I am hardly what you'd call a sports fan.
I'll nod blankly as you talk stats, argue about trades and blah blah blah about your fantasy football/baseball/hockey leagues because basically, I just don't care. There are, however, three notable exceptions to my sports apathy:
Post-season baseball
Discussions revolving around illiterate, power-house basketball players who take $18 million dollar pay-cuts to play for the Lakers
and
Sunday afternoon football
Sunday afternoons, I get to pad across the street in flip flops, jeans and an ex-boyfriend-sized t-shirt to eat some meat, have a drink and cuss at the 54" inch screen with a handful of true, dyed-in-the-wool sports fans. I'll never exactly be one of them, but that's really okay. I bring balance to the event. They'll say something about Tom Brady looking better this game, and I have to agree. They're talking passing yards or something, and I mean his haircut. I know. I'm such a girl.
Anyway, today's afternoon was even better than expected. Before the game even started, the Resident Sports Fanatic pulled out a wad of bills.
RSF: H, twenties, fifties or hundreds?
H: Uh...
RSF: Twenties, fifties or hundreds? C'mon, it's an easy question.
H: Twenties. What the hell are you talking about?
RSF: I owe you money.
He then proceded to hand me a sizeable amount of cash -- in twenties as requested. It took me a second, but then I remembered. Yeah, he owed me some money... for stuffing envelopes for his dad's company one night. It was two hours worth of mindless work, paid for, I thought when he bought me dinner. I didn't need to count the cash to see I was being way overpaid for the job. I mean, some lawyers don't make the bank he just handed me.
H: I don't think I earned this much.
RSF: Well, that's how much I'm paying you.
H: Consider me done arguing.
I'd say I don't know what to do with the cash, but that's hardly true. For starters, a manicure, pedicure, trip to the aesthetician (read: pain-filled wax experience) might top the list.
Or I could save it.
I can't believe I just typed that with a straight face.
Give me a kiss to build a dream on
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on
I had a really great kissing dream during nap time this afternoon. I mean, really great. The kind of kissing dream based on an actual kissing experience so it's more reality than fantasy and thus amazing and frustrating all at the same time. Woke up all flushed and dying for a cigarette*.
I need to go to bed now, and am tempted to do a little guided meditation to land myself back in the dream, but, well, I'm a bit nervous about succeeding. I mean, it's just way too cold to go out for a smoke.
* Don't worry, friends. I didn't really smoke. You know, just for the record.
I have done absolutely nothing today.
Okay, well, not nothing. I did go to the grocery store to buy more tea so that I could sit around drinking hot tea and doing nothing.
There's nothing to clean, nothing that I have to get done. I should be enjoying a day of peace, but instead I feel decadent and lazy and guilty. Oh my god... let me run to the bathroom mirror to verify that I have indeed, turned into my mother.
GAH.
Movies are made for rainy days. Or the other way around. One can never be certain.
Kitten woke me up early this morning, and by early, on a day off, I mean 6:30. I fed Her Annoyingness and went back to bed, knowing full well we’d never make it to Connecticut for the day. The weather was already miserable. When I did get up in earnest, I showered until I could feel the hot water giving, then I putzed around, picking at cold, leftover turkey. I wasn’t at all surprised when, late in the morning, my cell phone rang and it was J on the other end, looking for company while he ran errands. We do this from time to time -- the errand thing. Target, the bank, Home Depot, PetCo. Mostly, because he can't stand to be alone. Even to buy toothpaste.
In the middle of housewares where J was buying his mother a new stainless steel trashcan, I felt inspired. “I want a margarita,” I said. “Let’s go get drunk,” he suggested. And we did. Drinks and Mexican food. It’s a bit amusing the way my mind wanders when I’m around him these days. A year ago, even six months ago, he’d have been the only thought in my head. And today, though it didn’t surprise me, I found a least a dozen other things ticking by in my mind with each sip of my strawberry margarita. He stopped in the middle of the meal to tell me that I had beautiful hands. “They’re my mother’s,” I said and then thought about how I really needed to get a manicure, and how maybe I shouldn’t play so rough with Kitten – she’s leaving scars.
There seemed to be more errands on his list after lunch, but I was antsy to get home.
Like I said, movies were made for rainy days just like today. So after he’d dropped me off and I’d had my nap, I made a few calls to friends and we all scurried out in the day-after-Thanksgiving ooze to the theater. Even managed to drag Roommate, who is as much of a homebody as they come. But it turns out, the movie we saw was not made with today in mind. No. In fact, I have to rethink my statement from before. Happy movies were made for rainy days. Mystic River disturbed me. I should have lobbied harder for the midnight showing of The Princess Bride.
Now Kitten is curled up sleeping on the bed next to me, and the rain is tapping at the bedroom windows. I think I’ll go wash my face, put on some pink pajamas and have a cuddle with Kitten. I think cuddling’s what rainy nights were made for. That, and hot tea. But we’re out of tea.
The dishwasher is dish washing and Roommate has retired to the living room following the siren song of the NFL on CBS and I... I am just way too full. Full and sorry it's over so quickly.
For me, half the joy of the day was in the baking and turkey-making, but I was sad that the dinner itself lasted but a few moments and then, it was clean up time.
And time to call the family. Mom was a bit sniffly over missing her kids (v. normal) and was pleased as could be that my turkey was such a success. But calling my father was painful beyond words when the topic turned to my mother. He is still convinced the divorce was a fluke.
Dad: She's not happy.
H: No, Daddy, she's not.
Dad: She'll realize that it was a mistake.
Oh, wow. No, Dad, she won't.
I didn't know quite what to say, so I umm-hmmmed for a while and then said good night and Happy Thanksgiving. A bitter-sweet day, I suppose. And there is still apple pie left. Might have to go indulge in a little more of the sweet just to wrap things up nicely.
Stuffing is in the bird and the bird is in the oven happily resting from a good ten-minute jazzercize routine. Roommate thinks I have issues. I couldn't agree more.
I did remember to thank Turk for his personal contribution to our gluttony -- and to this day of thanks for family, friends, trials, journeys, love, loss and the gentle reminders that we are not yet who we can become.
Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
Is it wrong that I get such joy out of making my Butterball turkey dance on the kitchen counter? I mean, you should see him (or her?) Tootsie Roll. To the left, to the left...
It's inspiring.
Happy Thanksgiving, all.
*** update ***
pumpkin pie? done.
deviled eggs? done.
jell-o salad? done.
turkey? still dancing. how can you cook a dancing turkey??
Perhaps because I spent college living on scholarship and bookstore wages, too poor to travel home for the holidays, the idea of being without family at Thanksgiving isn't so terrible to me. The distance from my family being what it has been (and even more so now that 7 of us are scattered among 4 states), I have always found surrogate families subbing in where mine could not be.
One year, I spent the holiday on a potato farm in Idaho learning to snow mobile; and one in upstate Maine, tucked under homemade quilts and having my first tofurkey. Two years ago, there was my boyfriend, David, and a houseful of 30-something homesick Irish who spent the evening teaching me ballads and drinking songs (followed by my very first visit to New York City). Last year on Turkey Day, J's mother gave me a seat at the kid's table, a very dry martini and yet another reason to be attached to a ridiculously tricky boy.
This year, though, Thanksgiving will be pretty quiet. A girlfriend, Roommate, a roasted chicken and some apple pie. There won't be any kid's table, after-dinner touch football, or left-over turkey sandwiches. (I really can't justify making a big ole turkey for three people -- can I?). Friday morning, we'll pack up the car, head down to Connecticut and sit in a friend's new cafe eating baked goods and drinking hot cocoa. With whipped cream. And maybe, if I'm very charming and my powers of persuasion are up to par, we'll be rounding out the trip with a viewing of the Christmas tree in Rockefellar Center. And ice skating. Please let them take me ice skating. I promise to be extra graceful and not fall down lots.
My friends are such a wonderful surrogate family and I'm truthfully pretty thrilled to be the one in charge putting out the spread. I love being the hostess (I actually have a string of pearls, kitten heels and a Donna Reed-esque dress -- shall I wear them?). And I love being in the kitchen when it's all warm and the windows are steamy. And I especially love hearing my roommate say, "Woman, you're too good!"
Because he's absolutely right.
I have a problem. Shocker, I know.
Let me sum up:
I work in a male-dominated industry.
I am good at my job -- really good at it. And my quarterly peer reviews are stellar. But despite my experience, education and track record, I get treated like a cheerleader, a daughter-figure or a ditz. (I've actually been told not to worry my "pretty little head" about an issue before. Gag!) I make jokes about it, and pass it off, but mostly, I hate it.
I have, on top of all my actual this-is-what-I-went-to-school-for tasks, been planning a retirement party for one of our Higher Ups. While I resent it a little bit, I do agree that I have a natural tendency for this sort of thing and am doing it without complaining (too much). So, yesterday, hands full of gift samples, invoices and event planning contracts, I walked into the Chairman's office.
Four your edification: I was wearing a black, knee-length Ann Taylor suit, suit coat (all four buttons buttoned), filmy collared shirt and tall boots. I know you're going to bring up the fishnets, but they were very tasteful. I swear.
Anyway, mid-way through our conversation, Chairman gets up, walks over and sticks his hand into my suit coat and fixes my shirt. In case you missed that, his HAND was IN MY CLOTHES. I was stunned and embarrassed.
Now, before you tell me to talk to HR, let me say, this company does not have an HR department. And before you tell me to raise any kind of stink at all, let me tell you that this already man single-handedly and very publicly denied me a promotion recently. And the only thing I wanted more than that promotion (I worked so hard for it, kids) was a bit of respect for the job I do.
And it took one single motion for me to be humiliated, patronized, and suddenly made to feel ten years old -- completely and utterly powerless.
If I rock the boat, I'm toast. If I don't, I'm... the tart. It's a no-win situation. And it stinks. So, I'm going to go home, buy a turkey, take a hot bath, watch ESPN with my roommate and mend a wickedly bruised ego.
Man. I swear, I don't ask for this stuff. It just happens.
I keep having this dream that in brief, goes as follows:
I'm on a ferry, cell phone in hand, feeling very anxious. The ferry is late. And I know that at the ferry's destination, a man in a brown coat is waiting for me and I'm absolutely desperate to get to him. Only, I'm very afraid that we're going to miss him and he won't be waiting there anymore. So I'm running across the ferry, pushing my way to the front of the boat, and I hear people chiding me "It won't get you there any faster!" I can see this man in the brown coat is standing on a shoal, his hands in his pockets. I see his mouth, too -- but he's not saying anything. I keep looking at the screen on my cell phone. I want to try to call, but I see the battery is dying and I'm worried he won't hear me.
And then I wake up.
That's it. I can't wait to run across the street and tell my mystic friend, Michael, about this dream. Maybe he'll be able to help me. In the meantime, I keep looking for brown coats -- around the office, on the street. But everyone's wearing black. Well, nearly everyone. There may be someone in navy blue here and there, but no man in the brown coat.
*** after speaking with my Mystic Michael ***
The Ferry: A ferry, or any boat, symbolizes movement from one place to another. The fact that the ferry never arrives is neither good nor bad; it simply means that I am one stressed out little girl. "I wish I could take your anxiety from you!" says Michael.
The Water: Emotion. Boat on water? Emotional progress. "You know, this brings color to your cheeks. I don't think I've ever seen you so alive."
The Coat: "I don't think it's necessarily the color of the coat. Tell me about what the coat is made of," he asks. "Is it leather? Fabric?" Fabric, I told him. Like a farmer's coat, maybe more refined. But it's definitely a bit coarse. "That should tell you something."
The People on the Ferry: "They're telling you to relax. That worry will not get you there faster. You're going to arrive." But will the object of my travel be there? "Yes, I think it will be."
The Cell Phone: Communication. DUH. "Yes, but the fact that you aren't using the phone... you want to reach out and you aren't doing it because you're afraid it will be useless. Then the fact that you can use the phone and don't is not ominous. It may very well work. You simply don't try." I am afraid of being misunderstood.
"Do you wake up feeling sad or upset?"
"No... just, nervous. Desperate. Like I should be doing something more to get there. I don't like feeling... ineffective."
"But running on the ferry gets you nowhere, and you know that, or there wouldn't be people telling you to stop."
"Right. Hmm."
"This is very exciting, that you're having this dream over and over."
"I think I need a vacation."
I called my brother and ask about my father's winter coat. It's dark green.
One of the lists I keep (I've told you about those lists, right?) is the Things I Love list.
So here it is (an excerpt, anyway), taken from post-it notes I leave to remind myself of the little joys in life:
The Things I Love
Broccoli
Q-tips
My appendix scars
Scruffy faces
The smell of laundry
Nicknames
Earlobes
Sugar free Jell-o
Geese
Lullabies
Babies’ feet
I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter
Barbie
Shoes
Mr. Rochester
Kitten
Mud in my toes
Being needed
Annie’s Song
Bad Reality TV
Apple peels
Target
Attention
Little black dresses
The word “voluptuous”
Gap jeans
Being remembered
Dental floss
Tom Selleck
Wind chimes
Tweezers
Feeling understood
My walk-in closet
Hazelnuts
Kisses
Freckles
Nap time
The weekend was good. Really good. And for no other reason than the people I spent my time with were exactly who I'd chose to do loads of nothing with. Shopping, tea time, more shopping, more tea time. A party, an impromptu fashion show (I'm such an easy-to-work with model) and again more tea time. This tea time thing is starting to be my favorite part of the day. It's like The Golden Girls over here.
I'm sitting here in my ever-so-soft Victoria's Secret robe, showered, fed and stalling. Yeah, it's 6:45 and if I don't light a fire under my own tush, I'm going to be late. Again. Today is going to be manic -- the kind of work day that requires you to be on top of your game. So on top of your game that people won't be certain whether you're even playing the same game they are. And I'd so much rather stay home and cuddle with Kitten. Ah, well. As long as I'm going to be making the power plays, might as well dress the part.
It's all about the fishnet stockings.
*** Edit ***
It's now 9:30 and I have snagged my stockings, forgotten my lunch and would give anything to trade in this suit for my robe. Gah! Stupid, stupid Monday. It should be tea time.
*** AND!! ***
It's now 11:30 and box just arrived for me. My little heart got all excited when I opened it to find loads of packing peanuts and two beautifully wrapped gifts... for me to pass on to the Higher Ups. Oh, cruel fate!! What a tease.
*** So ***
It's about 3:00 and I think the only thing left to do is get ice cream. And contemplate Empire Records. "Don't let the Man get you down. Damn the Man!"
Dear Love,
I woke up this morning from a dream, sensing a sleeping body next to me. I reached out to pull you closer. But, of course, my hands came up empty. And right then, I felt so intensely lonely -- the expanse of my bed like the pre-Columbian ends of the earth.
So, I got up. I made tea and went out to the porch to let the sun kiss my cheeks. My forehead. The tip of my nose. I must have left the burner on -- I could hear the kettle whistling for me. I showered, waiting for the cell phone to beep, for the apartment to fill with friends. You won't be with them this time.
I went back to the sun porch, where I sat in one of those black Urban Outfitter chairs, chain-smoking memories of former loves. One right after the other. And I couldn't help but smile.
In a minute, when I'm done being angry at it, I'll go back in and make the bed with fresh sheets. I suppose it's better to wake up alone from time to time than never to have woken up at all.
Thanks for the memories,
H
It's that time again -- where I tell you what to do and you do it, because you know it will be good for you. Ready?
Buy this CD. Go ahead. You will like it, I promise. Musical Stranger, a.k.a Benjamin Wagner is on tour (maybe in your area!) pimpin' it as we speak.
Buy it. Go on. Have I ever lead you astray? Wasn't Parker Grey all I said it was and more?
If you need further convincing, go here and have a taste of the rough cuts. I like this one.
Okay. So you're ordering your CD right now aren't you? Yes, thank you. You'll be glad you did.
Think of it as an investment in the future of music and milk crates.
1. She saves me from myself.
Not only did she refuse to make me a redhead (You just don't have the coloring, honey), she refused to cut off my hair. (Not in my chair. People PAY for this hair. How about a trim?) We compromised at three inches.
2. The head massage.
It's like sex. Only, in a chair with your head in the sink, and all your clothes are on and... well, so, it's nothing like sex except that it feels wicked awesome and is administered by a very cute boy with shiny black shoes and golden fingers.
3. The result.
I want to pet myself endlessly. And take myself on a date. Wow, that's pathetic, now isn't it??
I woke up this morning feeling very anxious.
Not to come off as some wacky clairvoyant, but I already know this feeling means something is going to happen. It always does. It could be good; it could be bad. And stumbling into the kitchen this morning, I decided that if it’s going to be something bad, I might as well have ice cream for breakfast. You know, just in case.
And, just in case, I wore jeans (an office nuh-uh), my favorite bra and some really great fuzzy socks. Talismans, maybe.
I’ve been blessed with the Impending Sense of Doom since high school. You may call it intuition if you like, but Impending Sense of Doom is so much more… dramatic. The last time I felt like this, it turned out there were some shenanigans going on between my quasi-boyrfriend and a certain hot tub nymphet. And the time before that, the announcement of my parents’ divorce. (Which sent me into a shame spiral of ridiculous and uncharacteristic behavior. But that story’s been told. No need to rehash.)
At any rate, I’m hoping this sinking feeling in my stomach is related to today’s trip to the hair salon to put an end to these Boticellian locks. A bad haircut, I can handle. Another life-altering turn of events? Yeah, I could handle that too, but if it’s possible, I’d like to avoid that, thank you.
Maybe I should have ice cream for lunch, too. You know, just in case.
We've stopped work today to discuss love.
My boss is finding herself in one of those situations where one must choose between love and location. Her boyfriend has been offered a professorship at a prestigious overseas university and she wants to stay put on American soil. And they're crazy about each other. You know, one of those couples.
So, I find myself screaming, "Be a sucker for love! Go to England!" like I would at the end of some romantic comedy involving say, Colin Firth. This coming from the girl who, in the past, wouldn't cross a street she didn't want to for a boy. Now I'm championing for her to cross an ocean?
Love, the tricky bastard, is hard enough to find, that the less-practical part of me thinks that if you're going to be moved by love, why not move for it? My boss has her feminism, though, and her dreams and career ambitions. And I have my what, sentimentality?
In a bitter moment, I once wrote that there might be no such thing as falling in love. I had decided that the notion of finding overwhelming, incomprehensible kismet with a man -- that the “in love” feeling -- was just some cocktail I was drunk on after watching too many John Cusak movies.
My theory that boiled down to this:
The adorable Mr. Cusak crushes the "Nice Guys Finish Last" idea by not only finishing far from last, but "finishing" with the most adorable, shockingly down-to-earth, gorgeous girl-next-door co-stars. And he doesn’t make it look easy. So we believe him. It was tough for him, so it was real.
And what do sentimental hearts learn from that?
Love exists, if simply to make us happy AND there are good, silly, but endearing men willing to make a fool of themselves (say, by standing outside your house with a boom-box playing some meaningful, yet sappy song) just to say, “I think you’re pretty damn special.”
And then, somehow it is not only acceptable to believe in purely-motivated, tender, ecstatic love…but it is also fashionable.
And as we all know, I’m never one to argue with fashion.
I'll keep my theories to myself as my boss works out the practical details of this very difficult decision. But if it were me? I'd probably be looking for my passport.
Sucker.
Today, I am so v. unfortunate to be participating in what the Monkey Profession calls a Charrette. Basically this is a sort of planning retreat where you expend loads of mental energy and refuel with bull shit.
You're jealous, right?
If you come rescue me, I'll be yours forever. And I do windows.
This is v. important, y'all. Please vote.
mini skirt + knee high boots =
A) stylish
B) trampy
Maybe I've watched just one too many episodes of the Nanny but I came out of my room in a denim mini and tall brown boots feelin' pretty darn cute. But Roommate tells me I look like I'm "tryin' to get some."
Shoot. Guess that means tomorrow I'll be returning stuff.
Oh, wait! Now he's explaining! Let's listen, shall we?
"It's those long-ass legs of yours!"
"So, you mean, if I were short and stumpy, this would be okay?"
"Well, um, yeah."
"Nothing I can do about that."
"And you thought those legs were a gift!"
"Hmmm... no, but now I definitely won't. Here I thought I was MADE for the mini skirt."
My personal war on terror is being fought with laughter. And potentially, Wookies, it seems.
J: Is the landlord going to do anything other than replace the glass?
H: I dunno. He didn't say. But I'm hoping for something like a new force-field around the house.
J: That, or Storm Troopers that lie in wait for any danger to come by.
H: No! Storm Troopers really scare me. I'd be afraid to get lasered if I startled one of them. But you know... What about Wookies? You know I'm really good with animals. They wouldn't scare me AND they would really mess up intruders.
J: And they could dust all those hard to reach places.
--Wookie in pink and white apron with feather duster--
"You're the best wookie EVER!"
"AAAARRRRRHHHH" (or however one spells Wookie noises)
H: Sweet! I HATE dusting!!!
Ari: Little early for a wake up call.
H: No kidding! See, if someone had shot my house at say, 7 AM, it would have been much more acceptable.
A: And appropriate as a wake up call. Maybe they thought you had doughnuts to make. Were the cops cute at least?
H: No. They sure were stupid, though.
A: I don't think the smart ones work that early.
H: Maybe we just got them pre-Dunkin Donuts.
A: 5am... Disgusting.
H: Seriously. Thugism should have regular hours. Like Stop 'n' Shop.
A: I absolutely agree with you. You ought to teach a course!! At the Learning Annex.
H: I don't know if thugs would start to resent all the guidelines.... And the checks for the class would naturally bounce, too.
A: Well... am quite glad you are feeling better at least to where you can joke about it.
H: I think if I don't joke about it, I'll be scared all the time...
Which is the sad truth. What with Roommate having a traveling job that will take him out of town again this weekend, humor is about the only thing keeping me from running 'cross the street in my pajamas and crawling in bed with my friendly neighbors.
The landlord feels pretty terrible, as he's sure this has to do with the previous tenants, whom he evicted and then had some nasty litigation. Cream of the crop, the last tenants. Turns out, the cops were by on a regular basis for domestic disturbances. I'm afraid Roommate and I are so v. boring by comparison. Here we are, cleaning the yard, making home improvements, being good quiet neighbors and we're supposed to be thuggin' up the place. I'll simply have to watch a few hours of Jerry Springer for tips.
Came home early from work. I was just a wee bit too tired to stick it out for the day in this ridiculous Ally McBeal suit and heels, being gnawed at by this morning's state of affairs. Please, God, don't let Kitten eat a bullet. She would, Ya know. So, cabbed it home and first thing was first: I took a tour of the living room to assess the damage.
A brief inspection yielded several finds, including half a dozen BB's scattered throughout the room. And now all I have to say is,
You fucking terrorized my house with a BB gun?? Sheesh, man. If you're going to be up and about at 4:30 AM, you should at least be armed with a decent caliber gun. What is wrong with you? You're no thug. You should be ashamed.
Oh yeah, I talk tough, don't I? Well, I'm not. I was scared into numbness this morning, standing there in my robe unable to do anything while my roommate cleaned up the mess, called the police and filed the report. Well, I made breakfast. That's something.
You can't start off a day of being a victim of random violence on an empty stomach, now can ya?
It sounded like ice being poured into the kitchen sink. But it wasn't. It was really the front-door glass shattering and falling to the floor, from a shot fired into my house.
Four shots, four shattered windows and shards of glass all over my living room furniture. The police have come and gone and now I'm wide awake at 5:00 wondering what the hell just happened.
Find myself showered and dressed and it's only 7:56 in the morning. Duty has called (a bit too loudly for a Sunday morning, I might add), and off I go to work. I'm not exactly thrilled.
But, yesterday's shopping excusion was ever so successful. And when I get home from work this afternoon, I expect you to come over thirsty and sit at my kitchen table with your hand on my thigh.
'Cause I got me a fancy red tea kettle and a hot new mini skirt.
Yeoow!
That's what I'm talkin' about!
The sun is out (though, so is the wind), I am about to embark on an alarming display of consumerism, armed with too much spending power (though, should be paying off my Visa) and I just unearthed this really ass-tastic pair of pants from my closet.
I
will
be
invincible.
My girlfriend will be here soon, and our first order of business is the Home Goods store where I will buy, even when my practical Inner Goddess is balking, The Red Tea Kettle. Even if it IS way more expensive than the less appealing, but equally functioning, chrome ones. I've been longing for it. I want it. I want it to come live at my house and make lemon tea.
The rest of the day will be filled with "If you'll just sign here" and "Black or brown, Em? Or both?" and "You're sure it's not too short?" And it will end with good friends and a big piece of red meat at nieghborhood BBQ joint. Which will then end the reign of the ass-tastic pants, but what can ya do?
(Oh, and Matrix Revolutions? Disappointing. Too much love, not enough fighting. And for this girl, that's sayin' a lot.)
Work has been so busy lately that my lunch hour, and hours after work, are spent on the phone and attached to the computer planning, of all things, a retirement party for one of the Higher Ups. Is this my job? Am I a party coordinator? Apparently I threw such a stellar Halloween party that the Powers that Be decided I must WANT to do this sort of thing. Um, yeah.
And thus, I am not out dancing. I’m tired. I stayed out for a bit with my Work Boyfriends (they hold my purse while I shop, escort me around, walk me to my trains, and bicker with me when I'm being a pain) and was even asked by one of them to be his date to the Holiday party. Which is really great and a huge relief. Great in that he and I have lots in common: We both love boys. And a relief in that, well, after two years with J there, I was planning on going solo. And not thrilled about it.
Speaking of J… We had a very strange conversation today. Over the last few months, he and I have fallen into this civil, “If I hear from you, cool, if I don’t, probably better” correspondence pattern. So, today, after a week or so of silence, I get:
J: Wanna hear something silly?
H: Yes, tell me something silly.
J: Well, you know of that girl, Kathryn in London, right? Well she sent me an email on Wednesday saying that she has a boyfriend and it has gotten serious, and she felt I should know. To be honest, I was a bit hurt. Silly, huh?
H: No, it's not silly. Not silly at all. Miles -- even a big stupid ocean -- really mean nothing when it comes to that sort of thing. I’m sorry.
J: I need a cookie and a hug.
---- An hour or so later, J makes a very stupid joke ---
H: Oh jeez. You’re too much.
J: Yeah, I need a brain scan...
H: At the very least! This Kathryn thing really has you bugged, huh?
J: Holy shit, how could you tell????
H: Gee, I wonder.
J: No, honestly. Am I acting weird or something?
H: No. Probably not to other people. I just know you way better than you think. Remember when we first went down the crapper? I emailed B that morning and said, "J is seeing the blonde from the hot tub, isn't he?" I just know things.
J: I am as clueless as they come, and here you are reading my mind... I really do love you!!!!!
And here, let me check my watch. Yes, that’s what I thought. About nine months too late for that to mean a god damned thing. Funny how I love you rolls off so easily now that it carries about as much weight as Callista Fucking Flockhart.
I almost feel sorry for the guy. Oh, alright, no almost. I do feel sorry. But I just don’t know what he thinks I can do for him, besides buy him a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, pat him on the back and say,
There, there. You totally had this coming. Karma, baby. She’s a bitch, ain’t she?
"Let's go get the shit kicked out of us for love."
And that, my friends, sums it up. The film rocked my evening. My day, really.
Along with:
A haiku from Indie Rock Boy. The fact that we actually made it from getting drunk and making out in cabs to this snarky friendship (where he's allowed to yell at me for smoking) with minimal awkwardness, stands as one of my bigger accomplishments in the post J, I Am An Idiot Tour of 2003.
This kick ass ring I'm wearing. Yeah, a present to myself. I got all humiliated and hurt and cried myself to sleep yesterday. And when that happens, a girl should just buy herself a present. So, that is precisely what I did. Tomorrow is manicure day. And new boots day. The gifting never ends!
These pajamas. And a hot shower and that I left my towel on the radiator. Warm towel? Don't mind if I do!
A great story about getting splashed by a has-been celebrity. But, that's a story for another time. I'm tired and he wasn't that cute.
I'm tired of hearing myself complain about work. So no more work talk.
Last night M read my fortune in Tarot cards and I got to ask questions of the pendulum's sway. It's all about me, they both said. But not in a selfish way. It's about what I'm supposed to be learning from life right now. Thank you, Mystic Powers of the Universe.
He's a believer in many things; most of all, in people. His heart will break right along with yours if you tell him your troubles. And he celebrates your successes and talks to the Universe on your behalf. He speaks of ex-lovers with a sort of holiness usually reserved for prayer. And he thanks you for your company, which you can't believe because all you've done is selfishly absorb some of his goodness. No, thank you.
In other news, the novel is progressing. I'm open to sharing bits now to get some feedback, though I sort of wonder if I'm becoming like one of those mothers. You know, the kind who flaunts her child and hasn't quite realized... that is one ugly baby!
Have big plans for dancing, finally. The Work Boys, who I have been slighting lately, have put their DKNY-soled feet down and insisted I stop being so lame. And I'm totally willing to oblige. I've got money in the bank, some pent-up frustration, and some killer Dirty Dancing moves.
Tonight my dinner was gin and half a dozen cigarettes. And I don't smoke.
I have learned that you should never say to anyone, "In the worst case scenario..." followed by, "Second worse would be.." Because, invariably, you will soon be living Worst Case Scenario, with Second Worse filling in from time to time as the relief pitcher.
I walked home just now, the river fog pulling at my mascara, my mouth tasting of cigarettes -- like a smoker's kiss -- and I thought of my fortune this evening, of haphazzardly finding kismet in a bottle of Sapphire gin and in the kindness of new friendship.
The leaves were glowing gold in the lamps on the footbridge, and I found myself thinking of the movie, Camelot. And of the song. Do you remember it?
In short, there's simply not
a more congenial spot
for happily-ever-aftering
than here in Camelot
I sang it for an audition once. I may have it wrong now; but that's okay. I am drunk. How topsy-turvy that perfectly-arranged kingdom became!
At any rate, the leaves were beautiful and the night was so still that all of the day's great impossibilities seemed... a bit more possible (that being what imaginations are for). And right there, the abuse of the work day slipped off into the river to go with the current or be churned under by tomorrow morning's crew teams.
Of course, I'll still feel really shitty that hard-earned recognition went ungranted. And that I've never really learned to say the right thing when it counted. But what I realized while crossing over the river, and what I'd learned tonight over a bottle of gin, was that it's not always predictable. Plan, prepare, decree, and your world will still go all topsy-turvy on you.
My fingers smell of tobacco and I'm tired but happy satisfied. If I fall asleep now, I'm pretty much assured pleasant dreams.
We ride home from work, Michelle weaving in and out in some seemingly haphazard pattern, one which only she understands. She reminds me of that Discovery Channel special on bees, with the way she drives -- dodging and dancing through traffic. A bee after pollen.
Chatting and laughing, we mock those mellow, falsely fresh NPR disc-jockeys while her three-year-old wreaks havoc on my hair from her harness in the back seat. First she tugs sharply, and I wince, but I say nothing. Not even a quiet, 'ouch.' The attention is nice; I don't want to discourage her.
I feel her miniature hands grasp at the strands of my unbrushed ponytail, the way she might hold tight to the string of a balloon, afraid it will lift away should she let go. For blocks she is silent, her fingers frozen, curled around my hair that is spilling through the gap between my headrest and the seat. Thread through a needle. And she can't get enough of it. White girl's hair.
"Like Rapunzel," I say.
"No," Thea says. "Like Barbie." Only it comes out, 'bah-bie," her accent every day growing more and more to sound like that of her Indian babysitter, Mantaz.
Her mother laughs. "Poor Thea," she says.
Her Carribean genetics, passed on from mother to daugher, will make Thea full-lipped and caramel-skinned, and her dark hair tightly curled. She will never have Mantaz's cascading black mass of hair, or my thinner, paler version. She will not have petroleum-produced strands like Barbie--nor any other of Barbie's plastic, pale features. She will instead be pouty, hot-tempered, mysterious and exotic. Poor Thea, indeed.
I feel her small digits tangle in the mess at the bottom of my ponytail as they work, with the still under-developed grace of her age, meticulously removing the knots and snarls. Petting and admiring. I will let her envy me for now--while my cookie-cutter sameness is fascinating and appealing, and before she develops a sense of self and moves on from that generic, stiff-armed doll. I will let her envy me for now.
She isn't tired of Barbie yet.
A couple hours ago, I will chilling with two-year-old Maya on the floor of my office, blowing bubbles. You know you've made kids happy when they squeal like piglets. And we were squealing. Two piglets in the middle of all this brushed steel and stuffy black leather. Bubbles can be fun like that.
But then Maya had to go home for nap time.
So, I was sitting in my office feeling... resentful -- about being some place I just didn't want to be -- when the phone rang.
"This is H.."
"I'm across the street with a bottle of red wine."
"Joan!"
So, I disappeared to the Monkey Firm's annex across the street and sat in the sawdust, having a drink (or two) with my old boss.
Drinking with Joan is like getting a fabulous new haircut. You come out of the experience feeling great, even though nothing substantial has really changed. You're still you, and you still have to go back to your stinky job, but you've had an attitude make-over.
And it was just what I needed.
I was raised in a religious household.
It was religious in that my mother took us all to church every Sunday and sat, frowning through the whole service (even as a small child, I was pretty aware that she did not buy into it). And religious in that my father blamed God for everything. The lawnmower would break, and there he'd be, storming around on the lawn, arms upstretched like Tevye the Dairyman, telling the Almighty in no uncertain terms that He owed him new Toro.
In my youth, I bought into it. Or wanted to. Sometimes, am not certain what I believed, or to what extent. But nevertheless, I wore out my leather-bound bible looking for sure-fixes to teenage broken hearts. I kept to a ridiculously strict (and horribly self-righteous) moral code, somewhat out of fear of other-worldly punishment but mostly out of the hope that I'd be rewarded with something. Something better than what I had.
And that something never came. In fact, nothing came. Neither tremendous gifts of fortune -- except what I worked for -- nor punishments of lightning, pestilence or plague -- when I stopped following that long list of arbitrary rules.
Regardless, I still find myself whispering "thank you" when something suddenly falls into place unexpectedly, or small pleas of "help" when my own instict fails me. And whether or not Someone actually hears my outburts or not, doesn't interest me. Sometimes, it's just the pause, the time that it takes to seek solace, that does the most good.
Dear Baby Sister,
I'm sorry that when it's hardest for you, I'm so far away. If I were there, I'd make your tea and run your hot bath. And I was sorry I couldn't do that for you last night. I hope you know that I may not have all the answers, or even any clever ones, but I love your guts out. And that might just be enough to help you see that even when your own insticts seem to fail you, you will never be a failure. I ::heart:: you more than Oreos.
Love,
H
Sometime during Saturday night's drunken fiasco, I let Sarah B unwind my hair, so as to satisfy everyone's curiosity. It felt a bit like we were making an Amish porn flick. Everyone got real turned on when we started showing some ankle later in the night.
Things I do remember:
Sarah B making us wear red lipstick.
Confessing that I love Fran Drescher.
Benjamin buying daisies from a very amused street vendor at 3 AM.
Drunk blogging and having a very hard time at it.
Things I can't quite remember:
Why Sarah B made us wear lipstick.
What made me refer to an event as pre-Nanny.
Why a total stranger bought me a drink at the last bar.
At what point Benjamin put on pink pajamas
A fine time was had by all. Can't really remember having so much fun with near strangers. Felt something like having my imaginary friends suddenly become very, very real. Sarah B's mother (despite her daughter's potty mouth) must be congratulated for raising a lady, and Benjamin's for raising a v. conscientious and gentlemanly host. Next time, however, stop me at five lemon drops and remind me that the Pad Thai was nothing special.
Slept the whole way back from the Big City, and as soon as I finish typing this bit, I am crawling under the covers to cuddle with Kitten and read.
Cuddling is totally the new black.
A lengthier report will surely follow. But for now, my vodka soaked brain is pretty incapable of coming up with anything more than a big yawn.
Temporarily remedied the lonley meal issue by cooking for a friend tonight. A little steak, a little shrimp, some really to-die-for mushrooms. I had no idea I was such a gourmet!
My guest brought the wine. And now, I am tipsy. And trying to pack. Lightly.
The last time I packed under the influence, I ended up in Europe for ten days with my mother and a suitcase containing half a dozen scarves and not nearly as much underwear. Ah, not so bad, really. An excuse to buy things.
A very spur of the moment decision, and I am off to the Big City for the weekend to... drink, mostly. And because of logistics and such, have got to go from car, to train, to museum, to night-on-the-town in the same outfit. That's crazy talk! It nullifies any idea of trendy shoes, revealing hem or neck lines and anything uncomfortable for travel. Uh, well that leaves... well... I'm totally going to have to borrow something from my roommate. Sweats? Wait... don't I have a mumu somewhere? shudder.
More wine, please.
Oh, and Krissa... love, do you still have my cell phone number? I have yours. Will it be stalkerish if I call you? Five or six times every hour?
The sun is out today. I hardly know what to do with myself.
On the way to work, I stopped to harass the geese.
Aren't they late for fall migration? I asked them as much, but they didn't answer. They were having breakfast and really too busy to give me a good response. Which also made them too busy to run away from me. I must have been a sight to see, standing in the middle of thirty geese, inching closer to pet the slow movers.
I have a certain attachment to these geese. I was there when they were hatchlings, having swimming lessons in the river during lunch time. And when they were in their awkward stage, I was there during afternoon walks to toss them bread and listen to them honk at one another. We made jokes, my Hungarian friend and I, that these geese, being of the Canadian variety, spoke only French. I did the interpretation. It was often pretty hilarious. My French is a little rusty, after all.
This is my third fall and my third set of geese to grow up and move on. Only, these guys are late. It's November! Maybe they've decided to stay this winter. Rebel against nature and tradition. Maybe it's part of some extended language immersion program, and maybe next spring, I won't have to translate.
Are cats allowed to have cheese? Cause, um, Kitten just scarfed some provolone and is lookin' real proud of hereself.
don't puke. don't puke. don't puke.
I’m a very social creature.
A social creature who values her alone time -- alone and lonely, rarely being the same thing. Growing up, being alone was a commodity even more valuable than jelly bracelets and Guess jeans. Back then, it was a habit of mine to drag a 3x3 piece of plywood from my father’s workshop to the wheat field across the street (god bless rural America), set it down a safe distance into the grain and sit, hidden, reading the newest Sweet Valley Twins or Nancy Drew I’d gotten from the school library.
I can still pass hours by myself, busied with whatever interests me at the time, and never feel… that I’m by myself.
But I felt it last night.
I have, of late, taken up a new hobby. Inspired by a domestically gifted girlfriend, am now trying my hand at cooking. And by the way my corduroy mini is fitting this morning, I’m pretty sure it’s been a successful venture. But considering last winter’s hobby included a man-child named J and hefty amounts of diet pills, well, this one’s indubitably healthier. A couple (fifteen) pounds never hurt anyone, right?
The thing about cooking, though, is that recipes are made for pairs. And as result, there are six small, disposable plastic containers on the shelf in my fridge, their purple lids labeled with things like Broccoli Cheese Soup, Basil Shrimp, Roasted Garlic Pork and Mushroom Bacon Quiche. All single servings, left over from dinners for two, eaten by one.
I saw them there last night, all lined up and labeled in my obsessive compulsive way, and thought, this is meaningless.
I miss having someone to eat the other serving (and usually part of mine). I miss having someone to sit on my feet and keep them warm while we have a bit of after-dinner living room time. Sometimes it’s Jeopardy; where I’ll turn into Super Know-it-All Answer Girl. I miss having someone to tell me to shut up and let the guy with the bad hair piece answer. Sometimes it’s Reality TV. And I miss having someone to Oh-My-God with over the cattiness of the Joe Millionaire Girls.
I miss really good kisses. And knowing glances. And misunderstandings. And I miss those moments that you know the misunderstanding is over and you can go back to really good kisses and knowing glances.
My life is easy, but my feet are cold and my fridge is full of fake, single serving Tupperware. Because until something changes, I’m still cooking for one.
Walking to work this morning, I had to leave my normal route and take the long way.
It was the only thing I could do -- leave the sidewalk and stick to the patchwork of grass and leaves on the Business School campus. The way I was feeling, I was afraid that if I kept on my usual path, there'd be a place where the cold slab concrete sidewalks met up with the steel gray skyline, and I might simply disappear into it. I could just see my Technicolor scarf fading into the test pattern on and old black and white TV and then, not only would everything feel drab and lifeless, it would be. Like waking up in Pleasantville. Only, no amount of bubble gum chewing or heavy petting could restore things. Not until spring, anyway.
The grounds crew looked more like a housekeeping staff, busy vacuuming the lawns, still green under their yellow dusting of leaves. I wanted to stop them, maybe ask them to leave a bit of color. But it's their job, and it's November, and that would really only be postponing the inevitable.
If only hibernation were viable option. After all, I already have the necessary extra layers for warmth and sustenance. I just hate seeing the world die every winter and waiting so long for its resurrection.
on a bed of anxiety over a deep dark drop
down into nothingness
into withoutyouness
Hi,
It's been a while.
I was thinking of you this morning as I was cleaning the house in one of my fits of OCD-related fury. I made myself late again. But you know how that goes. If I can't make anything else right, at least the microwave will be clean.
I was missing our jokes about Advil bottles and closet doors. I'm getting better at closing the things I open, by the way. I still leave water on the bathroom sink, though. And I was missing our arguments about that. Then I stared missing the ways I never figured you out and the stories you forgot to tell me.
But mostly I was missing the way you knew all my faults and liked me anyway.
Love,
Me
It was pointed out on Friday night that Halloween is my holiday. I think that was somewhere between the photo session with me being showered in chocolate candy, and my yelling,
"Who the hell ate all the Butterfingers?"
J came along to Friday night's festivities. Told me that I looked like Roller Girl in my costume. Have NO idea who that is. Enlighten? Halloween party of choice was small, but packed with close friends. J proceeded to get unbelievably drunk and had to sober up at my place before he could drive home. Would have been so much easier to let him crash there, but, well, the politics involved in that is simply not worth the extra effort in staying awake til 4 AM as he dried out.
Went apple picking/ frolicking on Saturday afternoon. Did much more frolicking than I did picking. In fact, only managed to pick one apple (to eat) and a handful of crab apples (to throw). The frolicking was great though, and only wish that had worn more appropriate shoes. Ah, such is fashion.