A yawning J called me sometime around 1:30 this afternoon.

“Whatcha doing?”
“Leaving the gym with Trip. What’s up?”
“I just woke up. Big show last night. I’m starving…. Wanna get something to eat?”

Eating was the one thing I had not yet done, so I accepted. We drove around for a good half hour before our stomachs decided exactly which restuarant had the best grilled chicken salads. And somewhere on Cambridge street, I remembered why I kept him around, even after all the fooling around and the ridiculous amounts of bad behavior. He makes me laugh. So effortlessly.

At home after lunch, I surveyed my morning’s work. Floors were mopped, dying plants watered and entry mirror and keyrack FINALLY installed. That one was a bitch. Self-drilling wall-anchors? Big lie. I had to get out the drill and well, one Tim the Toolman Taylor moment after another and finally, I achieved success.

I reorganized my CDs this morning, too. Oh, and my taxes are filed, the ironing done and boots cleaned and polished. Did I mention I’ve been up since 7? Yeah, I have. And now, with two hours until I’m expected to be at a party, there’s a relish tray to prepare and my face to put on.

Amazing how far a gal can go on nervous energy.

Please Note: This post is rated TMI for Too Much Information. It includes words like, pelvic, and may not be suitable for some viewers.

Over brunch one morning, a friend and I talked careers. I mentioned that even at my most ambitious moments, I had never intended to have one. A corporate career, at any rate.

“My plan was always to stay home, write, and have fat babies.”

As soon as the sentence had come out of my mouth, an odd feeling lept up in my stomach. The little worry knot. I prodded my salmon with my fork and pushed the knot back down. I smiled. Moments like those have always made me wonder if outwardly, things change as they do on internal levels. Did my face cloud over? Moments like those make me put on a bigger smile to run interference for questions like,” What’s wrong?”

Maintain current comfort levels. Smile. Eat your salmon.

It was very good salmon.

***

Months ago, six hours in the emergency room at Saint Elizabeth’s, the Phenagran drip making me woozy, I had been clear-headed enough to know that x-rays and ultrasounds were not necessary for simple food poisoning. Not to mention the pelvic exam. I’d stared at the ceiling and waited for the stranger to finish. No sense in making eye contact. There won’t be cuddling afterward. He’d made light conversation. Shhh… don’t talk, honey. It’s better that way.

“Hmmm.”
I had continued counting ceiling tiles.
“There seems to be a bit of … an abnormality.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have any of your sexual partners complained of… resistance?”
It’s the ones that don’t get that far who complain of resistance, right? Ha! But seriously, folks…
“No… I mean, I don’t think so.”
“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Will make pregnancy a bit of a… difficulty… but we’ll worry about that when the time comes, eh?”
Phenagran in my brain.
“What?”

After his explanation, and watching the nurse change my IV, I’d gone back to sleep.

***

Over pink salmon in cream sauce, we kept chatting. I had a second helping and ignored the funny feeling in my stomach.

I had put off getting a second opinion (three scheduled and subsequently cancelled appointments). We’ll worry about that when the time comes. While, admittedly, it is a silly thing for a single girl of my age to do, I worry about it at other times. Like brunch. Or when looking at baby pictures or watching diaper commericals.

I am, in all other ways, in perfectly fine health. I do not have a disease, a disorder, a cut or a scrape. Just an abnormality and a worry knot attached to the idea that I may have been making all the wrong sorts of plans.

So, today, when my work calendar darted on to remind me of a fourth appointment, I pressed snooze instead of dismiss and dug through my purse.

Where’s my Blue Cross card?

I popped Shakira’s Donde estan los ladrones into my Discman and hit the gym with Trip. There were no three consecutive eight-minute miles last night, but still had to give myself an A for effort. And another one for having remembered all the words to the album.

At home, I got in touch with a long, hot shower, and my inner gourmet. Fed, I went to catch an hour of Benson and Stabler, but instead found that Blow was on. One bloody nose at a restaurant and I thought, “Well, this certainly isn’t going to end happily” and shut it off.

While Kitten played sneak attack (I’m wearing the battle wounds this morning), I dug out J’s old pajamas. I’m a good six inches shorter than J and so his fleece-lined pants cover my feet and drag on the floor — even when rolled twice at the waist. The comfort is both sentimental and real.

I put the pjs on and crawled into bed with some contact sheets and a Viggo-featured magazine (thanks!). The contact sheets were, for the most part, ignored. My 9 AM meeting will go less smoothly, but in the battle between work and Mr. Mortenson… well, there are very clear winners.

In an effort to reverse this funk, I spent my lunch hour in a cheery sort of way.

I started putting together a digital photo album. Though it made me miss summer hellawickedbad, it was a nice mini-break from my doldrums. And since we share this sort of thing now, here’s the beginning of my “Things I miss about Summer” list.

I miss naps with GI Joe.

I miss halter tops and weekends at the Cape.

And I miss causin’ trouble.

And I so miss my tan. How many days left of winter?

Gruff bark and no real bite, my father was always big on talk.

It was not uncommon for him to threaten to sell me to the gypsies for a three-legged pony. (It’s fairly easy to see how that threat came to fruition. As a writer, I can only imagine the upside of gypsy life, and have more than once wished he’d shown a bit of follow-through to that end. I mean, my memoirs on the bestseller list by age twenty, not to mention my little sisters would have had a field day with that three-legged pony? Brilliance.)

One of my father’s favorite (and thoroughly unconvincing) aces was, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Last night, I came home weary, still reeling. The universe had played too heavy a hand when I had nothing up my sleeve and no poker face. I’d spent all day avoiding what was bothering me and walked home in the snow, crying off my mascara. I couldn’t explain to anyone that it wasn’t something monumental. Just the feeling that my heart had been worn too thin, in a few too many spots.

At home, Chris had left a note, Never make apologies for who you are. I cried in the shower. Then I made tea, did the laundry and spent an hour on my yoga mat pretending to let the world go. The worn spots on my heart were starting to go numb.

I wandered back to my room, sitting down at the computer to do some work. My work email was full again of the usual requests and demands and… one email from my father. It had been a while since I heard from him. Post-divorce, and with unpredictable frequency, he now tends to disappear and reemerge. Disappear, reemerge.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Hi kiddo,

Dad

And right then, the burden of empathy, the precarious balance of pity and reverence, made me feel as though all my stars had finally gone out. And though I have been weeping out of my own self-pity for what seems like days, and after all these years, my father finally delivered on his threats.

He gave me something to cry about.

I came home from work last night, walked down my swept hall, through my tidy kitchen, dropping bills and my purse on the clean table. I went into my room, sat in the middle of my perfectly-made bed, and cried, for no good reason at all.

Mostly because I felt like a complete mess.

S had thought I needed honesty. And so, over a glass of wine, offered a few tidbits.

Tidbit #1
S: You know what your problem is?
H: *whimper* Fire away.
S: You’re too fucking polite, Miss Texas.
H: See, and here I was under the delusion that ‘polite’ was a good thing.
Tidbit #2
S: I’ll be honest. When I first met you, I thought you were… Well, let’s just say that I didn’t think you were as smart as you are.
H: Because of how I look?
S: It was very small minded of me, I know. But yes.

I walked home from the bar, brooding. Until Trip called.

Trip had thought I needed endorphines. He picked me up and took me to the gym, where I set the treadmill on a eight-minute mile and ran my guts out. I got some endorphines, and on the way home, some groceries. And then I went back to the house and cried. Until the RSF called.

The RSF had thought I needed down time and some THC. I don’t smoke much anymore. Especially not during the week. But as it seems to work more like Tylenol PM on steroids, I figured, it should do the trick. RSF provided some green goodness, a gift from his latest travels — Ghiradelli chocolates — and a listening ear. I went back home, full of milk chocolate and kindness, crawled into bed and cried some more.

I didn’t need honesty, endorphines or chocolate. Or maybe I did. But I still feel like a needy, mushy mess. I’d go back to bed and cry some more, if I thought it would accomplish anything. Instead, I’m going to make my bed, dry my hair and go contribute to the Gross National Product.

Mostly because I don’t know what else to do.

Whoever got to this site by searching:

phone numbers sexy old laides who like young boys in New Haven

Um, eeew???

First of all, I am not old. I don’t live in New Haven. And it’s perfectly well-documented that I have an afinity for older men.

And no, you still can’t have my phone number.

Mondays at the Monkey Firm are brutal for me.

I have to hit the ground running (as in, be in the office operating with full cognitive powers) by 7:30 AM. A full hour before the rest of the office comes straggling in. Why? Because I’m a lucky, lucky girl!

Monday nights at my house, therefore, are anything but brutal.

Typically, I come home (boots off at the front door), slide down the hardwood hallway in my tights while on the phone with my favorite Tai Restaurant. For the good half-hour I’m waiting for delivery, I finish up some work from home, have a cuddle with Kitten (who by this point is tired of me being gone on weekends) and fill the tub. I’m usually pretty thrilled to see the delivery man and tip him a little too much. Then, food in hand, I crawl into a hot bath with some chopsticks and a carton of Pad Thai. Ahhhh, heaven.

Yeah, I eat in the tub. Sure, maybe that’s weird. But hey, just add it to the list.

Last night, however, things got a little stirred up. We went out for Thai food. I know, I know. Crazy talk.

The intuitive waiter must have sensed that things were a little off for me, not being in the bath and all, and kindly spilled a rather large glass of ice water into my lap. Oddly equipped with a digital camera, my dinner companion managed to capture the moment. I was laughing so hard, that you may very well have been convinced that the puddle on the chair and my soaked jeans were a result of some rather unfortunate laughing-peeing accident. (But we all know that hasn’t happened since girls’ camp, 1991. And there is no need to bring that up.)

Soggy pants and all, I left the restaurant fairly sure the entire staff was laughing just as hard as I was (except for the poor waiter), got in the car and thanked Baby Jesus for the invention of heated seats.

My Monday kicks your Monday’s ass.

***PS***
Pictures from New Year’s Eve, courtesy of the Dollhouse. Please ignore the one where I have a double chin. And the one where I look like a rat. Thank you.

A few weeks ago, I got set up on Friendster.

A few weeks ago, I got set up on Friendster by someone whom I’ve never met, but thought I “seemed cute,” and would make a good match for his also-cute friend, Jon.

Ballsy, right?

What I thougth was equally as ballsy was when I replied to his message with:

I’m sorry. I’m sure your friend Jon is very nice, but I’m not actually here to meet anybody.

Did that work? No way. Not only did I hear back from him with a note that said, “Perfect. Neither is he.” but a rather charming message from Jon as well. So, I read the note, had a look at his profile and photos. Yes, turns out, Jon is cute. Maybe a bit too much hair-product use, but overall, attractive.

So, what? He’s relatively cute. Okay, and fairly smart, too. For MIT and all. And the foreign film I have listed on my profile? He’s not only seen it, but can quote the sequel. Why? Because he speaks French, too. You know, living in Paris will do that to a guy. He doesn’t listen to atrocious music. He doesn’t watch too much TV (not even sports) and he plays the guitar. Among other things.

I’m totally waiting to discover that he has a midget porn addiction or an extra toe.

‘Cause that’s just the way these things work.

Standing in South Station on Friday afternoon waiting for my train, I noticed a display in the center of the concourse. At first glance, my eye caught one of the posters and I thought, “Great color. I used to use that color all the time for my layouts.”

Then I looked again.

It was my layout. My poster. My design. And it looked good.

I called my boss and asked why I had a poster up at South Station. Oh, she said, she forgot to tell me. My poster is now part of a traveling exhibit on women designers. It’ll be in New York next and then DC.

So, um, if you live in New York or DC, look for it wherever random things happen, I guess.

I want to make out on one of the benches in front of the rain forest display of the Natural History Museum.

I just need someone to make out with. It’s going to be something of an obsession until I do, so let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.

Volunteers?

It was wise advice to take a friend’s advice and sit on the East-facing side of my southbound train. Dozens of train rides later, and I’ve never sat on the Western side.

Tonight, while there was still daylight, I caught the gulls and pelicans in their water ballet, the patchwork of frosted fields and flashes of quaint-looking towns with old fashioned train depots. At Mystic, the sky had taken on a lavender glow and by the next small town, the sun had left nothing behind but a delicate, rosy slipper of light.

I’d have liked to get off this southbound train at Mystic, just to see if the world felt lavender there. Maybe one day I will. Get off in Mystic and feel lavender. Someone once told me that purple was the color of an unsatisfied woman. I strongly doubt that’s the case. I simply don’t see how anyone, woman or man, could feel unsatisfied in a place called “Mystic” where the sky glows heather at dusk.

Maybe one day I’ll see for myself.

Work Boyfriend just informed me that I look disheveled.

Uh, thanks?

He’s right, though, I am sorta disheveled this morning. In late last night from Happy-Hour-turned-Reunion with old Hungarian river pal, I noticed it was a bit chilly when I went to wash my face. So, down, down, down into the basement I went to check the boiler.

There was water everywhere.

Pretending I wasn’t made completely of vodka, I made the appropriate phone calls. I suspected frozen pipes and crawled into bed before all the heat left the house. But as it turns out, it was the upstairs neighbor’s hot water heater. I mean, poor saps and all, but I got my hot shower this morning, thank you, Water Gods.

However, waiting for me when I got out of the nice, warm shower, was an email from the Monkey Firm’s CEO. He’s giving a speech. Can I have a presentation ready for him by 9AM? I almost swallowed my tongue. It was half-past 7.

I threw on my clothes, tied my wet hair into a knot, tossed some clothes in a bag for my trip to NY and RAN out the door. In case you want to burgle me, my front door is unlocked (couldn’t find my keys and no time to look). Just mind the sleeping Roommate.

Dear Friend,

I guess it’s pretty late for a school night, but I’ve just come home, a wee bit more than slightly tispsy, and read something really intruiging. I wish you were here to tell you about it.

Love,

H

PS It’s funny how being lonely, and being lonely for you are entirely different matters.

Today is my three-year anniversary at the Monkey Firm.

Some of you know what this means. For the rest, I’ll enlighten. Three years was the benchmark I set for myself – the minimum sentence in my corporate cell*. I’ve put in my three years and now, I give myself full permission to leave.

Do I want to? Of course I do.

God (and anyone else who’s been listening) knows that I’ve had my sights set on the Big Bad City for ages now. I am, at heart, a New Yorker – just a New Yorker with a rather long commute. J used to say that he was afraid I’d go down for the weekend and never come back. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.

Will I actually do it? That’s a horse of a different color.

A coworker of mine had this to say about my plan: “Why would you want to do that? So you can be one of the millions of lonely, unhappy women in the biggest, loneliest city? You’re doing well here. You wanna go there and get lost just like everyone else?” I called him a jackass and walked back to my office and thought, “He’s so right!”

And he’s not.

I’ve done it before, picked up everything and moved to a new city. Why can’t I do it again? Loneliness is hardly a matter of location. And as for doing well here? Sure. In three years at the Monkey Firm, I have been part of bringing in several million dollars in revenue. But, who’s to say I can’t do that elsewhere?

In three years I have also been responsible for kick-ass, morale-boosting efforts like, Margarita Friday, Surprise Popsicle Hour, and the infamous Halloween Extravaganza. I have been caught by the Director of Ops skate-boarding through the corridors on furniture dollies, hiding in the coat closet, sucking helium to sing Annie’s Song and doing a killer Mary Katherine Gallagher impression in the lobby.

I know I can do that anywhere. My quirkiness is totally portable.

But does New York really need any more nuts? Possibly not. But does this nut need New York? I do think so. But, she also needs a shot in the arm.

She’s not as brave as she used to be.

(*I say this tongue in cheek, as my “cell” is a windowed, corner office with a spectacular view, but we’re going for hyperbole here.)

I could wait until the first anniversary of This Fish (next month sometime) to make a big to-do, but I think that this celebration is more about the unbelievable number of you that stop by, take something with you and leave something behind. One hundred thousand since March is pretty spectacular to me. Thanks, guys.

When This Fish Needs A Bicycle was conceived, anonymity was key.

I created the original blogspot site as nothing more than an audience-free journal. But to my surprise, it didn’t last too long without an audience. One by one, strangers and familiars became reader and friend, and eventually, thisfish.com was born. Ah, isn’t she pretty?

From the beginning, I was paranoid that J (who, as it turns out is tragically illiterate anyway) would read my melodramatic rantings and the result would be catastrophic. Then the worry became, what if my mother found this site? Over the course of time, not only did friends, acquaintances, and my brother stumble onto thisfish.com, but eventually, so did my mother. So, that worry is out of the way. And as for J? J who?

I do believe that a lot of the appeal of this site has been the mystery, or at least the every-woman angle that it has going. Not only do I imagine a lot of you already have an idea of what I should look like, but I also, in my infinite insecurity, fear some of you may be disappointed with the actual product.

The feeling that it may change your perception has been something to contend with.

But, contending done, I’ll simply make it your option. Click, or don’t. Here I am.

(Yeah, I know it’s fuzzy. But it’s the closest thing I have to a head-shot and is one of the few pictures of me not eating.)

Thank you, and… come again.

Sometime in March, I dropped a little sitemeter on the bottom of this page. And sometime today, that little sitemeter will register 100,000 visits. Pretty exciting, right?

Well, now. How to celebrate? I could write something really meaningful. Or, I could post a picture.

We have until lunch time to decide.

Maybe it’s love
But it’s like you said
Love is like a role that we play

His approach has certainly been different.

One afternoon, a month or so ago, he sent me an email declaring his intention to spend more time with me. He wouldn’t call it dating, he said, knowing my instinct to flee from that sort of attention and turn suddenly chilly.

Who me?

He said I was worth his time. He listed his reasons, my “surprising wit” being at the top. When he calls to make plans with me, he leaves no room for excuses. And I have no reason to make any. He treats me well, doesn’t cross any of my invisible lines and for the most part, says the right things.

It’s all so practical, so cut-and-dried, that I have to wonder whether he actually likes me, or just really wants to like me because it’s good on paper.

I wonder the same thing about myself.

My left brain says that the relationship would be convenient and healthy. He’s very intelligent, successful and everything a girl should want. Everything I should want. He is also what you’d call a ‘stayer’ — the hard-working, dedicated, bringing-home-the-bacon, family type guy who really only wants to love someone else.

And he’d most likely never break my heart.

My left brain tells me that I should be happy. I try to talk myself into feeling that way every time I see his name in my in-box or on the screen of my cell-phone.

My right brain tells me I’m not. Because I don’t feel that thing. You know, that rush of heady excitement that makes you want to do unspeakable things in public places. That feeling that you’re actually living and not just being. That knowledge that it could all just unravel as quickly as it began and you could be left broken and weeping and scarred.

Do I get some thrill from getting my heart broken? Certainly not.

But I do think that thing, the build-up previous to the seemingly inevitable heartbreak, is what makes life worth living and puts grit behind the words want and need. I mean, who writes love songs about the person that “just made lots of sense”?

Maybe he’ll grow on me?

I could nip this in the bud and die alone, or I could do the grown-up thing, learn my lesson about love and find myself a stayer.

Though, I must confess, neither one seems very appealing.

I think I just walked onto the set of ET the Extraterrestrial.

Background: My office is an ellipse of windows, one end looking out over old Cambridge and the other a view of downtown Boston. Only, I never see any of it. Bad lighting and freakish glares makes it impossible to keep the shades open. So, for the last few weeks, my little space in the corporate world has been undergoing renovation. Track lighting gone, recessed lights installed and my feng shui friendly white furniture replaced with glare-resistant ebony fixtures.

And today is paint-the-walls day.

My entire office is quarantined, draped in floor-to-ceiling plastic. Seriously, I walked in and at once expected to hear Keys coming down the hall and see a potted geranium (?) and a funny little alien waddling around. But instead, I heard Highway to Hell and saw an army of too-belt clad fellows armed with spackling knives and paint brushes.

H: Uh oh. Where do I live?
ToolBelt Guy: This your office, Miss?
H: Yep.
TBG: We didn’t know you were working today.
H: Sadly, yes. But you know what, it’s really not a problem. I have to disappear into meetings for a couple hours. Paint away.
TBG: You sure? I can clear these guys outta here if you need.
H: Positive.

I’m between meetings now, hiding behind my plastic barricade and every time I see the shadow of someone passing, I croak out a very convincing,

“Elllllliotttt….”

Boy, do I give myself the giggles sometimes.

Somtimes, the simplest things make me feel so decadent. Hot tea. Salty baths. Lying in the sunlight on a quiet Saturday morning with an angora-soft kitten under my cheek and good music on the stereo.

The poor man’s royal treatment.

I spent last night playing Monopoly with the RSF and company (the shrewdest, fastest traders out there, I swear), only to remember, about 10 minutes into the game, that I HATE Monopoly. Hate it. So I started trying to lose (Bad trades, developing cheap property just to get rid of money, etc.). It didn’t take long for RSF to realize that’s what I was doing and to thwart my every attempt. I couldn’t lose that damn game to save my life! I finally told them that at a certain minute on the clock, I was bowing out and heading home for some much-needed sleep. Or at least that was the excuse. I mean, that game is torture!

The RSF now operates with the understanding that I don’t play pool and I don’t play Monopoly. It’s good we got that out of the way.

We’ll talk more about that whole situation later as it merits a nice, long, Why am I So Fucking Difficult post.

Now, go. Be decadent. That’s what Saturday is for. There are sunny spots all over your house and you’re wasting them.

Oooh! And go paint you toenails in the nude. That was unprecedented satisfaction.

I got two phone calls this morning before 7:30.

The first was B, calling from Florida, wishing me a happy Twenty-Seven Below Zero Day.

B: It’s 73 degrees here today. That’s what, 100 degrees warmer?
H: You’re such a bastard. If I freeze to death on the way to work, you’re gonna feel really bad.
B: Hey, you don’t sound too good.
H: YOU don’t sound too good. *cough cough* This is my sexy phlegm voice. Recognize.
B: My bad. It’s very sexy. Okay, well, just calling to rub it in.
H: I appreciate that, Florida Boy. Talk to you soon. I’m getting back in bed where it’s warm.
B: Bye, Kiddo.

I crawled back under the down comforters and tried to coerce Kitten into playing foot warmer. But as soon as I got comfortably entangled in the sheets, the phone rang again. It was the Resident Sports Fanatic.

RSF: Hey. Sorry to wake you.
H: Nah, I was up.
RSF: Will you check to see if you have water?
H: Yeah, we do. Why? Your pipes frozen?
RSF: Shit. Yeah. I was hoping it was a water main and not our house.
H: You wanna come shower here?
RSF: You don’t mind?
H: Absolutely not.

I did a quick bathroom check (I’m prone to draping lingerie on the back of the door and forgetting about it) and made sure there was something more than Roommate’s bar o’ soap in the shower. You know, in case RSF turned out to be closet high-maintenance. But, of course, he emerged from the shower smelling of nothing but Irish Spring, just like Roommate. Thank God. I’m an open-minded gal and all, but I do like to be the good-smelling one. I mean, if we both smelled like jasmine and rosewater, what would I bring to the friendship?

There’s always the rack, I suppose.

I spent yesterday in a coma.

More accurately, I spent yesterday in a coma punctuated by fits of coughing and root beer float breaks. Starve a cold, feed a fever, right? Well, root beer float for carnival throat comes after that. It just gets left off for sake of brevity.

I will spend today back at work, wishing I were still in my coma. And wondering if, seeing as I’ve had carnival throat at least three times this winter, I shouldn’t just get my tonsils out. I didn’t need my appendix; I don’t need my tonsils. Not only could I avoid looking like Quasimodo per all the swollen glands, but there’d be at least a forty-eight hour period in which no one would expect me to eat anything but ice-cream related products. Brilliant! And let’s not forget that it would earn me a day off from the monkey firm.

As I see it, there are no drawbacks to this plan.

Then again, there is that whole dying-while-under-anesthesia thing. That concerns me a bit. But on the upside (there’s always an upside), my family might get to be on 60 Minutes or Dateline or something. And getting them all in the same room would be pretty fucking miraculous. Right?

And maybe I could get some posthumous fame out of the deal as well.

Tonsils no more, 2004.

bender
n 1: an occasion for heavy drinking

I was already in my pajamas when he called.

Sure, it was only 7:30 or so, but the kind of day I had, plus the whole, it feels like I swallowed fire for a carnival sideshow sore throat thing I’ve got going on, I was ready to relax.

Wanna go out tonight?

I was inclined, and hoping for a movie. But it was not to be. We (me and three boys, yet again) ended up on a bender at a pool hall on a Tuesday night.

Now I’m at home, back in my pajamas, suffering from carnival throat and a mild hangover trying to decide which of the ridiculous and amazing stories to tell. It was that kinda night.

But that will have to be later. Right now, my brain feels just a mite too big for my skull. It’s gonna be that kinda day.

***One conversation of note:***

RSF: H, you should consider becoming a lesbian.
H: Oh, I have! I’m signing the papers next week.
RSF: Excellent. Let’s just hope you have better taste in women than you do in men.

It’s 1:45 AM on a Tuesday (okay, bridging Wednesday) and I’m just getting home.

Hello, bed. You look so inviting!

We’ll talk about this tomorrow.

“What do we do when we fall off the horse?”
(silence)
“We get back on!”
“I’m sorry, Maury. I’m not a gymnast.”

Not five minutes after declaring my intentions to Paul, that I was taking a hiatus from the Man Scene, the following exchange took place in my office.

Coworker Paul: I have a question for you. A personal one.
H: (here we go again) No, I’m not dating anyone and no, I don’t want to meet your rich friend.
CP: He’s not like the last one! This one has a personality. And a Range Rover.
H: Paul, seriously. I thought I banished you from my office.
CP: That was yesterday. You don’t trust me, do you?
H: Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anybody.
CP: My wife thinks he’s nice. He was over on Saturday for the game (insert really long story here) Next time we have a party, I’ll call you…
H: *sigh*
CP: He’s Greek. Tall. Dresses well.
H: (Greek? Yum!) Dresses well? Even by your standards? Wow.
CP: He just broke off his engagement…
H: Paul!!
CP: Three months ago! But because she was a nag! You can be a bitch, but not a nag.
H: Eh, true.
CP: Wait, how old are you?
H: Twenty-five. Better question, hold old is he?
CP: 31.
H: If I were to agree to meet him, that would be an acceptable age.
CP: Wait. You’re only 25? How are you so young and so…?
H: Spinsterly? It’s a gift.
CP: Shut up. Okay, next party, I’m calling you. But that means you have to give me your phone number.
H: We’ll see. Now, get out of here. I’m busy.

Oh, sigh. I’d say something about Coworker Paul always trying to set me up with his silly, plastic, affluent friends. Like he has a problem with me being single… but then again I have a problem with me being single. Not a big one. Well, not any bigger than making a pretty pink page to talk about it all the time.

We’ll have a good giggle over this one day. But right now, I really need that drink, the CD and some cough drops.