Had a v. nice weekend. Full of nice things like dancing, v. fine dinner companions and...tequila. Lots of tequila.
Spent evening on Friday amidst best of pals, drinking, dancing and strip-teasing at local appropriately-named Manhattan-esque bar and lounge. Spent part of the evening learning about guy pals' rating system. Told them to think it over quite well before deciding on a number for yours truly. Was satisfied to rank second among all female acquaintances.
Battled resulting hangover the next day with charming dinner companions and tequila. God bless Tequila. Raced off from dinner to attend another fete across town and arrived soaked to skin from downpour. Downed another tequila-friendly libation, inexpertly smoked clove cigarette (did not inhale) then retreated to one of the bedrooms for good conversation and Vin Diesl flick. Mmm. Vin. Fine way to pass a Saturday evening.
Rest of weekend was passed in quasi-sleep mode, alternating between v. comfy bed and v. comfy couch. Thankfully, cell phone was buried in purse and did not hear it. Listened to messages this morning only to be told,
Surprise! Family is v. messed up!
Turns out, UMF has banished the final sibling with resounding decree that if said sister is going to be critical of disgusting affair (with also married partner), then should not expect to have college paid for. Um, what?! As am sort of a sell out, would advise younger sister to take the money and run. Be idealistic after education is paid for. If only she didn't have so much damn integrity. So, is left to yours truly, and other siblings (neither of which in any better of a financial situation) to fund college. With $11 in checking account and a lawyer to pay for, am hoping for pennies from heaven.
Meanwhile, when did UMF go from unhinged to simply fucking crazy?
This is so v. mommy dearest.
Markers? Check.
Poster Board? Check.
Gold Stars? Check.
Am v. well on my way to new source of motivation and sense of accomplishment.
The Rewards Chart.
Have regressed to days of Kindergarten bliss in effort to progress to post-adolescent contentment. Have been perfecting system of goals and rewards.
Every bag of M&Ms ignored as they call from their happy shelves in the convenience store: 1 gold star.
Every email from J that remains unanswered: 1 gold star
Every pound closer to losing the big ten: 1 gold star
Gold stars will eventually merit things like shopping trips, new DVDs and the like. Eventually, will have poster full of gleaming gilded stars, a yoga tummy and a stunning collection of fine cinematic entertainment. And if that does not work, am simply going to give up.
Because am really missing those M&Ms.
On the upside to having gained ten extra pounds since August, have noticed substantial growth in normally barely-there chest. Stood in front of mirror this morning, trying to untangle over-grown mane from bra clasp and noticed,
My cup runneth over!
Yes, well, so do those boy-cut Gap undies you love so much.
I'm not responding to that.
Fine. Are you going to respond to J's email, then? You know, the one where he says he misses you?
Not sure.
Ahem. A resounding "no" would make me feel much better. I mean, how can he, with one breath, mention something New Girl said about you, and then utter a declaration of missing you with the next? Come on!
My thoughts exactly.
You mean we *gasp* agree??
Yes, but don't get used to it.
Well, get used to that new ass of yours, missy. Thinking about going to the gym isn't do it any good.
Am horrified by the thought that the season for prancing about in bikinis and tummy revealing tops is on its swift and merry way. Dear lord, smite me with a parasite. Please?
Tried unsuccessfully to read on jolting work-bound bus, mostly because could not concentrate. Lyrics to songs that have sung time and again for sleepily drunk party-goers bounced around inside my head providing anything but lullaby-like comfort.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, every one.
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn.
Have refrained from commenting upon the war that find ourselves presently involved in, and will not do so after this point. Will only say that am not a supporter of it, nor the basis on which it is founded. All that aside, feel a v. strong sense of loyalty and concern for those fighting in far off sandstorm of confused ideals. Brother airman, sister soldier, cousin infantryman -- do you really believe what you are there to do? At exactly the same moment am asking that question, the final verse of another song, lullabied to yours truly since before the days when had any notion of politic, propaganda and patriotism, takes over the spot of the other, on repeat.
Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But the man who treasures freedom
Like the swallow has learned to fly.
Perhaps do not agree with the president on current political agenda. Perhaps cannot see clear to justifying a war and sending our brother, sister and cousin off to battle in it. But am touched that there are still some who believe that their efforts for this ideal will be repaid. Do hope that their belief provides swallow-like wings. Their intangible compensation. Because as for now,
God says, the check is in the mail.
Betty Crocker, that is.
Am baking genius!
Last night, Concerned Roommate pranced into bedroom where yours truly sat v. comfortably reading (after v. long day of disciplined calorie-watching) and pleaded, "H, bake me something chocolatey? Please?"
Simply had to oblige. Such charming requests should not go ignored.
Lacking three major cookie-making ingredients, made v. creative attempt at conjuring up chocolate drop cookies. One part chemistry, one part baking-know-how and two parts What-the-Fuck. Mix well. Bake at 350 for 8-10 minutes.
The result? Unusual but incredibly tasty cakey-cookie confection that hit the spot. Over and over. Am afraid that in overindulging, have set self back in terms of dieting but, have also made great baking discovery. The secret ingredient? Red Wine Vinegar. Shhh. Don't tell.
Had what could have been v. uncomfortable exchange with J yesterday. But am quite proud to say that was able to remain quite rational and emotionally detached in responding to J's question of, "Are we never going to be friends again??" One small step for man...
Will also be getting money back this afternoon. Call off the Sicilians.
For now, anyway.
The good:
Spent Saturday morning puttering around, finally deciding to take a walk. Was enjoying misty wandering when happened upon local public library. Oh the joy! Books, movies, magazines. All... free. My lord, what happiness exists at the public library. Sequestered self in corner with Tom Robbins books and cleaned them out. Will be in paperback heaven for next two weeks.
Spent evening lazying about with Thin Blonde Girlfriend indulging in 7-layer bean dip, frozen margaritas and um, botanical things of the fun and relaxing nature. V. nice.
The bad:
Received much-awaited credit reports in the mail. Seems Identity Twin has been quite busy opening accounts, defaulting on them and then moving. Twenty-eight (four of which legitimately belong to yours truly) accounts and just as many different addresses -- the bitch has been v. active. Am not looking forward to v. long and drawn out clearing-up process that awaits.
The v. fucked up:
E-mailed J on Friday.
But only because was absolutely necessary. See, am owed money and since finding self in credit predicament that requires legal aid (am being sued by one creditor over Identity Twin's defaulting on $15,000 balance), found it absolutely necessary to collect on awkward debt.
J said would drop the cash round this weekend. Did he? Oh, no. Of course not. Now am being forced into yet another round of difficult email conversation to collect. Why, oh why? Do not want to answer J's "How are you?" email. Just don't. Just want to be able to say, "May I have my money, please?" and let it be over with.
Shall end up resorting to perks of Italian ancestry and sending thugs to his door. Never go up against a Sicilian when money is on the line.
Friends think it's quirky the way am genuinely frightened by violence. Boyfriends think it's cute the way am prone to get all teary-eyed and hide my face in movies like Fight Club, or frustrating when would rather break up than have an argument. And some think it's silly that I am horrified by things as simple as fist fights or yelling matches, or refuse to get involved in something as harmless as political debate. She's sensitive. Non-confrontational.
Only siblings will be able to understand the reasons for this quirky and otherwise uncharacteristic timidity toward conflict. The three older ones, at least.
We all grew up in the hitting house.
My father was a yeller with a fierce temper. But paired with the fact that he was also very tender-hearted himself (and something of a pushover), he dealt his punishments in not-overly-frequent spankings. The traditional kind. His big hand to our backsides. If you tensed your butt muscles just right, we learned, you hardly felt a thing. But mostly, he ranted, raved and yelled. It was my mother who came completely unglued. She found uses for Dad's thick brown leather belt (watch the buckle -- it leaves marks), for spatulas and metal clothes hangers. She doesn't let us bring up the incidents with the wire hangers. She cries and tells us to stop. Maybe the image of her beating them into our bare asses is too much for her. Maybe that's why she talks about what a cold mother she'd had growing up. Because maybe she'll be forgiven by comparison. I remain uncertain.
I am also not quite certain when the beatings stopped, but I do remember quite clearly that the punishment rarely fit the crime. Getting caught for stealing gum in the third grade landed me a rational talking-to about honesty. Getting caught by my mom, waking from her nap to find yours truly hosing-down my older brother with spray nozzle on the kitchen sink, merited a beating with a wooden ruler yanked from the kitchen utility drawer.
By the time the youngest two were born, my mother had become enlightened. Hitting was wrong. Her punishments then were dealt by withholding approval. Her daughters were never thin enough. Pinching our adolescent tummies, she'd say, "Don't you want to go on a diet with me?" Our thin hair too long for her liking, she'd ask us, sugar coated, if we wouldn't feel much better about ourselves if we'd do something with it.
My father, worn down by four daughters, lost his temper somewhere along the way. He'd ground us for a week and change his mind after an hour. "Just get out of my hair," he'd say, sending us out with the car and stern demands to fill up the tank before we came home. Oh, there were times he could be completely unreasonable, but he adored us. "Don't we have the most beautiful daughters?" he asked my mom one night, seeing yours truly wind down the staircase dressed for a dance. Her thin lips stayed pursed while we waited for her to compliment my chocolate-colored slip dress. Instead, she looked back to her Good Housekeeping and said, "It's a good thing they're smart."
Indeed it is. Because in the end, a smart girl knows not to blame her sad and unhinged mother for being stressed out and depressed. A smart girl knows that you don't have to keep weak and hurtful people around you. And a smart girl gets a scholarship to a college that will take her two thousand miles away from the hitting house and equip her with the resources to never go back.
It must be noted that I do not feel sorry for myself. And do not blame stressed-out, struggling parents for any of my own personality flaws that unintentionally subject others to. Am not even sure why am posting this, except that it makes me feel better to know there's a reason for things I do. Not an excuse. Just a reason. And also maybe because this generation should be free to talk about things our parents are too ashamed to.
Reluctant Kitten is in heat, and once again, my apartment is without heat.
Glorious.
Both mewling kitten and frigid air made for v. uncomfortable night's sleep but surprisingly, woke up with peppy attitude. And amazing hair. While spending some quality time in Miss Goes Down's shower, became acquainted with delightful new hair products. Have added them to list of current addictions that am suffering from.
Vanilla Diet Coke
Broccoli
Eucalyptus & Spearmint bath salt
Bad Reality Television
Pink (the color, not the trashed out singer)
Matrix Sleek Look Smoothing Hair Products
Have been researching support groups, but curiously, are no Product Whores Anonymous meetings anywhere nearby.
Wax off!
Dear God! Do hope by the time am scheduled to go back, will have forgotten just how much that stings!
But as a near-and-dear gal pal noted, nothing takes your mind off a stressful day like having your hair ripped out by the roots.
Indeed.
Was meant to be a figure skater.
Forget that am too tall, too broad and lacking in grace. Forget that am not athletic and have barely mastered concept of roller-blading let alone leaping into the air from sheets of ice. Was meant to figure skate. Was meant to be well known for it, too.
So well known that would be impossible for someone to steal my identity, take out loans in my name and ultimately decide not to pay them. So well-known that even should this happen, attorneys from all over the country would be rallying to my defense -- to inflict scorching punitive damages on the persons and companies responsible for such errors of neglect. And in such case, was meant to take such stresses out on the ice. To hear only the music in my head and the scrape of the ice under the razor sharp blades of pristine white skates.
Was meant to hear my father say, "I'm really sorry kiddo." Was meant to hear him finish up with, "Why don't you go put on your skates and twirl around in your building for a while. That always makes you feel better." Because, of course, being a figure skater, and a very well-known one at that, would have my own building in which to skate. And a closet full of pretty costumes.
Am not sure whether or not was meant to have figure skating partner. Seems more likely that was meant be singles skater, twirling to sad Sarah McLaughlin tune, solo in the spotlight. But that is fine. Was simply meant to be a figure skater. Would be happy figure skater, even without partner. As long as had my building, my costumes and my attorneys.
And my own God damned Social Security Number.
Received notice in the mail yesterday from credit agency attempting to collect on a debt that is 254 days past due. On a credit card in my name. A credit card that have never used, nor even applied for.
Am in possession of ONE credit card, and have been for five years. In five years have had two late payments, each of thirty days. Am neurotic when it comes to paying bills, and each previously mentioned late payment was in less-neurotic college days when things like money and credit were just silly words associated with keeping yours truly in the latest Gap Capris and Steve Madden slides. But 254 days late? Unthinkable.
Tried explaining this to Very Ditzy Collections Agent from certain Polygamy-Prone Western State, who insisted that was my name on delinquent account. All fine and dandy, but is not my card.
VDCA: I have your University of Polygamy-Prone Western State on file.
H: That's great. But I didn't GO to that school. That isn't me.
VDCA: Can I have your social security number again?
H: Sure. It's...
VDCA: That's the number on the account.
H: What?! That's impossible! I never...
VDCA: Oh, looks like there are two social security numbers associated with this account. Have you been using two SSNs??
H: Listen, either that or someone is using mine. Are you picking up on the sarcasm, you dumb hick?
VDCA: I will have to do some more research on this. In the meantime, if you want to make a payment over the phone...
H: I am not going to make a payment on a card that isn't mine! None of the addresses listed in that file are mine, except the current one. And that is clearly a mistake. I didn't go to the college from which you have an ID on file. I will not be held responsible for this.
Oh dear Lord. Called financially-experienced UMF for advice on newest crisis only to be told, "My, you've had a very interesting year."
Would not be so upset by this, but am in midst of planning new car acquisition. Am determined to have keys to brand new, shiny piece of driving delight in greedy little hands by birthday celebration. At this rate, will be lucky to right credit woes and obtain new toy by mid forties.
Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.
***update***
After sending copy of drivers license to creditors, have discovered, is picture of yours truly on file with credit card company. And my signature. Holy shit.
Have been exposed. Beans have been spilled and proverbial cat shaken free from its proverbial bag. Me-ow.
Am not cynical, bitter, life-hating bitch. Shhh, Alex. Just don't tell anyone else.
Took speedy trip to BigCity to celebrate birthday of eternally young Miss Goes Down and celebrate being silly with galpal, Jane. Had fabulous time as always.
Was v. well behaved, if do say so. Did not drink too much, eat too much (those peanut butter chocolate chip cookies do not count**) or shop too much. Only frivolous purchase was designer-knock-off purse, which also resulted in betrothal of yours truly to street merchant for five dollar discount. Suppose funny Nigerian man with bright white teeth is fine alternative to ending up lonely spinster. Dual citizenship and limitless handbag options? Could really not ask for more. Happily, Betrothal-Discount also applied to friends.
As spent most of the evening on cookie-inspired sugar buzz, did not do much birthday party imbibing on Saturday, but had marvelous time cavorting with BigCity friends. Finally met ever-elusive and quite charming Alex (J who?) and was nearly convinced by enchanting fellow to write a book. Also spent good ten minutes defending choice of ear accessories to someone who thought them to be just-too 80s. Oh, well. Can't win 'em all.
** Have decided that personal lust for food could simply be considered cute personality quirk if yours truly were underweight, flimsy speck of a gal. But as is, insatiable appetite for all things sweet and lacking in nutrition, is nothing more than predictable behavior pattern.
A: What shall we do, ladies?
J: I don't know, but this one is always up for eating.
H: That's not true! Hrmph. Fine. I am hungry.
Have headache. Must stop pretending to work and seek out Advil. Or chocolate.
and this bitter pill is leaving you
with such an angry mouth
one that's void of all discretion
such an awful tearing sound
it's wearing off and leaving you
with such a heavy heart
and head
to match
Indeed. Have worn self out with temporary bout of bitterness (and certainly made friends think that am headed down road to spinsterhood), but am now recovered. Or so am hoping.
Made peace with bathroom scale this morning. Nine pounds to go. Do miss my summer tummy ever-so-much. Where are you, yoga tummy? What's that? Oh, right. Buried under Ben, Jerry and O-R-E-O. Nabisco. Ding! (Somehow, favorite commercial jingle doesn't come across quite as peppy in type.)
Am off to BigCity again for weekend of galpal birthday fun. Have packed quite lightly, in uncharacteristic fashion, and am even being gifted with non-bus-or-train transportation. Oh, the joy!
Hair has again reached Little-House-on-the-Prairie lengths and am tempted to stop in and have it whacked before heading to the city. Nothing quite so unsophisticated as too-long locks. But most likely do not have time. Little House in the Big City. Has certain ring to it, no?
Used to have great respect for Karma -- suffering from overdeveloped sense of justice and all. But now, as Karma has taken to biting yours truly in the ass on a regular basis, am starting to fall out of love with exotic motivator. In rapid fashion.
Always believed people to be worth all the good that could possibly do for them. All people. The man on the bus this morning. Cranky coworkers at monkey job. J. Well, not anymore.
Fuck you, man on bus. Fuck you, cranky coworkers. Fuck you, J.
Oh, wait. Already did that. Never mind.
Made mistake of inquiring about J today.
Will not do so again.
Ever.
Dear J
You missed a spot.
I was lying in bed last night, staring at the ceiling when I noticed it. Remember the day we painted my room? I was neurotic about that color. But you were right. The green wasn't too yellow once it dried. But in the very center of the ceiling, there's a spot where the dingy yellow of some previous occupant's smoking habit shows through the bright white. I was staring at it last night before I fell asleep and dreamt about you.
We were in Paris. Going to school. And, beyond reason (as is the case with most dreams), we ended up in the same lecture and afterwards, alone in your room. I knew I didn't want to be there. But you wanted me, and somehow I felt vindicated and justified and appeased all at the same time.
At first, it was perfect delirium, like being drunk on sunshine and kisses. But then, in a familiar tangle of sheets, I realized something. It wasn't about me and what I was feeling. It wasn't about me at all. It was about you. Was it always? Probably. So I climbed out of your bed and gathered up my things. Of course you wanted to know why. But I said nothing and left. And then I felt proud and disillusioned and indignant all at once.
So, anyway, you missed a spot on the ceiling. But then again, you missed a lot of things.
And me? I miss how you smell.
H
Took shortcut to work, walking across uptight Ivy League Campus, watching Ivy League Squirrels dodging Ivy League Pedestrians, faces tucked in Ivy League Scarves. Am certain that caught one such Ivy League Squirrel pausing in his Ivy League Acorn hunting to stare at yours truly to say, "You don't belong." Indeed. Do not. But am certain to outlive cruelly frigid winter, you mangy little rodent. Let's just hope you're so lucky.
Post-party fog has been lifting ever-so-slowly, and am having flashbacks of v. humorous Saturday evening. (Bathroom mirror still bears evidence of guests armed with toothpaste and messages of phallic nature – feel quite reluctant to clean it off.) As was stepping on scale this morning, had sudden memory of climbing on same scale with Cute Fireman, watching red number flicker, hoping that Fireman either did not know his own weight, or if did, was too drunk to do necessary math. God damn ten pounds. Also remember something about edible body oil, and conducting taste test of said oil in kitchen with guests. Oh dear God, am frightfully silly when drunk.
Have also been told that was cloistered in bedroom with Cute Fireman for significant amount of time. Am fairly certain nothing adventurous happened, but fact that can’t remember closing door leads self to question usually-reliable memory. Suppose could do worse than being sequestered in ultra-tipsy state with Cute Fireman. Cute is good. Think was Tom Robbins who wrote, Lucifer was the cutest angel in heaven. If Mr. Robbins is indeed correct, well, then, devil me, baby.
Ended up hosting last minute get-together on Saturday night, so spent several hours of weekend engaged in pre-party cleaning. Have sore legs, back, arms and bleach burnt hands, but by God, threw one clean party. Eat off those floors, kids. No. For real. Just bleached them today.
Un-Party was attended by handful of regulars as well as not-so-regularly-attending Cute Fireman. Played happy hostess, tottering around, tipsy on cheap wine, keeping partygoers’ hands filled with Cider Jack, Jose Cuervo and Captain Morgan. Tipsy turned to blissfully drunk and let Cute Fireman steal a kiss.
CF: You’re cute. (kiss)
H: Thank you!
CF: That’s it?
H: (laughing) Yep.
CF: I take it back. Very cute.
After three am exodus, only CF and brother remained. A few hours later, as sun was coming up, tucked them into beds in separate rooms.
CF: Hey… could we get a lullaby?
H: You want me to sing to you??
Brother: Yes, please.
Had not been asked by drunken party guests to sing in v. long time and was not even aware that CF knew of this habit. But was happy to oblige. Sat between rooms and did as requested. Was not altogether shocked when at end of song, both were fast asleep. Damn. Am one good lullaby-er.
E: Uh oh.
H: What?
E: You sang to them? Don't you know that you are a siren and your song makes men want to marry you?
H: Ha!
B: How did it go?
H: Good. The fireman stayed over.
B: How was he?
H: Well-behaved. I didn’t sleep with him, silly.
B: You managed to find another guy that doesn’t like sex. Weird.
H: It must be me. I turn men celibate.
B: Get thee to a nunnery…
H: Ha! Brilliant!
Dear J,
I went to see him last night. He's even better in person. Looks like Lenny Kravitz in Converse sneakers. Sounds the way warm honey tastes. Remember the first time I heard him? You made me listen to that CD in your car on the way to... well, now even I forget where. It made me miss you. It made me miss driving around, singing along to Dashboard Confessional, you taking the harmonies. Anyway, he played at the rock club where I first heard you play. And I saw your friend, D. She was playing, too. It made me want to call you to say, "Guess who I just ran into?" And that made me miss you a little bit, too.
I'll admit, it's been easier than I thought it would be -- to disconnect myself from you. But not last night. Last night it was lonely, sitting next to two girls who shared stories and inside jokes composed of nothing more than, "like that one time in Memphis..." We had those sorts of stories too, you and I; sentences we never even bothered to complete, jokes that meant nothing to anyone but us. I miss that. I'm sure I'll find that again with someone else; I always do. But until then, I'll miss that.
I miss you. But stay away.
Love,
H
Had horrifying dream last night that stood in front of the mirror, took scissors in hand and chopped long, straight hair into Katherine Zeta (a la Chicago) bob.
Snip!
Oh dear God!
Now, did not think it becoming on the nearly-always-lovely Ms. Jones and certainly did not become yours truly. Stared at self in mirror wondering just why exactly suddenly had too-short bangs. Bewilderment became panic as began franticly running fingers through short strands telling self over and over that was "just hair" and would grow back. In what, five years?
But most chilling fear of all was that J would see what this impulsive, scissor happy girl had done. Idea that J does not like short hair made Dreaming Self frantic. But Awake Self stood in front of real mirror minutes later, pulling unaltered middle-of-the-back long hair into ponytail thinking, "J does not care about your hair, silly girl. And you do not care what he thinks of it, either."
Indeed.
Reluctant Kitten has lost most of her reluctance (due undoubtedly to marvelous kitten-mothering skills) and thus has taken to following v. closely at all times. Leaning over sink wrestling with too-goopy mascara and felt tugging at scalp. Looked down to find kitten sitting in sink amusing herself by batting at curtain of hair.
H: I can see you're glad I didn't cut it. Now, scoot.
RK: ...
H: Get out of the sink, silly. Unless you want to get ready for work. You could go, you know. You'll work, and I'll stay here and sleep in the sunny spot all day. What do you think?
RK: ...
Concerned Roommate: Who are you talking to?
H: RK. We're having a chat. I'm trying to talk her into going to work for me.
CR: Ah. What does she think of that?
H: She doesn't seem too thrilled.
CR: Oh? Why not?
H: Well, you know her. She doesn't really say much. She's more of a listener. Maybe it was the thought of wearing uncomfortable shoes. Or maybe she's just scared to ride the bus by herself. Who knows.
CR: Two words. Kitty pumps.
H: (in fit of giggles) How about it RK?
RK: ...
H: Guess not.
Crawled out of bed and decided that black Holly Golightly dress had been hanging quietly in closet just way too long. Pulled out said dress, knock-em dead knee high boots and Jackie-O sunglasses (forget the fact that is currently pouring-down rain). Glazed lips with raspberry pink stain and headed out the door exactly one hour late for work.
Heard blue-jumpsuit-clad city workers mumbling and saw leering as approached, but was not until had passed by that heard ridiculously loud wolf call. In fine sassy fashion, right hand shot out of pocket and greeted fine city workers with beautifully manicured middle finger. Did not look back. Men in blue were silent for few seconds, but knew they'd seen friendly overture when heard laughter and more wolf calls. Glad to amuse, fellas.
Is simply going to be that sort of day.
Congratulations.
You've been very quiet lately. Congratulations for what?
You've made it a week. One full week and not a single sob-fest, tantrum or bout of excessive dismantling of last Wednesday's fiasco with J.
One week? Tell me it's been six.
I think one is pretty impressive. You haven't even emailed him. Or even started to. You haven't even indulged in scrolling to his name in your cell phone.
It's all about denying my nature. How v. Puritan of me.
Sing with me, now. I know your friends are. Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty....
That's enough, smart ass.
You missed me.
I'd like to miss you again.
Ah, you don't mean it.
It should take you exactly four seconds to cross from here to that door. I'll give you two.
You do Hepburn proud.
Indeed.
Went to see award-nominated film last night with gal pal, and ended evening in Ivy League bookstore so she could purchase book of same name. Had forgotten just how much love that possess for books. Am that girl walking down aisles, fondling spines of new paperbacks, lusty look in her eye. Am that girl who makes bibliophile sound dirty.
Kept grabbing galpal to say, "Have you read this one?"
S: How do you have time to read so much? You must have read a third of these books!
H: Used to work at a bookstore in college. I had a book-a-day habit.
S: You're kidding!
H: Nope. They let us take them home from the store, so I never had to pay for them. Too bad the Gap doesn't have the same policy. (sigh) I love books.
S: You should work in publishing. That's all you'd have to say at your interview. I'd hire you.
H: Do you pay well?
Being the magical day that it is (for no other reason than have decided it to be so), will be starting the Summer-Means-Swimwear, Perk-up-that-Ass plan. Have let self go just enough that will be something of a challenge. And now that have plenty of time on J-less hands, might do v. well to challenge self. Am telling self that will be easy. All that is required is a bit of discipline and... well, saying good-bye to some old friends.
Dear Ben and Jerry,
It's been real. Thanks for the good times. See ya in about, what... six months?
All the love in my heart,
H
Haven't seen G in probably three years. Haven't even emailed said ex-oh-so-important-male-figure-in-young-life for at least a year. And yet, when checked message on home phone, was jaw-dropped shocked to hear G's voice hoping he'd gotten the right number.
Did not give G home phone number. Did not give anyone (aside from the UMF) home phone number, as do not believe in landlines for sheer inconvenience of them.
Strange. V. strange indeed. Thus, out of the woodwork crawls G.
Am hoping is not calling to announce marriage or any other sort of joyous occasion. The one who does the moving on to bigger and better things should be the one with the joyous news. NOT the one who stays put to live in same city as parents for the rest of v. boring life. There are rules about such things!
On another note, have been asked on v. first Post-J-Fiasco date. C was kind enough to make it seem low-pressure - drinks, bite to eat, etc. But, well, am afraid may be a v. sincere fellow and party-flirting on the part of yours truly may have come off as genuine interest. Not that am not interested. Simply had not crossed my mind. May be worth a shot. Will see.
Missing-in-Action Galpal cancelled BigCity trip plans Friday afternoon, leaving yours truly in quite the lurch. Ended up on five-hour bus ride sitting next to College Boy Who Sighs at Least Provocation whose breath smelled as though had not only eaten something quite foul, but had been separated from his toothbrush for ages. Would have felt sorry for Sighing Boy, but well, stench was simply too overwhelming.
Needless to say, was ever-so-grateful to escape bus and into warm welcoming of v. kind and accommodating hostess. Had such a nice time doing girly manicure things, ordering bad-for-figure foods and primping for night out on the town.
Joined even-more-super-adorable-in-real-life Bob, Doug and friend (Jeff, is it?) for what turned out to be evening of Mexican food, margaritas, and yours truly obnoxiously crooning to super sad latin ballads, wishing had not worn impossible-to-retain-proper-blood-flow knee high boots. A fine time, indeed.
Highlight of weekend away, though, was earning the Most Low Maintenance Houseguest award from Miss Goes Down. Am truly honored. Am expecting trophy to arrive any day.