in wonder, then explained that her table had smelled it, but weren't sure from where it wafted. So that settles it--I'm famous. It took me four years, but now, gentle readers, behold my NYC noterity: Ms. Sets Herself on Fire in a TexMex! After we made a quick exit and I leaned on a tree to buckle with laughter, I told M he'd never forget me, to which he replied, "That's already true, Kate. Now you're just showing off!" Hearts and stars circled my head.

Fortuitously, I had a haircut scheduled the next day. Kristie, the hairdresser who gave me the mohawk, was roundly amused by my tale, told with gusto. My mop will be fine, given time and some deep conditioner.

The real casualty of it all, or so it seems, was M. Despite that being our seventh date, I didn't hear from him for two days. When I called him about doing something over the weekend, he had some bs about going home to take care of his sick mom (who has a husband, so wtf). He said he'd keep me posted about Sunday, but I got nary a call or text. It better be dire. Oh well. If he can't hang with a flaming klutz then it's probably all for the best. Still, I'll miss him. I really liked that one.

EDIT: My Sweet Nerd called Monday--his mom really was sick, thus he stayed with her the whole weekend. Important lessons? He's amazing, and I'm an impatient brut. That is all.

Rain tends to make me feel sexy... good thing I got laid about 4 times in the last 16 hours.

This guy. This fucking guy, I tell ya: he plays me like a fiddle. A dirty, naked, moaning, writhing fiddle.

One of these days my body is going to get used to kicking and sprinting... right? I mean, given enough time it'll become a finely tuned machine for this sort of activity (I so very hope).

Well anyway we won our first game, but for a minute there it looked like we weren't going to cobble together enough players to make a team. Why why WHY do people say they're going to be somewhere, then bail at the last minute? Why the FUCK would someone do that to a *team* of people? Some folks are just so amazingly selfish and inconsiderate. Gah.

But I digress. We lost our second game. I'm kind of glad the lights were shut out on the park, because then we *had* to decide a winner, and man were we losing something fierce. On top of that, frickin' everyone was getting hurt; pulled legs and twisted ankles everywhere. When it went pitch black it was McCaren Park having mercy on us, I do believe.

Meanwhile and simultaneously, I'm making friends and flirting with other sorts of friends, which is all very fine and good. I also learned something very, very important at the bar after the game. This is monumental. Ready? Telling a drunken old loser than you're a lawyer is a massive turn off. Or maybe it just shuts him down all together. Either way, it was a fib that I will most certainly be calling upon again.

HERE is the final kickball team logo...



But now there is some debate as to whether the shirt will be purple or heather gray. I favor purple, but I also favor everyone shutting up.

I know it's a bit early for me to be dating, what with the sexual assault having occurred less than two months ago. I had sworn celibacy for 6 months shortly after the assault, but I and a few others thought there was a distinct possibility I was punishing myself. I kind of was. I mean, let's face it, I love to flirt; it's an art I've all but mastered.

So I had a date last night because damn it, I wanted to have a date.

BG: About a month ago I met M at a charity event thrown by my office. It was just a happy hour thing with some live music played by some of the guys from work, but it was fun and successful. What was great was how men essentially swarmed me, like I had dumped pheromones about myself. (Dudes. Some just love my confidence.) For various reasons (ugly, married, creepy) I dismissed all but one, whom I invited to the International Center for Photography the following day. He said yes, we did so, and the date was wonderful and progressed onto dinner. Ok, everything was wonderful, save for his drink consumption. I'm going to say he had six. Six, including one shot. Yeah, that was fucked up. I talked it over with several folks, and most said he was probably just nervous and to give him another chance. I did, and I'm glad, yet perplexed.

After a lunch date, a brunch date, and last night's dinner and a movie, I'm still not sure about our compatibility. In THEORY, it's not going to work out because he doesn't do much with his spare time besides hang out and drink with his friends and maybe watch tv. I, as we know, and insanely active in my spare time, what with the athletic feats and creative ganders. That's in theory. In PRACTICE, we have fantastic, undeniable chemistry. He's got that... thing. That... how you say... something that cannot be named. Is it game? Does he have mad game? I don't think so. But what the hell is it? He's whip smart (graduated from Cooper Union, which is free to all who are accepted), has a tech job he's been holding and growing within for 10 years. 34 (oh yay, someone who graduated in the 90s!). Great dresser. Fantastic kisser. Terrifyingly accurate memory...

...And says he's in no rush. Wait. Four dates and he's not trying desperately to get into my pants? This I simply cannot understand. I must investigate more. With dating. And possibly nakedness.

Or maybe I should quit analyzing every waking moment of my life and just have some fun.

Don't think I didn't noticed that no one commented on my kickball logo. Oh, I know... Well, it seems the captain wasn't fond of it either. Too hairy. Too graphic, what with the sideways B and all (that part was not my idea, either). We emailed a bit about it and I've got something else cooking. I'll finish it tonight and post in the morning.

I'd just like to say this: art is not a democracy. It's just not. But still, I'll sometimes bend to the damn majority.

So I never shared the kickball logo I designed, did I... Well then bam:



Yeah, we're the Gingerballs. Our captain is a redhead... It was not my idea to call us by this terrible thing, but I kind of ran with it when it came to the branding.

But that's not important. What's important is that we won 9-6 today. And then we won a scrimmage after that. Fantastic stuff. I had a blast. Sunday is the day I smile the most. Thank you, Brooklyn, for once again providing me with love, support, and fun.

(with apologies to Kevin Smith...)



Kate: I didn't know you liked cantaloupe.

Morrison: Bitch, what you don't know about me could just about fit into the Grand Canyon.

Yesterday's pick-game of kickball was a bit of a disaster. A moral loss too, for some of us. Still, we managed to gather up our spirits for a fantastic 4/20 potluck (food, people!) at our team member's house. I arrived early and helped make the guac for the 7-layer dip, because that's just the kind of nice girl I am sometimes.

I met a ton of cute fellas, but most were boring or insane. One was an extra-special smart ass, so I didn't mind when he walked me to the train. On the way, however, I learned he's 21. 21! He was born in the 80s. How does that even happen??? Still, I collected his phone number and perhaps we'll have coffee and talk about his whole life being ahead of him, what with the PhD program at CalTec awaiting him. Holy crap, that kind of stuff makes me feel like such a loser until I remember life is not a competition (in theory).

Boy I could really use some more sleep. Still, it was a damn fun day. Oh, and I had a brunch date before all of this that went swimmingly. And this guy was born in the 70s, like a normal frickin' person...

Hell yeah. I randomly asked a coworker last week what was eating him (I usually don't care, but I like this particular coworker because he's snarky good fun), and he randomly mentioned his troubles over starting a kickball team. The rest of the conversation went like this...

Me: Dude. I'd play kickball.

Him: Really?!?!
(I find out later he was having trouble meeting the 4 girl minimum/no sausage fest criteria. Hence his joy.)

Me: Hell yeah. When and where, man?

Him: Sundays, 5-11.

Me: Eeesh, really...?

Him: Why is everyone so against Sundays?

Me: Church day, man. But for me it's a Buddhist thing. Wait, what time did you say?

Him: 5-11. McCarren Park.

Me: I can swing it. Will there be drinking afterward?

Him: Yes. And during too.

Me: Oh it's ON. But I gotta warn you--I'm highly competative, fairly athletic, and talk a lot of smack.

Him: You are a welcomed blessing.

We smile evil smiles the rest of the day.

So! Look at that, I joined me a team I did. The first pick-up game is this Sunday and I can't wait to get retarded with some new folks (it's not a work-related league, thankfully). And just two weeks ago I was staring wistfully at a bunch of cool kids at Prospect Park, wondering how they all met up and how I can get in on it... Ask and ye shall receive, I suppose. Now I just need a functioning bike to get from that part of Brooklyn to my part of Brooklyn, because I don't really want to tangle with the trains on a lovely summer night.

Friday: I tried Kundalini Yoga for the first time. Lately I've been seeking out chanting, meditation, and controlled breathing (in addition to the more determined steps down the Buddhist path), so I thought I'd give this a shot. The breath of fire is intense. Basically, it's a cross-between sniffing and hyperventilating. Since I mastered my diaphragm and abdominal muscles through tribal belly dancing, I got the hang of it pretty quickly. At one point we were instructed to conduct "donkey kicks." Use your imagination... At this, the tall, thin guy next to me glanced my way, and I looked back at him and said, "Oh man, we're going to hurt each other." We shared a good giggle, then tried to "donkey kick" with gusto and sincerity. It was an interesting experience, and afterwards I felt thoroughly cleansed of mental and physical debris. I went home and watched "Memoirs of a Geisha" with a tasty glass of bourbon and water.

Saturday: Morrison, el dirt bag-o, got a bath. He was hilariously pissed, but I have the thumbs so I prevailed. I also watched "Lady in the Water" while shredding beat clothing to use as stuffing for a deflated floor cushion. Later, I went to my nearest Salvation Army and donated two big bags of sweaters, coats, ill-fitting pants, and other such closet clutter. I wandered down Flatbush Ave. and past the local designer boutiques, resisting the urge to refill my closet (good thing I took my credit card out of my wallet before I left home!). That evening I went to a culture festival at the Apollo Theater put on by Soka Gakkau Int'l (SGI), a Buddhist group to which my friend Leah belongs. She sang in the last two numbers. We met afterward and traveled down to Union Sq. for drinks with another friend and her pal. After two rounds L and I were feeling tired, so said our goodbyes and wandered to our respective trains while chatting about Buddhism. You don't know how much joy I get from talking openly and honestly about religion. No judgment, just learning and sharing--how amazingly refreshing. (Thanks, Leah.) On the train home I offered to help a man with his two screaming children, but he politely declined. I would have never been that helpful and kind in that situation a year ago, but ever since volunteering with City Harvest (and many other events/reasons), my soul is more generous.

Sunday: I had every intention of waking up early for yoga, then chanting at the SGI center in the city, but my stomach had other ideas. (It couldn't have been the two beers on an empty stomach...doh.) Instead, I stayed close to home and had a sedate day of washing laundry and re-stuffing that floor cushion while watching "The Graduate." Wow. I've never seen "The Graduate" before. Never mind Mrs. Robinson, how fucked up is Elaine??! Or Ben for stalking her after one date?! The late 60s were bizarre. (Not that contemporary movies have made much progress in terms of the portrayal of women.) After a calming bowl of soup and a quick cruise of the 'net for more Buddhist-related books, I took a walk in Prospect Park. I returned home and indulged in a long bath. My tub reading: Spin Magazine's article on R.E.M.'s (latest) come-back album. We shall see, fellas... You've been boring me since "Monster."

It was a good one. I'm feeling positive and determined, empowered even. I only regret that I didn't fit a museum visit into the equation, but I can check out Murakami at the Brooklyn next weekend--it just opened.

Ok ok, since I've garnered a bit of interest regarding my fashion dabblings (namely from MLE and Jules), let me share a little more on this subject...

Why: I generally hate "fashion." I'm inclined to agree with the prevailing notion that it's something so hideous it must be changed every season (I'm paraphrasing a comedian here, not sure who). I've never been able to keep up with it ($) and I've never cared to either. I don't want to look like everyone else, I want to look GOOD. I see so many people conforming to trends that do their bodies no justice. Ponchos aren't for everyone (or anyone anymore, thank gawd). Capri pants only make short people look shorter. Low rise pants? Depends on the length and tone of your torso and legs, honey. And we already know how much I hate the proliferation of pink. Meanwhile, designers that try to appeal to the least common denominator by emblazoning their logos on everything make me want to vomit. That's not design, that's branding. So yeah... part of why I started sketching clothing designs was as a form of rejection and protest.

Style: Despite my deep, abiding love making and wearing over-the-top costumes and belly dancing attire, this is not a sparkle pony line, but a refined, chic, simple and feminine line. My inspiration struck shortly after I recovered from the depressing conclusion of Atonement. The costumes were gorgeous, and I'm not just talking about the famous green dress. Maybe, too, it was the general ambiance of the entire picture. I thought to myself: I want to dress like that all the time. I want to wear a modern suite that has one leg still in the UK's late 30s/early 40s. That's the fall line. The spring/summer line is a bit more American 50s goes on a vacation in Rome...

How-To & Know-How: I am afraid of sewing machines. I don't know *where* I picked up that fear. Maybe it was the rapid, loud needle seemingly devouring the unfinished pillow case I tried to make circa girl scouts. Maybe it was my mom's World Class Greek Guilt Trips, that went something like: "If you break my sewing machine then I can't pick up sewing jobs and have some extra money to buy us nice things. Don't you want us to have nice things!?!" Terrifying. (Note to future guilt tripper mothers: use this as a template for all of your trips. It's a basic if/then scenario with the then always being the loss or denial of "nice things." e.g. for a new teen driver: "If you crash the car, then I can't drive to work anymore. And if I can't drive to work, I won't make any money to buy nice things. Don't you like nice things?!?" But I digress.) So I know what you're thinking... 'if you're afraid of sewing machines, does that mean...?' YES. It means I've made ALL of my belly dancing costumes BY HAND. OK?!?! They take for fucking ever--I know!!! It's not about speed, it's about beauty. Don't you like beauty??!!?! No shit, I think the last costume (photos coming soon) took over 120 hours. And while there is a therapeutic, neurotic kind of joy in lovingly hand-sewing hundreds of coins onto a hip scarf while watching the Jason Bourne trilogy, I realize this is not practical for a *real* fashion line. I already have a dress form (often referred to as my "me-sized-me") for draping and fitting. I can bring my mom's Sewing Machine of (Greek) Doom back to NY next time I visit AL. It's just a matter of going to a sewing lesson or two, maybe meeting up with some fellow crafty wenches, and just getting the fuck over it already. I've even scooped out a few places in Brooklyn that offer workshops, lessons, and free studio use. If I can make a teapot out of mud, I can damnwell sew.

When: I've set myself a deadline for next summer, 10 looks. When can you see it? When I'm willing to show it. If you know me, you know I'm a bit of an introvert and I really hoard my visual work (poetry and performance dance/art don't count here) once it's complete. I'm hard on myself too. The only exception to this rule was when I displayed and sold my pottery back in the Montevallo days. You'll be surprised to know I've never sold a photo, even though I consider photography my primary art form. I know. I'm a spaz.

Can you help?: Uhhhh no, probably not. Unless you're willing to stitch-n-bitch with me every weekend for the next year, hang it up. I'm pretty comfortable with the design, and I'm not willing to relinquish solo credit without someone really putting in the labor of sewing too. Besides, Jen (my bffnyc) has dedicated herself to branding, web design, and perhaps a men's line, but she's leaving me to the lady stuff. It's sweet that you want to help, but do you know me? I'm a tyrant. You know what we could do though... have a fashion show of our respective lines next fall, perhaps. Battle of the trannies!!! How cool would that be?

So there's the story for now. If you can't get in touch with me on occasion, just know that I'm chewing on colored pencils, gushing over fabric, or bleeding from my fingertips. And loving it.

Today I'm meeting a friend or two at the American Museum of Natural History. There's an exhibit on water that we've been meaning to see. PLUS, I love those frickin' dioramas. They make me laugh my ass off every time. There is something so silly about the way the polar bear is frozen in time, forever gnawing on a seal. Or how the apes will always be hanging in their trees, perpetually caught in mid-swing.

Then, because I *must* on working on my fashion line (this is what I do when I don't write--I switch mediums and usually invent some wildly ambitious project), I proposed that my writer friend and I hole up in a bar/cafe and sit quietly with our respective projects.

Of course this would all be so much more fun if the temp would gain about ten degrees...

I thought the mugging was too terrible to write about (and right after that crack on the jaw too)... but then I was sexually assaulted...

The details are not important. The details, quite frankly, have been arresting my will for far too long already. Well not a moment longer. Should I write about these terrible things in detail (and I may very well, this weekend), my words will come from a place of strength and action. In a town like this, very few things are certain. However, I am complete and unflinching in the knowledge that I will rise above this and I will rise higher than ever before. I am the captain of my conscious. I am the master of my joy. And no one can take that away from me. I'm getting on with my beautiful life now.

(Julia: you have no idea how much your birthday card meant to me. I'll call you soon.)