you're single.
so you get up off your ass, put on some socks and make your own god damn soup. Then you take some Nyquil and a hot bath. And stop feeling sorry for your sick self.
Mostly.
Sniffle.
Funny how a fever, teary burning eyes and a sniffly nose can turn a gal into a whiny mess. But when sick, and feeling quite miserable, is only natural to want nothing more than to have someone warm your feet, make you soup and promise to take you apple-picking. Right?
A hard-earned quiet night at home and am disappointed to find that there is not a single un-read book on the shelf. Well, except for the last 400 pages of The Brothers Karamazov, but simply refuse to finish that one. And why?
Here's a plot summary of the first few hundred pages:
Bad, terrible things happen
{insert tangent wherein MORE bad and terrible things happen}
Return to original plot where bad and terrible things are already in progress
{another really, really hard-to-follow tangent}
Bad, terrible things
And there you have it. Am certain that Dostoyesvsky suffered from not only v. serious depression, but Attention Deficit Disorder as well.
Perhaps will simply go smother peacefully-sleeping kitten with kisses. She acts annoyed, but deep down, am certain she loves it.
So many good stories from the West Coast trip and so little attention span to tell them! There was this one time, that yours truly got to play with elephants (there are photos). And this other time where a normally peaceful gal embraced her inner-bouncer and took down some hoodlum at a concert. And this other time when she had to get up at THREE AM to catch a return flight only to sit next to the worlds most annoying plane talker. But mostly there were plenty of times where she simply enjoyed the company of two v. v. great little sisters in a rickety Honda Accord barreling down Highway 80 at ungodly speeds and wishing every day were as sublimely perfect as the ones spent in just that way.
Too few and too far between.
Hi,
I'm surprised to find myself writing to you. But sitting here in seat 4F, listening to the static of the jet engines, it just seems like the thing to do.
Outside of my window right now I can see the Aurora Borealis. It's beautiful. I've seen storms roll in on the horizon of a perfectly clear, blue afternoon. And that's what this looks like, only showers of light against the perfect black canvas of night.
I didn't get to talk to you tonight. Can't use my cell phone -- might throw the plane off its course, the way talking to you might throw me off mine.
There's a baby crying somewhere in the back. She's been crying for over an hour and I can tell that some of the passengers are starting to get annoyed. Especially the woman with the dog. Though, where does she get off? I've been breathing in her stinky rat-dog all the way from Chicago. Ladies with stinky dogs should have nothing to say about fussy children. You have never struck me as the type to be annoyed by something so innocuous as a crying baby. But if you were, I'd remind you that this altitude hurts their tiny ears. And then to distract you, I'd twist that ring around on your middle finger and ask you to play make up answers to the Inflight Magazine crossword puzzle. And maybe I'd swap seats with you so you could see the Northern Lights better. But then again, I kind of like that you have to lean over me to see -- because then I'm breathing in your warm, cottony, low-maintenance man smell and not nasty rat-dog.
This flight seems never ending. But the baby and the dog lady have both fallen asleep, so maybe I should try to do the same. Since you're not really here to make up silly answers to the crossword or tease me about my pronunciation of "multi-vitamin" or how dirty my flip-flops are, I'll go ahead and doze off.
Sleep well,
H
Am spending the morning with J painting his new apartment, and then off to California for some much needed R&R and sister time. Am absolutely giddy at the thought of not being in the office for the next few days. Hmmm... maybe will not come back from California at all. But then, would have to find some way to ship RK out and...
When did it become such a hassle to run away?
1. Being sick for two days can really give a gal heartburn. It's one Maalox moment after another, 'round here.
2. Lavender is NOT a peaceful smell. It's irritating and nauseating. Eucalyptus is where it's at.
3. My roommate drinks soda right out of the bottle and it doesn't bug me.
4. My kitten likes to play at 3 AM. That bugs me. A lot.
5. That Meathead Personal Trainer? Yeah, totally hitting on me. That's against my Gym Code of Ethics. Someone's gotta tell him that. Any volunteers?
6. I'm leaving for California tomorrow and it makes me nervous. Not the flight, but that I won't have internet access for FIVE days.
8. Apparently, my hair is v. conducive to petting.
9. My upstairs neighbor plays the drums. At 11 o'clock at night.
10. I still have a tummy ache. And speaking of tummies, the scar from my appendectomy looks like a smiley-face in my belly button.
***I often write entries that I do not post. They're drafts that never make it here because they fit neither the style nor the voice that readers are used to. But today, I felt like being a bit different.***
I rarely write anything honest here anymore.
Not that it isn't all true, because it is -- down to the last word of each silly conversation -- factual. But it all lacks the raw, disturbing honesty I used to spill out into cyberspace. Maybe because I haven't felt so raw in the last six months. Packing J up into a neat little box and tossing him to the curb certainly tidied things up a bit. But as my co-worker, Dan, said, It's a boring woman who keeps an immaculate house. And my house, of late, has been gleaming. Spotless. Immaculate.
J re-emerged, dusted himself off and presented himself again as a friend. And, well, I took him back in. It's been uneventful and completely un-noteworthy-- except for the few friends who have sought to offer their warnings. I don't take those well. Never been open to criticism, or even advice. Comes with being extremely independent. You have to be to pick up and move across the country without a job or a single acquaintance on the other end. Come to think of it, I picked up and moved to Spain once, too. Why did I do that? The same reason I spent my rent money to fly to Aruba one winter : I can be awfully impetuous.
But re-connecting with J was not about being impetuous. At the time, it was about being whole. I'd missed him. He's foolish, and real and critical, and hilarious, and an irresponsible, rock-star-wanna-be and I had missed him. I don't wait with bated breath for his emails anymore and when he says he'll call, I don't care when he doesn't. Because once I got him back in my life, I realized I don't need him. It was nice to have him around, but I don't need him to be whole, or happy or alive. Took me some time to realize that. And I was careless with a lot of boys along the way. To Peace-Corps and Bald Boy and the Biochemist and the Writer: I should have called. And to He-who-shall-go-unnamed: You had me running scared.
Miniature love affairs with window washers and even fleeting, though possibly genuine attachments to those like Indie Rock Boy are sufficiently entertaining and a much better alternative than the real thing. Because, I've discovered, I'm just no good at the love thing.
Or pool. I really suck at pool.
H: The window-washer outside my building is h-o-t. He doesn't know it yet, but we're going to get married.
E: Those one-sided engagements seem to work well for you.
H: For a time anyway. They don't seem to produce any real and lasting effects. Like presents.
E: Maybe you need to start kissing your fiancés to get presents?
H: I would, but they typically live too far away and/or have never met me.
E: Hmm...it's hard to be engaged. You should just get secretly married and keep the guys in your closet.
H: Which one? The bedroom closet or the walk-in? My shoes might start to feel crowded.
E: The walk-in. Or you can have them live in Roommate's closet. He'd never notice.
H: Do you think the window washer is ready for that kind of living situation?
E: No, I think you two should have a long distance relationship.
H: Sweet. I'm much better at those anyway.
Dear Jessica Simpson,
Rigor who? Exactly. How do you survive?!
Try not to hurt yourself,
H
--------
Have just come from Monday morning meeting where v. nearly threw a rather large temper tantrum. After pursuing a v. large project (sixty-something [wo]man hours per week for nearly a month), found that Monkey Firm has lost the job based on ridiculously high fees. Would shrug and say, "Oh well. Next time." But this was the next time. Actually, the third time that have worked my proverbial ass off for them to blow it like this.
Blah blah blah work talk blah blah blah. My apologies... but am so v. frustrated.
Only relief from horrid, never-ending meeting is fourth-grade note passing that occurs between yours truly and Equally Bored Co-Worker.
EBCW: I have to say, you look very mysterious today.
H: Mysterious?
EBCW: Kinda Alfred Hitchcock-ish -- the black dress, the hair tied back with a scarf.
H: Awesome! I just hope no one is out to kill me. That's usually how those things work out.
Now where is that theme music?
A gal could really use theme music during the day... to take cues from. A big dum-dum-dum before Highest of Higher Ups comes 'round the corner would be a great warning sign. Or, some violins when a tender, lovin' moment is coming up. Would certainly be more interesting at work if had theme music. And some Swedish fish.
In college, could rely on any one of the six roommates to do it. And after college, living with West Coast Sister.
But today, clinging to the toilet bowl for dear life and yacking up last night's dinner, found that had absolutely no one to hold my hair. Or run that ever-so-necessary errand to the corner store for nasty pink pepto. J was never good for that sort of thing. Running the errand, sure, but never met a man more unnerved by an upset stomach than J. Am sympathetic vomiter myself, but would never leave a gal to hold her own hair.
Is the true test of devotion (and manliness) -- the marathon puking session. Will be grateful to find a fella who can hack it while I yack it.
Today was grateful for nearby supply of hair elastics.
Cable Guy: Blah blah ... new cable ... box blah blah. And tell your husband that we don't need to come back on Thursday at 1.
H: *giggle* Thanks.
---- later that night ----
Roommate: Hey.
H: Hey. The cable guy told me to tell my husband that he doesn't have to come back on Thursday.
R: Really? The box works, then?
H: Guess so.
R: Thanks, wife-y.
H: You never bring me flowers anymore, you know.
R: Yeah, but I'm nice to your cat. And besides, you don't put out.
H: A marriage of convenience... I have become my mother.
Inner Goddess: Haircut. Now.
H: Shhh... I'm busy trying to manipulate the weather with my mind.
IG: Less Isabel, more Vidal Sassoon.
H: That's so very 80's of you. How about: Less Isabel, more Newbury Street?
IG: Speaking of 80's... is this 1880? 'Cause the Little House on the Prarie look was passe long before Vidal & Co.
H: Thanks for the tip, oh bossy one.
IG: No prob.
H: Bitch.
Suppose it is rather unsophisticated, in current line of work, to have hair more than halfway down my back, but at least it's not growing out of my back. Ahem. Eew. Besides, am too poor to cut it. Maybe next month.
While cannot fit Newbury Street haircut into tight budget, can fit back-to-the-gym ass into favorite jeans again. Okay, second-favorite jeans. But am convinced that this gal will be back in the Long & Leans in no time.
A quick visit to a Musical Stranger's website has my brain so v. busy this morning with memories and completely unable to get Leavin' on a Jet Plane out of this head of mine.
Used to sing that song with West Coast Sister, picking out harmonies and lullabying drunken stragglers at the end of long party nights. Found, oddly enough, that best acoustics for such singing was under the a bridge on the Charles, slowly paddling in circles to keep our voices trapped under the concrete.
Is so v. sad, that song. When was a youngster, was convinced that the singer was, indeed, going to come back and marry the person they were singing to. Now, as have loved and lost and lost and lost again, am fairly certain that the tragedy of it lies not in the leaving, but in the v. v. slim chance that they are actually ever coming back. The late Mr. Denver (the first performer I ever saw live) made me believe. Mary (of the Peter and Paul variety), her low, melancholy voice on the stereo, made me doubt. Don't know when I'll be back again. A childish hope says, someday. A grown-up's experience says, I'll try not to keep my fingers crossed.
Miss hearing WCS's voice taking the harmonies. Miss most of the ways she complemented me, actually. Will be good to get on that jet plane on Wednesday to see her again.
Incidentally, Musical Stranger has such a lovely voice. Can't wait to hear his version.
Seriously misjudged the length of my skirt today.
Well, not so much the length, as, while standing, skirt falls at appropriate, (perhaps verging on miniskirt) length. But did not consider that walking a considerable distance while shouldering gym bag might cause short skirt to become... even shorter. As a result, scandalized half the commuter population of the greater Boston area this morning on the way to work. Whatever. Was probably the most excitement they'll have in their commute.
Adding insult to the injury of feeling horrendously large-and-in-charge lately, was zoning on treadmill when realized was being spoken to by Meat-Head Personal Trainer. Wanted to know if yours truly was new to the gym (Am NOT new to the gym. Have been going there for three years now!!), and would I be interested in a personal training session? Bah! Could not decide if was a sales line, or if it's that this gal must be looking pretty disgusting to be sneak-attacked by personal trainers! Asshole. Was so v. offended.
Will be hiring Asshole Meat-Head Personal Trainer in October.
Am wearing tights and sipping hot chocolate, a rainy morning-inspired moment, and watching in complete horror as the sun comes out.
No! It's too damn hot to be wearing tights if indeed is going to be a sunny day!
Now, would be one thing entirely if had not checked weather.com before making wardrobe selections this morning. But did indeed check and was led to believe (by weather.com liars) that was going to be rainy and dreary and that wearing tights was a fabulous idea (made even more fabulous by the thought that would not have to shave my legs for yet another morning). How easily led astray!
Perhaps have jumped the gun on autumn fashions, but don't care. Have missed wearing the many protective layers keeping the general public from realizing that have spent too much time with Ben & Jerry (Dear God, thank you for control top. Amen) and far too little time with a good, sharp razor.
After v. stressful week, decided would be just the thing to take impromptu visit to the Big City to visit the gals for weekend of relaxation (read: girly facials, pedicures and pot). Needless to say, as was weekend involving yours truly, did not exactly go as planned.
To shorten v. long ordeal, Big City-bound bus was involved in rather serious accident. First, a 16-wheeler swerved to miss a car that had hit the cement barrier. Then, fine Chinatown bus that yours truly was on, swerved to miss the lot of them, but the driver couldn't stop in time and ended up hitting the windshield of the bus on the corner of the semi, shattering the window and smashing the front of the bus. Driver was then wedged with the steering wheel in his chest. He passed out. The semi then decided to move to the side of the road. And being on a hill, once the semi moved, the bus started rolling. But since the driver was wedged in, and consequently out cold, no one could get to the brake. So, we rolled until we hit the cement wall.
The lot of us stood on the side of the road watching quite helplessly for two hours as the emergency crew took chain saws and winches to the bus wreckage to get the driver out. Called the bus company yesterday and inquired after his situation to learn that is stable and still in the hospital. Can imagine the poor fellow has some fairly critical injuries. Am luck to have come away with nothing more than a headache and some bruised knees.
Am certain if airline company knew of luck associated with this gal, would cancel next week's West Coast flight immediately. And this gal, to be sure, will be appropriately sedated as am getting v. nervous about travel of any sort.
Sigh
Am finally finished with Deadline of Monster Proportions. Have worked a sixty-something hour week and slept v. little for fear of disappointing Highest of Higher Ups. Is a yeller, that one. But so far, have not been yelled at... to the relief of this gal.
Two glad-to-be-finished margaritas later, am feeling quite sleepy and absolutely retarded.
Quick! Fish! Do simple math to save the lives of this group of small children!
Uhhh... um, well, I...
Indeed. Just that retarded.
Dear Paul,
Thank you for the flowers -- they're gorgeous! That was v. thoughtful of you.
Flowerly,
H
Dear Highest of Higher Ups:
You
will
not
win.
Got that? See, you can still send rude emails and tell me I never do anything right (You did just give me a raise, so I must be doing something right. But anyway, that's not the point.) You can scream. You can red-line everything I produce. But from here on out, you will not cause me stress.
I will continue to work until 11:30 at night if that's what it takes. But I will do it from home. AFTER I go to the gym where I imagine I am running all over your leathery face. And I won't be burning the midnight oil for you. Nope. I'll be working for every other peon who has to kiss your smarmy ass all the time. And I won't care what you think. Because your negative energy is totally getting in the way. You're like the antithesis to good mental health. Do you need a moment to look up antithesis in the dictionary?
So, anyway, that's really all I have to say. Oh, and this: fuck off.
That is all.
H
Have felt this coming on. Like the way old folks sense an oncoming storm, or two-for-one sales on Ivory soap at Safeway.
Have also felt like this before. Worn out. A bit unfixable. Defeated. Four hours ago, was set to make brave attempt at holding defeat at bay. Make a list of goals. Dive in. Throw whole self into reasons for being. Live deliberately.
Then, made mistake of checking work email. The only unread message was from the highest of Higher-Ups expressing disappointment in yours truly for failing to meet a deadline. Doesn’t matter that said deadline takes back seat to the other fifteen fucking million things that am trying to get out the door this week. Doesn’t matter one bit.
As many lists as this gal can make, and as many hours that come in early, am still insufficient. Have been working v. hard – almost to the point of obsession. Sadly, on reflection, it seems work has been the only marker of success or failure that have been able to gauge self with lately. And clearly, it is just one more failure.
Have been feeling like something of a non-participant lately in my own personal life. Family matters are beyond sort of scandal even the Osbournes could conjure up, but am getting used to that. In truth, am mostly a bit lonesome. As much of an egregious fuckwit as J could be, felt as though our back and forths gave me some kind of an anchor in real life. (Not that the fellas from Queer Eye aren’t real, of course. But am digressing.) After J, purposely stayed away from forming any substantial connections and have continued to do so. And, quite honestly, will probably continue in same vein for the foreseeable future. Feel tired. Wobbly, like Jell-o having been left out too long. Is quite an accurate physical description as well. Perhaps should focus less on work and more on being able to embrace the fall’s tribute to the miniskirt. Not that it matters. Am too poor to buy a miniskirt. Ah, life’s cute and tragic ironies.
This is the blog that PMS built.
This is the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.
This is the boss
That stressed the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.
This is the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.
This is the skirt Fish wanted to wear to
the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the FIsh
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.
This is skirt that was too fucking tight
For the Fish to put on
to wear to the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.
Am aware that the original poem is much longer, but am certain it's only because the author did not have PMS. Or this job. Or this ass that can't fit into her suit.
Fucking Monday.
California, I'm comin' home. (ladies and gentlemen, Joni Mitchell)
Yipppeee!
Bought plane ticket. Bought concert tickets. And it two weeks or so will be off to San Francisco to visit sisters and sing along with favorite angstful band. Can't wait. Am feeling rather burnt out and a short jaunt to the West Coast will be just the thing.
Indeed.
Had horrible, terrible, no-good, v. bad dreams last night. And the night before. And, am fairly certain, the night before that. Have no idea what is causing them and have spent several minutes discussing with officemate the reason for such nightmares. Stress? Perhaps. Diet? Hmmm... most likely.
Am going to cut caffeine out for a bit and see if that helps. Being cracked out on Diet Coke all the time just may not be the most helpful thing.
Had dinner with J on Tuesday night. Or, rather, J invited yours truly to his new place and made dinner. Was nice and perfectly platonic. On all accounts. Really and truly. Had moment of "What am I doing here" when got a call on my cell phone and stepped into J's bedroom to answer. Sat down on the bed and chatted, but halfway through the conversation, looked down at the sheets (new) and was stuck with the bizzarity of the situation. (Bizzarity. New word. Say it five times and add it to your vocabulary. It will be on the quiz) But overall, was v. nice experience.
J does seem v. melancholy and negative though, after latest break up. And spent most of the evening teasing (with merciless roommate). Note to self: J does not take well to nicknames like Mr. Poopy Pants and Ye Olde Crybaby.
Am missing sisters quite intensely lately. So, as soon as paycheck is securely deposited in account, am buying a plane ticket to opposite coast for extended-weekend visit. And that is that.
Got called into Stone-Faced Director of Ops' office yesterday. Had seen my boss in there previously -- door closed, in serious discussion. And when, ten minutes later, was asked to step into his office felt slightly panicked. Why, oh why does the man who never speaks to me want to speak to me now?
"Come in, come in. Go ahead and close the door."
Close the door? If the door is closed, bad things can happen. And there will be no witnesses!
"Have a seat."
Yes. I'll sit. On my shaking hands. Please don't fire me.
"I wanted to discuss something with you. A money issue."
Oh god. Okay, fine. We've fallen on hard times again. You're cutting my salary. Getting fired is worse, right?
"... your current salary.... adjustments... increase.... does not preclude your annual living increase or bonus which comes in December... "
What?
"Thank you for all your hard work."
You're giving me a raise? A real one? Where's my calculator...
An unexpected (completely unexpected) 8 1/2% raise later and am feeling quite sated. Could not have come at a better time. Have never been v. good with money woes. Good with money, yes. Good with money problems? No way.
And along the vein: Have paid web-hosting bill and will be able to make $100 donation to the food bank. My sincerest gratitude to all who made donations.
Oh, and flattery will get you everywhere!
Am v. foolish girl. But what else is new?
Despite all plans to the contrary, got v. v. drunk on Friday night and thus... v. chatty as well. So chatty, in fact, that flung hissing cat from bag and told IRB all about this fishy spot on the web.
Say what?!
Am inclined to blame lemon drops. Or wine. Or vodka tonics. Don't show nearly as much restraint when others are paying for my drinks. Cursed vodka.
The thing is, do not feel completely foolish or appropriately mortified. Why not? Perhaps because IRB, should he have remembered that drunk confession, will (am hoping) be flattered at level of celebrity that he has achieved. Being among ranks of Cute Fireman, Beautiful Bus Boy and the-affair-who-shall-not-be-named is fine company indeed. Besides, as much as currently have stacked on my overflowing plate, potential embarrassment with IRB is the least of my concerns. Am also quite used to being found out by now, as well.
In other news, am happy to confirm that Britney is indeed a v. lousy actress. Have begged Roommate to keep under wraps the fact that yours truly actually watched Crossroads. May have to grease some palms.