There are some moments that might seem as though they never happened in the first place. A minute, an hour, a day – a span of time – where you wish you could have stepped out of yourself to view it from the outset. It was just that beautiful.
If you pay close enough attention, sometimes you actually realize, just know, in the middle of one of those beautiful moments that you’re part of a solitary occurrence, mitigated by time, place and coincidence. By fate. A first breath, a first kiss, a first time you realize the world actually can be beautiful and perfect, if only for that one moment. And you also know it’s not going to happen just that way ever again.
So your heart takes a snapshot, if you give pause to let it. And then you will always remember exactly the way the sunlight fell, or a specific shade of blue, or the hum of the refrigerator or the smell of clean cotton. Or the details of someone else’s skin.
The picture, the details are yours to keep, for when you’re immersed in darkness and blues are blacks, and the refrigerator drives you crazy with its constant buzzing, and it seems you’ve lost your sense of smell. And you miss the details of someone else’s skin.
What is most intriguing about these snapshots is how easily they can provide a measure of comfort as well as one of regret -- of lost opportunities, broken connections and irretrievable time.
Years ago, I witnessed the birth of my sister and my heart froze the moment she inhaled her first breath and exhaled her first cry. But it could not freeze time altogether. She’s now in college. And years later, I unexpectedly fell in love and recognized it the very moment that I inhaled a single kiss and exhaled a sigh – one that was somehow left with my heart attached to it. And I remember stopping to take a picture, knowing all too well that it was not to happen exactly that way ever again. It was overwhelming and tender and mournful.
If I had to explain, even to myself, how I felt at those moments, it could take a thousand words (as is the going exchange rate between such commodities), or it could take very few. A name. A date. A song. The color azure. The word inevitable.
Life may not be replete with the moments that pause your soul, the vivid memories of which cause your heart beat differently, or make it hard to swallow. And all the better. Much of the beauty of those moments lies in their rarity -- in the awe of being in the right place, at the right time, a partaker in coincidence. And in finding a reason to believe in fate.
Once I stepped into my office yesterday morning, I did not step out again until after 7pm. I didn’t make tea; I didn’t go to the bathroom. Nose to the grindstone for ten hours. Production days are like that. So when I sealed the Fed-Ex box, slapped the label on and gathered my things, I decided to take myself to a movie.
It must be noted that I have never, previous to last night, been to a movie by myself.
It’s not that I’m unable to go anywhere alone. On the contrary. I shop alone. In January I’ll be taking a Latin Ballroom class… alone. It’s simply never occurred to me that there doesn’t need to be a social aspect to movie-going. That, and, well, who’s gonna look over at me and roll their eyes, and pat my arm, when I cry?
(Here’s a tangent, if you’ll allow: I cried at Sixth Sense. Almost the entire movie. Not sobbing or anything ridiculous, mind you, but I was pretty upset for that traumatized little kid. I have an overactive Empathy Gland or something. Someone is scared? I must cry for them. Really happy? In love? Oh, the joy! I must cry happy tears. This is why, if we’ve just met, it’s best to stick to comedies or anything with Julia Roberts or The Rock. No chance of being moved there. Okay, tangent over.)
On the way to the theater, J called. I was half-tempted to say, “See this movie with me!” But I didn’t. I’ve all but cut the J-cord completely, and well, why revert? So, instead, I guided him through his current crisis -- curtain buying -- and went into the theater alone. I watched Big Fish, sitting between two women (their dates on either side) who cried at exactly the same times I did. I could see, in my peripheral vision, their hands go to their eyes, almost in unison. Synchronized crying. Unbelievable. I didn’t know there were others. We really should form some sort of club.
A few notes on the movie:
1. Jessica Lange was luminous. Absolutely radiant.
2. Someone should really have warned me about the spiders.
3. The line, “To your father there were only ever two women: your mother and everyone else.” sparked some synchronized crying like never was seen before. It was so touching. I mean, I’d feel lucky to get into someone’s top ten list, let alone render the rest of the female population a faceless throng of skirts. No wonder she was so radiant.
It’s a bit gray out today, and if I continue along with that sentiment, well, I just may cry myself into a snotty heap on my office floor. Instead, I will clean my desk and take a lunchtime walk by the river and think about less moving things like, what to make for dinner.
I have company coming.
Dear Diary,
Last night I had a dream about Justin Timberlake. I just know this means we're meant to be.
Love,
H
PS Only in real life I hope he's not that skinny and pasty. Or I might have second thoughts.
H: What would you say if I bailed on lunch?
LD: Well, after you bailing on the movie, I'd say you were being cagey. But that's okay. I can deal with cagey.
H: Ha! Oh, come on. I don't get cagey until after being the recipient of overt romantic gestures.
LD: Note to self: Put overt romantic gestures on hold.
H: Glad we got that out of the way!
LD: So, where's the fire this time?
H: Oooh... watch your tone, mister. -- Insert explanation of uglifying rash here -- It's all over my face! I can't go out.
LD: Please. You know I don't care about that. I'm much more of an ass man.
H: Believe me, it's there, too.
LD: If this weren't the Behave Like a Gentleman phase, I'd have something to say to that.
{secret} If I were being honest, which is sorta the theme for days of late, I would admit that I was being cagey. The cagey-ness just happened to be shrouded in really well-timed excuses. {/secret}
Jesus, I hate dating.
I'm ugly!!!
So, we all remember Ari's adventures in medical care... and the resulting rash. Well, turns out, when future docs ask me if I'm allergic to anything, I get to say,
YES! An entire family of antibiotic!
Oh god. I'm so ugly. And itchy. Nevermind not really breathing that great. It's the ugly I'm having a hard time dealing with.
The mark of a good make-up used to be that it would almost hide my freckles (wretched things). But what do you do when you make the Ten Lepers look like a Noxema commercial?
Whimper.
I had a dream I got expelled from high school for leaving early, and that my mother was in a half-way house overrun with scorpion-spider things that had tiny little faces like aliens.
Oh yeah, and Michael Bolton was my boyfriend. WAY worse than scorpion spiders with alien faces.
Somebody really should label NyQuil better. Active Ingredient: Shrooms.
When a girlfriend called and said, “I’m feelin’ really low,” I tossed my movie plans out. Movies can wait. Boys can wait.
Pizza was ordered, a trip to the corner store produced a pint of Chubby Hubby and some soda. The kettle was put on to boil. There was no need for a video rental, though. Saturday night has Law and Order back-to-back. And when she came to the door, we hugged and she said, “Thanks. He and I are just not getting along.”
Thanks? Are you kidding? This is why God invented girlfriends.
We didn’t talk about her relationship problem for the simple fact that I’m friends with her boyfriend, too. Oh, sure, we did to some extent. The light stuff. Shake my head at the ways he blunders through their relationship; call him a jackass, but nothing that could cause tension between any of the three of us in the future.
She and Kitten have a rapport (the only other person on the planet that Kitten isn’t terrified of, actually), so at commercial breaks, we had a big cuddle and talked a bit about the Pakistani. I mentioned a few of his more adorable qualities and that he’s not daunted by the fact that I plan to marry Terry Tate, Office Linebacker.
She wasn’t the least bit interested. She wanted to talk about Resident Sports Fanatic.
E: Would you EVER consider dating RSF?
H: I dunno. What makes you ask that??
E: ‘Cause it seems like he wants some of dat.
H: {insert riotous laughter here}
E: I’m serious!
H: Honey, all those silly boys do for a minute.
E: Well no, I think he really likes you -- your looks and your personality. You’re someone I’d bring home to meet Mom.
H: He was being nice! I didn’t have Christmas plans. Anyway, it surprises me that you'd ask.
E: Do YOU think he likes you?
H: Okay, fine. Yeah. But I try to pretend I don't know. I thought I was the only one who sensed…
E: I sense it! So, would you date him?
H: Oh, I don't know. I don't exactly know what to do with men anymore.
E: Well, not date then, but… hang out with him?
H: We DO hang out. You must mean, make out with him.
E: No! Hold on… so she staged the rape?
Clearly, Law and Order had resumed. We watched three more hours of who dunnits and then girl time was over. It would have been a sleep-over (I put fresh linens on and everything), but the Fever from Hell picked back up and I was all burning eyes and sniffly nose by midnight. We hugged goodbye at the door and she got her last word in.
E: I think you should hang out with him. And I didn’t say make out!
H: Don’t push it.
E: He’s a really nice guy. Really decent.
H: Go home.
E: Alright! I’m just sayin’! Gotta watch out for my girl. Now, you watch until I get to the car. I don’t wanna get murdered.
H: You got it.
This is why God invented girlfriends. Somebody's gotta do the watchin' out.
the proof is in the fire
get touched before it moves away
Today is a good day.
The sun is out, my bedroom windows spilling afternoon light onto the stripped bed. I’m doing laundry. The Dixie Chicks are on in the kitchen, along with a kettle for tea. My fever is down.
I’ve read and reread last night’s delirious entry, tempted to delete it, lest we all really start to worry about my state of mind. But I’m going to leave it.
I’ve realized that nighttime is a funny thing. Apprehensions, like shadows, seem to loom larger when the sun sets. And then shadows melt together and pool into darkness and you can really almost get lost in it, if you’re not careful. But I’m starting to appreciate that for what it is -- downtime for defense systems. Like a few glasses of wine, nighttime can produce honest moments, real conversations (with yourself and others) and a bit of mania. It all keeps us human.
Nighttime is hard for me. I’ve been having too many dreams lately, which, when I wake up, keep me from wanting to go back to sleep. There’s one that’s on the repeat cycle. My father sending his children letters explaining his suicide. I hate that one. I wake up wondering if I should call him, to make sure it was just a nightmare. Sometimes I call, and we chat. Sometimes, it’s too late to talk. There are also dreams about events of no consequence, names that mean nothing, faces you can’t place, but that keep you up just the same, in the loneliest of the twenty-four hours.
Anyway, I have decided it’s time to focus and decompress (working under the assumption that the two can be done at the same time). I figure that right now, I need several things. One being to see my family. Another being to stop being so focused on myself. And another to set a goal. I need something to work on, to get up in the morning for, if you will. This coasting along business has gone on long enough. And when I straighten out how to go all about this, I’ll let you know.
But in the meantime… well, it is what it is, my friends. Kettle’s whistling, and I’ve got a movie date to get ready for.
It’s two a.m. and you’re awake.
You were lying there, sleeping, your bare arm across your cheek, a bare leg crooked over the body pillow. You always sleep this way – one foot out of the goose down.
And then, just like that, you’re awake.
You don’t know what woke you. You don’t know what you’d been dreaming. You only know that your heart feels like it doesn’t fit in your chest quite right. It feels… too big. It hurts. And that if there was someone sleeping next to you, you’d shake their shoulder, wake them. Please stay awake with me for a minute, you’d say.
You might not need to wake them at all; you might just hold onto them until your heart went back to being its normal fist-sized dimensions.
But there isn’t, so you don’t. Instead, your mind races. There on the bedside table, next to all those white candles –should you light them?—is your cell phone. Who do you call? Your sister in California. But it’s already past midnight on the West Coast. You need friends in Hawaii. Or is it the same time there? You really should figure out time zones. Europe! It’s morning in Europe. But you don’t know anyone there anymore.
You get dressed and go outside onto the front porch. You would smoke, but your hands were shaking and you put your last cigarette in your mouth backwards. And you lit it. So you can’t smoke. It’s cold and you don’t know what to do with your hands. You sit on them. That keeps them from shaking.
The night feels so enormous that it could swallow you. And you almost wish it would.
You feel like crying. You look up as a car drives down your street, only to find that it dead-ends. The cold air hits the back of your neck where the hood of your sweatshirt has slipped, and you realize you’re sweating. You put your hand to your wet hair, and then to your face, your burning eyes.
So this is delirium.
You go inside, headed toward the medicine cabinet. Something for this fever. There’s vicodin in there. From when you had strep throat. The stuff you didn’t even touch during those weird drug months. You swallow a long, white pill. Then you sit cross-legged in the middle of the big kitchen, feeling a little disoriented. A little lost.
And
so
very
small.
And you let your eyes tear. But mid-cry, you have to laugh. Crying’s like your favorite sport these days. Only it makes you feel unproductive. And crazy.
So you sit at your computer. And you write. More productive. More crazy? They'll forgive you for being crazy, you think. Isn't everyone a bit crazy? You decide to write until your thoughts are semi-lucid, until the vicodin is working. After that, you don’t know what you will do. Make tea? Write a letter you won't send? Whatever it is, you do know that you will not get back in bed. In bed, it feels too lonely and your heart, too big.
Please stay awake with me for a minute?
I am not allowed to watch A Dating Story, A Wedding Story or A Baby Story.
In fact, could I have TLC removed from my cable package, please? That'd be great.
***Addendum***
No Lifetime Movies either.
I should be at work.
I should be actually at my desk, doing productive things.
I’m still in my pajamas.
And I intend to stay in my pajamas.
(Mostly because nothing else fits after two days of holiday feasting.)
I can’t believe I survived The Great Eat of 2003. Two generations of Sicilian women and one Jewish gourmet descended on the kitchen and didn’t let up. There was the antipasto (I ate boars meat sausage. Yes indeed I did), then lasagna, then salad and bread, then lemon chicken, then fruit. Then came the canoli and cheesecake and coffee. I was honestly in a lot of pain by the time the dessert rolled around.
At one point, as Chris was trying to force feed me pastries, I looked to his mother for help.
“I can’t! I’ll be sick! Jackie, tell him!”
She took a long look at my pained face, back at Chris with the canoli (all the way from the best pastry shop in New York City, I was told) and shook her head.
“You have to eat the canoli.”
And I did.
Christmas was really nice. Warm people, warm food, really warm, cozy spot on the couch where I curled up and fell asleep between meal courses. We said grace. We lit Hanukkah candles. We told stories. (I was ever so grateful when Chris said, “Hey guys, remember the time H flooded the apartment building?”) And when my sister called from California, we sang “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” My end sounded a bit froggy, as I had managed to pick up a pretty decent a cold.
But it’s like Krissa said, “Maybe when you said, All I want for Christmas is you, Santa heard FLU. All I want for Christmas is the flu.”
Maybe it’s time for the big guy to retire.
From the office, I went to the florist at Brattle Square. I handed the gruff man my fifty dollars and said, “Something bright and elegant. It’s for the hostess.” I wasn’t sure he heard me, the way he turned away so quickly. I didn’t watch him work; I was lost in orchids and others flowers whose names I have yet to discover. And when the man came back, he handed me a hastily wrapped bouquet that was, for lack of a better word, breathtaking.
“You didn’t think I was listening to you, did ya?”
“You must have been. These are perfect.”
“I always listen.” He said and winked. “You have a happy holiday, honey.”
On the bus, the 2 ½ foot bundle attracted a lot of attention -- they practically needed their own seat. The man next to me smiled when he got up to leave.
“Somebody really loves you,” he said, gesturing to the flowers.
“I hope so,” I laughed. “But these aren’t for me.”
At home, I removed the shelves from the refrigerator to accommodate the flowers (I didn’t want to risk them wilting). I shed the workday wear, dropping articles of clothing all the way from my bedroom to the bathroom (roommate was at work, this was perfectly safe), where I washed my face and got ready for a really great Christmas Eve nap. I was back in my room, decked out in the softest pink pajamas known to man, when I heard the door. Up I got, gathering my strewn clothing on the way and when I opened the door (arms laden with tights, mini skirt and bulky sweater) I was surprised to see a flower delivery man. I smiled. This man must have the best job, I thought. Look at me, grinning like a fool and all he has to say is, “I have a delivery for H.”
“That’s me!” I said.
A girl who likes to savor surprises might have ventured a guess as to the sender before tearing open the card. Clearly, that girl is not me. And maybe I already knew who sent them. Written on the card, almost a poem, the fitting message read:
No Swiss Army Knife
But nonetheless
Happy Holidays
And I smiled. Sometimes, you don’t need a Swiss Army Knife. Sometimes, all you need is to be heard.
Merry Christmas.
And thank you for listening.
you know when you've found it
there's something i've learned
'cause you feel it when they take it away
This Christmas will not find me pajama clad, drinking my father’s cocoa, one of seven around the ceramic tiled dining room table. It will not find yet another tiny Swiss Army knife in my stocking. There will be no stocking. My sister and I will not sing, "I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." And I won’t lie under the tree squinting at the lights, blurry miniature stars of Bethlehem, until I fall asleep.
I will call four states and five cities and say “Merry Christmas. I love you” to the ones I used to play “zap tag” with, our feet in slippered pajamas in Grandma’s den on Christmas Eve. I will wake up and wish, in a sort of vacant way, that we were all piling into the car to see our traditional Christmas Day movie. And I will wish I could be there for our rather untraditional Mexican Food Christmas dinner.
I may cry.
But most likely not, as I’m still all about pretending that I understand this is all just part of divorce. That we’re transitioning.
I will spend the holiday with the boys across the street, in the home of a renowned gourmet cook, eating, drinking, laughing. Being part of someone else’s tradition.
I do know that there will be more Christmases and mended fences and other opportunities to make new traditions, while holding tight to the old ones. That I am blessed. That distance and separation do not diminish love.
And this is my comfort and joy.
I remember december
and I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Inadvertently, I ended my musical fast this afternoon when my boss gave me an early Christmas gift. A Damien Rice CD.
I hadn’t really heard much of him, except what she’d told me. I don’t listen to the radio. And I don’t watch music videos; for some reason, they make me uncomfortable. Maybe if I thought about it, I could tell you why. And if I wanted to think about it, I could probably place where I had heard this voice before. And why it feels so haunting, like a blurry dream, or a déjà vu, or a smell on the street that makes you feel displaced and lonely.
If I wanted to think about it, I could probably tell you why beautiful music, in general, moves me so strongly. How it fills me up and hollows me out, all in one contradictory pulse of valves and heartbeat. Maybe I will take the time to think about this. And while I’m thinking, I’ll tell you a little more about me.
Early in life, a series of ear infections robbed me of my hearing. It was, thankfully (and obviously), treatable.
Most of my friends know this, though not in any detail.
My mother doesn’t really talk about those times; she will simply say they were very difficult. A firefighter, my father had to leave Forrest Service because it required him to be away too often. He took a job as a butcher’s apprentice. The construction of their first home was not finished on schedule, and soon one summer, their options became as limited as their income.
We lived in a tent.
I can only imagine most of this, because I was too young to remember anything with any sort of clarity. My earliest memories are only white and cold. A white pinafore embroidered with a turtle, the doctor’s office in a white brick building, his cold hands, his white clothes, and the cold metal of instruments and exam tables.
And then I remember Grieg. It’s my first memory of music, listening to The Hall of the Mountain King. Sitting on my parents’ California King, Saturday morning sunlight on the comforter and begging my mother to get up and move the needle of the record player back. I wanted to hear the drums again.
After several years of speech therapy, a now-slight lisp -- which I hesitate to point out for fear you’ll listen for it -- and spider-webbed scars on my eardrums are really the only reminders of that part of my life. And even if I fail to draw any clear parallel between being caught breathless by a contemporary artist like Damien Rice, and my first real sensation of music from a thundering classical suite, I’m willing to bet there is one.
Music moves me and touches me in the same way people tend to do. And often at the same time. The people and the music get stuck in your head so you will remember.
And I remember.
Here’s the thing about heartbreak:
People will be careless. They will be self involved and they will be oblivious. But I have found that rarely are people purposefully cruel. Which is actually worse, if you ask me. See, if someone mistreats you with that express goal in mind, well then, that makes them a bad person and you have every right to be angry, feel hateful or spend your life savings paying Guido and Co. to break the bastard’s legs on his way to work one cold, Wednesday morning.
Totally justified.
But when it is simply a matter of circumstance, timing, or geography, your disappointment is really just a nasty byproduct of someone else’s prerogative. And there is nothing you can do about it.
Well, that’s not completely true. You can have a good cry. Or two. Or three. It really all depends on your level of disbelief. Some of us can go on for quite a while insisting that there must be some mistake (those being the same of us who read too many fairy tales or watched too many Disney movies), getting some pretty decent mileage off of what should have been one relatively small let-down.
It may have only been the icing on the cake.
You may be inclined to agree with Paul and say that had it been bigger, it would have been easier to handle. Had it been one of the many other walloping defeats of 2003, then I could have chalked it up to yet another experience in no longer leading a charmed life. But when it was such an unexpected belly-flop… when he didn’t intend to break my heart and I didn’t intend to let him, but it happened just the same, and it all came as such a complete shock that I got dizzy and had to sit down on a stool in the middle of a strange bar in a strange part of town just to make my head stop spinning... Well, that’s when something snaps.
(And run-on sentences become the norm.)
But even the “snap” phase has to have its statute of limitations. Because you don’t want to get fired for being a complete space case and you don’t want to see that pile of laundry swallow your kitten whole, you decide to stop feeling sorry for yourself for at least a few hours every day until that becomes the norm and you get your real life back.
It’s not a huge victory, by any means. More like a Stuart Smalley moment. And then again, an unexpected Stuart Smalley moment can become the icing on the cake. But,you know, in a good way this time.
I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it…
Well, you understand.
I've worked enough rooms at enough parties to be able to tell you who will end up talking to whom.
And so I was not surprised when after the acceptable amount of time, we ended up elbow to elbow, him talking just loudly enough so I'd hear his conversation. Did I want to join in? He was unquestionably one of the better looking men at the party. I could venture to guess he's probably one of the better looking men at most parties.
I'd seen him come in. You don't miss entrances like his. Mmmm. Italian, I thought.
From that point, our crowd maneuvering became as strategic as his two-day stubble (oh-so-very sexy) and Kenneth Coles or my little black dress and toussled hair. So, maneuvering done, there we were, elbow to elbow and I felt his attention shift. He asked if he could refill my wine, and I looked at him thinking, Our children would have the finest heads of hair ever. EVER. when it suddenly occurred to me that
this is the way I always work a room. And this is the way I always ended up with the most vain, selfish, ridiculously self absorbed man breaking my heart. And I am surprised every single time!
So I thanked, but no-thanked him, and made my way across the room to chat with a very nice Pakistani who introduced me to his fiancee. And then his brother. With whom I'm having lunch on Tuesday.
We're going out for Italian.
No, just kidding. About the Italian food bit. But I do have to ask:
Is it fair to accept a date with someone when you know very well that you are in perhaps the most unglued state you have ever been? Poor unsuspecting victim. I mean, I could spontaneously burst into tears at any moment. It really doesn't take much. Pass the water? Oh, I'm sorry, I don't know if I can do this...
Welcome to the breakdown lane.
I am so completely at odds with myself right now that if I could crawl out of my own skin and donate it to Goodwill, I would.
And this place, this forum, this blog is of so little comfort these days that calling it a farce would be putting it mildly. It’s a soft-shoe routine and it infuriates me. I infuriate me. I haven’t written anything 'true' in too long. I’ve watered it all down, made it fit for human consumption and censored myself in a place that was built for exactly the opposite purpose.
Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?
And why?
Site stats!
I know who reads this: 500 more people a day than when I started it. And of those 500, I’m pretty sure there are at least a few of you who don’t want to know the whole truth. Nor do I want you to! You see, little by little, as my anonymity has faded (for better or worse) and good friends, family, not-so-good friends, love interests and coworkers have started reading, I, in turn, started tidying things up. If I put it all out there, told you exactly what I was thinking, I can only imagine the backlash!
There’d be some who would want take pity, take credit, or take me to therapy.
Please don’t be tempted.
I mean, what if I told you who I wrote those letters to? The answer would just throw you ALL for a loop. And on a completely separate note, what if I told you that everything you’re saying about me at parties is true? I mean, would you be comfortable with the truth if the truth was,
Yes, I had an affair with the Fireman. I did. And I’m actually very sorry for being selfish and for hurting people’s feelings, but it’s just a little too late for that, isn’t it?
I’m disappointed with myself. I’m dissatisfied. And I’m uncomfortable.
What if I told you I stopped listening to music that had any meaning? That I want to turn every single CD I own into a fucking coaster? To stop watching anything but bad reality TV. To stop buying good books. All just so I can avoid feeling.
Because I feel wrong all the time.
What if I told you that today at work they gave me another raise and a bonus and that only makes me want to go home and cry in the shower?
I feel ungrateful. I feel ungraceful. And I feel lost.
My instinct makes me want to run home to my family. But I can’t. Because they aren’t there anymore. I want to be surrounded by my friends. I want to be left alone. I want J to not be the only person who calls my cell phone. I want to not want what I cannot have. I want all the answers right now.
And I want to stop waking up every single morning, terrified that this is all there is.
What if I told you that?
Don't be so quick to walk away
Dance with me
I wanna rock your body
Please stay
Dance with me
I was rockin it to Justin Timberlake on the way to work this morning, ever so slightly hungover and I was thinking, Mmmm. Justin. And then I thought, You know, I don’t really want Justin. Too skinny, too...young. Besides, who wants to deal with his entourage??
I just want to dance with Justin.
It was that way with J’s roommate, B. You all remember B. We used to flirt, cajole and top it off with an amusing amount of silly innuendo -- all the while being very aware that’s all there was to it.
But when you got us on the dance floor…
Fewer dance partners have been so in sync (obvious Justin Timberlake reference not intentional) or so totally uninhibited. For the very reason that dance floor antics were just that, there was no reason to be inhibited. Except for J, who, not nearly as good of a dancer as B, had a jealous streak a mile wide. Come to think of it, it was more a “Hey! You’re not paying attention to me!” streak a mile wide. I remember him actually prying B’s fingers off my hipbone with the hand that wasn't gripping his Sapphire and tonic. Pathetic.
B called about ten minutes ago from somewhere in Florida where he’s hiding out these days, and announced he’ll be in town next week. When will I see you? I asked. Tuesday, he said. I’m in town for two whole weeks. Can we go dancing? I think we should. Nice.
Even better than Justin Timberlake.
No entourage to deal with.
Eddie: You're coming out with us tonight.
H: No. I look like trash. Home is where I belong tonight.
Eddie: Here. (ties ribbon around my neck) All prettied up. Come on.
{enter Joel}
Joel: You look like Daisy Duke with that thing on.
H: You hear that? Joel says I look like Daisy Duke. I can't go.
Eddie: Yes, you can. And it's not the ribbon that makes her look like Daisy Duke. Yee-haw!
H: Eddie, you're a sexual harrassment lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Eddie: But you're coming, aren't you?
H: Yeah. Yeah, I am.
She is beautiful in the way that most women will never be. Effortless. She’s the kind of beauty you’d love to hate, if it weren’t for the fact that she is also tremendously good spirited.
We met when we were fourteen. We passed notes in the halls each day for nearly three years. And I kept every single one. They live at my mother’s house in a box marked “fragile.” We skinny-dipped in her pool. We caught her parents skinny-dipping in her pool. We got our first speeding tickets together.
Check that. Mine was a warning.
She was a gymnast, a diver and “Class Flirt.” She taught me how to do a front handspring, a back pike and be cavalier. She was the beauty; I was the brains. And we were envious of each other.
We continued on that way through college. We shared a room; we shared a closet. I cooked, she cleaned and we split the grocery bill. Our best talks took place in the bathroom where I would sit in the tub, the curtain drawn, and she’d sit on the bathmat or the toilet seat painting her toenails. She would brush my hair while we watched Must See TV. We’d leave Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and notes in each other’s backpacks that said things like,
“You know why we’re friends? Because we both hate the same people.”
“I love your guts out.”
“If you don’t wash my blue Old Navy tank top by tomorrow, bad things will happen.”
I kept those notes, too.
In ten years, we fought three times.
When she married, I was told to “wear whatever makes you feel pretty. I’m assuming it will be black.” I flew across the country, stood in her receiving line wearing black satin, and cried when I sent her, and her new best friend, off on their honeymoon.
Dear Boo,
I love your guts out. And I miss sharing shoes.
Happy second and eleventh Anniversaries.
your bf for f,
Fezzer
Whenever my friend, Eddie, meets a new girl, he sucks in his stomach. Why is it that I've never quite figured out how to suck in my thighs?
I was living in Spain for two months, finishing up my theseis, when Chris left me. For my sister.
Isn't that a great story?
The man next to me in the elevator this morning reeked of the same trendy cologne and I giggled and grabbed my friend's arm. Have I ever told you about the Surfer? I had not. So over cut-rate Au Bon Pain pastries, I told her the story I'm telling you now. Only, here I started with the punchline. You know, to get the drama over with.
We met at a hot spring -- the kind you hike into in the dead of night, armed with flashlights and skimpy bathing suits. Or less. Moonlight is relatively gentle on flawed bodies. Both recently out of rather serious relationships (Mine, 3 years. His, nine months), we had one of those instant attractions. I have since realized that attractions of that nature are not only the most dynamic, but also the most precarious.
We had a whirlwind romance -- the kind you fall into at the least convenient time, armed with... nothing. I was to be leaving the country soon for a short bit to tie up some loose ends and learn how to argue in my third language so I could defend my thesis. But for a month or so, we missed classes napping on the lawn in front of the campus library, stayed out all night to watch a meteor shower, and played connect-the-dots on each other's sunkissed shoulders by the pool on lazy afternoons. He took me to see the same movie three times because I loved it. He bought me the soundtrack and we danced to it in the rain, his car doors open and the stereo turned all the way up. We waltzed in the rain. Sufer and ballroom dancer. I remember my Clinique TenderHeart lipstick stained his collar. Ah, the irony.
Late in May, he took me to the airport. He handed me his Abercrombie baseball cap and told me to wear it and remember not to fall for any sweet-talking Spanish men. And three weeks later, wrote to say he'd been spending a lot of time with my sister and, yadda yadda. I cried over chocolate and churros with the only other American in the plaza that morning -- a history teacher from Saint Louis. Then I mended my wounded ego with Arturo, a political activist for Spain's Communist party I met at the Rastro. Arturo turned out to be something of a stalker. But that's a story for another day.
Chris is married now. And not to my sister.
The end.
Dear H,
There are times when words fail to convey depth of feelings, and last evening provides a prime example. The evening was delightful, memorable, and emotional - for me, obviously, for my wife, expectedly, and for all of those who spoke with me as events of the evening began to be completed. Thanks to you for making this happen. It was better than I had hoped, and much less frightful than I had feared!
Warm Regards,
The Retiree
These things are true:
I have never liked asking for permission.
I have never really learned to ask for help.
I’m not argumentative, though I hate being wrong.
I don’t feel entitled to anything, generally, unless I have worked very hard for it. And then I will never understand, no matter how many ways you explain it, why I was not successful.
My pride gets hurt more easily than my feelings (though both much more easily than I will let on).
This little inventory got me to thinking. Ah, the depth of thought one gets when on over-the-counter medication. Why am I wired the way I am wired? How much of it needs to be reworked and how much of it do I just accept as being human frailty?
I don’t know.
I do know that my parents worked very hard to raise independent daughters. Growing up, my mother had two sayings – two very big lessons that she wanted me to learn.
There is a difference between need and want. We will give you everything you need.
When I was five, she bought me tap shoes. When I was seven, a piano. And when I was eight, she strapped half my body weight on my shoulders and took me on my first backpacking trip. She taught me to waltz, cha-cha and jitterbug by light of a campfire. She was my soccer coach, my Brownie Scout leader. I was given theater lessons, art supplies and a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. When I was twenty-three, she bought me a computer so that I could write a novel. To my mother, these were necessities.
Want it? Work for it.
She did not buy me the jean jacket I wanted in the 5th grade, an expensive prom dress or spring break trips. She did not pay for my college education. If these things were important to me, I would work for them. And I did.
My father, in turn, wanted me to learn self reliance, self respect and self acceptance. When I was 16, I did not get a car. Instead, my father gave me a set of keys to the family car (The Beast) and a series of lessons. Change a tire in freeway traffic, flush a radiator, and splice a ruptured hose. He taught me to work hard. “Don’t do a half-assed job, Kiddo”. He taught me to respect nature. He let me be a dreamer. He taught me justice, pride and independence. He told me I could do absolutely anything. And he tried to teach me not to be afraid of failure. Dear Dad, haven’t quite got that one. Can we go over it one more time?
I suppose the point of all this is that I had some damn fine nurturing during my growing up years, but I didn’t quite learn everything I was supposed to. I’m just awfully glad that there’s still time to sort out what I dislike about myself. That this isn’t a one-shot deal. That as long as I am reasonable enough to see my weaknesses, there’s still time to fix them.
And that maybe I should lay off the cold meds.
The Retirement Party, it turns out, will have to go down as one of the more touching experiences I have ever had with coworkers.
The details worked out perfectly. The meal was gorgeous, the head table filled with surprise guests and the wine was exactly right. But had they held the event in a barn with sack lunches, it honestly wouldn't have taken away from the sentiment one bit.
I cried twice.
(Never mind that lately I cry at the least provocation, but it was all very moving.)
Did I mention that also while cracked out on DayQuil this morning, I shut my hand in the door and fell down my front steps?
Yeah. I did. There goes my second career as a hand model.
I need a new song in my head!!!!
My officemate and I used to play a game. It was called
Guess Which Really Annoying Song is in My Head and Then I'll Sing it for You.
But, wonderful officemate quit a few months ago and today, I have the entire soundtrack to Gigi stuck in my head and no one to torture with it.
Gigi??
I mean, come on! I know it could be worse. I could be stuck with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers or The Music Man. But still, I woke up so sick that I'm screaming for a mercy killing, I have a million things to do for the Retirement part from Hell tonight and I can't get "Thank heaven for little girls...." out of my DayQuil-filled head long enough to complete even the simplest tasks.
Fucking Gigi.
"without them what would little boys do....."
Seeing those pictures of an old, tired, sad Saddam Hussein on CNN just makes me feel bad.
This is yet more proof that I'd make a terrible world leader. I'd probably get someone to run him a hot bath and then send him home after he promised to be nice. And I'd totally believe him. Not only would I totally believe him, but I'd be heartbroken when, even after a nice hot bath and a promise to be nice, he turned out to be a really bad, bad man.
"What?" I'd say. "How did this happen?" And if you care for my feelings at all, you'll pretend that there's no way I could have seen it coming.
I just want to buy the world a Coke.
Is that so wrong?
It wasn't even morning anymore when I dragged myself out of bed. Which, unless accompanying a brutal hangover is totally out of character. But for some reason, I just didn't feel like rising and shining.
I'm bone tired.
Another party tonight (two, actually), the Retirment Party from Hell on Monday and there's a desperate need to clean my bedroom, do the dishes, go grocery shopping, return some red stilettos and do laundry.
I'm showered and fed and contemplating crawling back under my down comforters.
I think this requires an intervention.
There's beer spilled down the back of my dress, and the red rose in my hair is beyond wilted. And it's made of silk.
Bare shoulders and the fact that I can swing, fox trot and charleston got me passed from older male coworker to older male coworker all night long. And I didn't mind one bit. This girl simply can't get enough twirling.
VKHU: Is this what you wore to New York?
H: No... it wasn't that sort of party. Why?
VKHU: You look hot.
H: Jay, will you come home with me and live on my coffee table?
After we shut down the reception hall, the younger set hit the dance club and it was time to shake it like a polaroid. My boss got trashed and announced I should be dating the Accountant who, of course, happened to be sitting right there. God, was she drunk.
But then I thought, I think we did that once. And in fact we did. We saw Miss Congeniatlity and both fell asleep. We shared his sweatshirt on the way out to the car, like a Double Stuffed Oreo. But it seems so long ago it possibly could never have happened at all.
After the club, when our feet were burning from dancing, and I smelled of someone else's beer, we piled into the Accountant's car and he took us all home. As it often does with those who've had too much to drink and spent too much time together, the conversation turned to sex.
"God, it's been too long," said Gay Boyfriend.
"Three and a half months," my boss said.
"July 26th," I said. "I think that beats your three and a half months."
"But I live with my boyfriend!"
And she won that game by a long shot. Poor thing.
By way of information: I didn't wear the stilettos. Turns out, they just weren't me. Maybe in black, but I'm just not a red shoe kinda gal. And I also played the sober hand all night. Turns out, drinking can impair your judgment. Who knew? And really, I need all the help I can get.
Red stilettos.
I just bought four-inch red stilettos.
I can't be held responsible. A beautiful gay man talked me into it.
My work boyfriend stopped by, snatched me up for lunch of crab cakes and heart-to-heart and then off we went for accessories for our holiday party garb. He chastised my dependence on black footwear and here I am, in possession of a pair of four-inch red stilettos and the promise that we're headed out on the town tonight.
Where we will undoubtedly hit on the same men.
Yesterday, Roommate found out he'd landed quite the dreamy job as head athletic trainer. I'm so proud. And quite relieved that he will no longer be traveling on weekends and I don't have to sleep alone in the house. But this is about him, right? So, last night, I picked up some cheap champagne, made some quick invites and filled up my kitchen with friends for a spur-o-the-moment toast to the Roommate.
And even though I myself didn't have anything to drink, I woke up feeling dehydrated and head-achey. I looked at the party dress hanging on the back of my door and my mind went through all the little excuses I could come up with to miss the company party. If only I didn't have to Vanna White the whole affair. I'd say it was MC-ing, but really, it's not about what I have to say. It's about prancing around in a little dress, smiling and getting everyone to pose for See-How-Much-I-Love-My-Coworker pictures. Which is fine.
My dress is killer and lord knows I do love prancing. And parties.
And lasagna.
Yeah, you heard me. I've been under a self-induced lasagna craving for nearly 24 hours and if that sucker doesn't let up, the minute that party dress hits the floor tonight, it's go time. I'm starving.
I saw it in the window one morning and stopped walking.
I was not shopping for furniture at the time, especially not bedroom furniture. It wasn’t in the budget—not in the plan at all. But there it was, this chair. This intriguing, modern chair with curved blond wood and a mossy green wedged seat.
“Nifty,” I thought, and continued on to work.
But then there it was the next day. And the next. It couldn’t help being there in the window of that designer furniture store, and I couldn’t help but see it as I came and went from the office each day. Sometimes at lunch, I’d stop at the glass pane with a friend and ask, “What do you think about that chair?” But I never went in. I didn’t want to sit in it, to want to take it home, nor to see how much it cost. The price tags on furniture can be heart-stopping, and designer furniture often requires you promise your first-born child in return.
“It’s probably terribly uncomfortable and impractical,” I told myself
Curiosity, however, got the best of me one afternoon. I went in to the designer furniture store. I touched the curved blond wood and sat on the ergonomically correct, mossy green seat. And in a moment of Goldilocks serendipity, I found that it was indeed a very comfortable chair. I wanted it. I wanted to take it home and see it next to my bed, in the corner where the light is good for reading. I’d have to move things around, of course, but why not! For a chair like that, I could move furniture.
Though certainly not a product of a charmed life, I’d never wanted anything and not been able to have it. Not anything I really wanted badly enough. If it was of any great import, I’d work as hard as it took to get it. This chair, I thought, should be no exception.
So I saved.
Yes, a chair of that price was a silly investment and certainly impractical for someone in my position. But suddenly, I liked the idea of being a bit impractical and even began to feel quite comfortable with this newfound whimsy of mine.
“Look at me being whimsical,” I wanted to shout.
Perhaps I even started to see the price as being more of an attraction than a deterrent. It was a motivation. Thus, saving for the cost of the chair didn’t take an extraordinary amount of time. I’m awfully good at focusing my energy. Eye on the prize – that sort of thing. So one morning a month or so later, with my nest egg and a bit of hope, I went to see about the chair.
And it was not there.
I stood there for a moment, stunned. Why hadn’t noticed it was no longer in the window? How long had it been gone? Suddenly, I was desirous to slink away, to hide my nest egg, my vain offering, to hope no one had actually seen me being whimsical. And I left the store, glad that the shopkeeper didn’t know I’d gone so far as to rearrange furniture.
I thought about whatever living room it might be sitting in. It’s not helpful to indulge in such thoughts. But I did. And the nest egg seemed pithy then, and likely to be squandered on many smaller, trite items of fancy. But I tucked it away.
Then I walked back home to move my bed back into the corner where the light is good for reading.
I’m wearin’ the city streets on my shoes
My heart on my sleeve
Got a million reasons to come home to you
And no way to leave
By the time I realized that the Amtrak website was broken, it had sucked away the last three hundred dollars from my debit card. No cash. No ticket. I’d stopped taking my credit card to New York – better to be without than to have someone steal it at a bar on 14th Street and spend $8K on expensive watches on 5th Avenue. There are some lessons I learn the first time.
With one battery bar left on my cell phone, I called J.
J: Sister Sledge! What are you doing? You still in New York?
H: Yes. That’s why I’m calling. I need your help.
J: Anything.
I explained the situation. He tried the website, getting the same results.
H: Okay, can we try a bus?
J: Bus? No way. We know what happened the last time you took a bus. I’ll get you on a flight if I have to.
H: Can’t afford that. I’ll take a bus. I just want to come home, J.
J: I have a platinum card here that says differently. But let me call you back.
I hung up the phone and had a five-minute pity party. I’d have sent invitations, but it was very last minute. You understand.
J: Okay. Here’s your confirmation number. Your train is at 3:30.
H: You’re my hero! You need a gold star.
J: I’m putting one of my cheek now. Hey, you okay? It’s not like you to need rescuing. I'd make a joke about pigs flying or hell freezing, but doesn't seem like the time.
H: No. Yes. Just wobbly and hung over. I’ll be fine.
J: I don’t believe you, but I’m not gonna push it. I’ll see you tomorrow night to go over the press kit and I’ll bring something very high in chocolate.
H: You’re the best. Thanks again for rescuing me.
J: Girl, thanks for lettin’ me.
I remember being very sick as a little girl, and my father sitting on the bed next to me, rubbing my back. And I remember crying and saying, "It's just not fair."
"Kiddo," he said. "Life isn't fair."
I really think someone should have fixed that by now.
I've been at the office since well before 7AM straightening out details for the Retirement Party from Hell.
I think the caterer is a little bit (read: a whole lot) frustrated with me. I suppose I can't really blame her. I mean, I will admit that I don't know what the hell I'm doing in regards to flower arrangements, wine, etc. I did authorize an open bar though, since the latest request is that I actually be in attendance at this thing. Which means partying on a work night with 50 people over the age of 50, in a dress and heels. An open bar was the only consolation. Wait til they get the bill!
As snarky as I've been about this party, I'm actually very nervous about messing it up. You know, the kind of nervous that has your stomach all twisted up because you know how much it means to someone that it goes well? My own parties are a breeze compared to this. All I have to do is keep glasses filled and Rocco from leaving dirty toothpaste messages on my bathroom mirror. And when party-goers drag their tired asses home after daybreak (and chocolate chip waffles), I know I've done a bang-up job.
But this?
Have I chosen the right wine? Are the invitations printed on sustainable, acid-free paper? Did the courtesy invites arrive in the appropriate window of time? Has parking been arranged for all the guests? Do the guests with hearing problems have a seat at the head table? {insert exploding head here} I think I have personally exceeded the bandwidth for Emily Post Online daily for the last month.
That's what the Chairman calls me now, by the way. Emily Post. Good to know I've made a name for myself in this industry. Emily Frickin' Post.
Better than Leona Helmsley, though, right?
As seemed to already have Karma nipping at my tush, decided to play it honest with Higher Up in charge of current deadline. Just so happened to be Very Kind member of inner circle and so one, did not fear any vengeful wrath and two, would have hated lying to him. And, as it turned out, the truth got me far better results.
VKHU: If we send the revised scope by Wednesday... H, can I get you the changes tomorrow afternoon?
H: I'm sorry, but I really can only stay until noon tomorrow. My train is at 3.
VKHU: Why? Where are you off to?
H: New York.
VKHU: New York?
H: Yeah... for a party.
VKHU: Oh, well... (long dramatic, are-you-going-to-get-mad pause) The big question is... what are you going to wear?
Praise be! It was about time they made a gay man a Higher Up!
And he is so very right. What am I going to wear? Shirking laundry duty for extended periods of time does seem to make that an issue. As does work, train travel, weather, comfort and such. Am tempted to wear pjs and sneakers for the train. If only I could do that Wonderwoman thing and change with lightning speed and minimal baggage. And have a gold lasso.
Man, that would be something.
The Evil Ones have, at the last minute, decided to visit our Las Vegas office. Ordinarily, that shouldn't mean much.
But say you had, over a month ago, requested two days off this week. And you go on your merry way, making plans under the assumption that all was as scheduled. But then, say the Evil Ones go to Vegas and tell you (not ask you -- that would be too much!) that you are to remain in the office as the department can't be vacant.
Thus, I'm presented with several options.
A) Go postal. I have a rubber-band gun under my desk. I'm a nasty shot, too.
B) Stay. Sit at my desk for two days and fume, taking breaks only to go to the annex across the street to throw darts at blown-up pictures of the Evil Ones.
C) Come to work tomorrow, as planned. But sometime in the afternoon develop a terrible, hacking cough and fever (I think I feel a tickle in my throat already) and book it to the train station.
D) Take Friday's paycheck and go to Puerto Rico for a week.
Am inclined to go with C and fantasize about D. But then again, it would be really sweet to pull out that rubber-band gun
*** update ***
Dear Karma,
So, I totally get your job in the Universe and everything. I really do. But aren't you supposed to wait until I tell actually tell the lie to make me sick? Puking in the ladies' room at work is so undignified.
Regards,
H
I am a womanish girl
I’ve got big hips
I’m a little insecure
I tell you things straight most of the time
Then again, it’s only most of the time
Lying in the tub, my hair fanned out in the water around me, one leg over the edge of the tub and the other propped up on the faucet, I start taking inventory. The long, pink tipped toes of my right foot still show damage from this summer’s rafting accident (one will never quite be straight), the calloused pads of my feet from wearing heels on the walk to work. I prop myself up on my elbows, sink my feet into the water and think about buying a beauty stone. A girl should have soft feet.
I fixate on my stomach, a curved dome, the silver glint of my navel ring obscured under the water, the three small appendix scars on my white skin. I pinch an inch and shrug, lying back down in the water. Then I lift and re-examine my legs – my calves, the curve of my thigh. I notice they, too are thicker than they used to be. And I remember the way they looked just last year at this time, my stomach taught and my hip bones jutting out just a bit.
I was thin. I miss that a little. But it was all I thought about. And I don't miss that one bit. My acceptance of myself was measured on the bathroom scale, counted in calories and washed down with ephedrine/caffeine cocktails. It was something of an obsession.
I sit up, watching the slight fold of my stomach and step out of the tub. Reaching for a towel, I have to smile. There’s no scale in my bathroom anymore.
I don't miss it.
(lyrics by leah siegel)
Being loved is:
Waking up to find that Resident Sports Fanatic has shoveled your driveway, sidewalk, and front porch.
And he won't take credit for it.
I suppose I could have braved the weather and trudged through the fifteen inches of snow to get out of the house today, but there were just too many reasons to stay in.
Manicure, pedicure, facial, two hour bath and spending the day lounging about in yoga pants were only made better by the TV Gods showing Dirty Dancing this afternoon.
I did shovel sidewalks with Roommate and also managed to start a small but v. terrifying grease fire in the kitchen (took at least an hour for my hands to stop shaking). But aside from that, I have to say, it's been a v. nearly perfect snowed-in day.
You should come over. I'll make brownies.
I'm drunk.
Went out with work friends... somewhow, whiskey was involved. I've never even had whiskey before. But when one of your ex-boyfriends is at the table, and there's only three of you, and one is making jokes about someone's lack o' cleavage... and that someone is you....
You tend to avoid making any sort of eye contact.
Thank god for Indie Rock Boy, who saved the day in one form or another several times.
Sarah B was right on when she said, now is the time i should, "get in pink pjs, snuggle with kitten, get in bed, listen to nice snuggly music, and enjoy your whiskey sleep!"
And off I go to do just that.
Love and hugs and stuff. :)
Holy cow!
I got nominated for a blog award!! Best Female Authored Blog. Vote here!
We can still be friends if you don't vote for me, but it'll be tough.
This morning, one of the Monkey Firm's Vice Presidents stopped me in the hallway and pulled me into a conference room.
VP: Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.
H: I dunno. I might.
VP: I’m a little worried that if things don’t change soon, you’ll leave.
H: I don’t know if I can keep it up. That woman is a roadblock, Chris. I can’t get anything done. I’m just so frustrated all the time. I used to be so good at my job!
VP: I know. I had hoped that this new management move would open up opportunities that I think you really deserved. When you told me what was going on, I listend, but I didn't get it until this morning when I had a meeting with her myself. And I just want you to know I talked to {insert name of Director of Ops here} about your situation.
H: What?! But…
VP: Listen, you might not want to rock the boat, but I don’t want you to leave. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re about to.
Two hours later, Very Kind Higher Up called and asked me to stop by his office.
VKHU: I wanted to talk to you, H. I noticed you haven’t really been yourself for the last while.
H: I’m sorry – I’m just a little bit tired. Don’t worry, though, I'm staying tonight to get those layouts done. If I get them plotted now…
VKHU: Hold on! This has never been an issue of your work ethic! You have to know how much I appreciate everything, and I know we’re treading on thin ice with you. I just have to ask you to be patient while things change and settle after this flux. It will get better, I promise.
After leaving work, J came to my office to pick up the press kit. Without meaning to be, I was very curt with him.
J: I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I have to tell ya, this person you are being right now is not you. You've always been this presence to me. A… light. I dunno, maybe I can’t articulate it very well. And I know that I never let you know just how really amazing you are...but I felt like you glowed in a way, like you had this light inside that made everything else better. And right now, it’s missing. I’m not saying you’ve lost it, but it’s missing. This workaholic thing – what are you doing? You’re a free spirit, not some office schmoe. It’s closing you off.
So I heard wait, wait, and get the hell out! Honestly, I don’t know what to do. But I do know one thing for certain.
I want my light back.
I didn't even know I'd lost it. But I want it back.
I love today.
I woke up in such a good mood, despite less than 3 1/2 hours sleep. Insomnia, it turns out, is not such a bad thing when one spends those sleepless hours talking to the incomparable Sarah B. I'm fairly convinced that they don't make 'em cooler than that girl. When she sends me a picture of myself with a lemon wedge in front of my teeth and tells me I'm photogenic, I wanna call her a liar, but dude, some lies are totally acceptable.
So, up I got early, had time for a leisurely bath, and dressed in a rediscovered pair of asstastic pants. Did my hair AND make-up while shakin' it to Justin Timberlake. And it was all in excitement that tonight was date night with Stella. By the way, I think everyone should have a galpal named Stella, if only to stand across the street and yell, "Stella!" Works better in the rain, too.
Turns out, Stella's work is sending her to Calgary this afternoon. Bummer. But as here is no way these pants are going to waste, consider this an invitation. Meet me downtown at 7.
Did I tell you I'm quitting my job? Yes, that makes me giddy, too. It's not in the immediate future, though. The plan is to save up a few month's salary and then bail, hopefully with my sanity in tact. I actually decided two days ago, dropping the bomb on my dinner companion Monday night. "I'm quitting my job" came out of my mouth before even checking with my brain, but that didn't make it any less true. Where to go from here? Well, that's the next big adventure, now isn't it?
I’ve had the strangest night.
J called me at work today to ask if I would do a press kit for the band. By Friday. You know, the Friday that is in less than two days?
Anyway, after a trip to Brazilian wax hell, I decided to torture myself even further by spending the evening at band practice, taking photos with the boys. I had forgotten how much fun they were. And I had also forgotten how hearing My Song makes me feel. In short, it made me feel like taking J’s drumsticks and…well, you get the picture. What was I thinking with that kid? I played such the fool. I mean, okay, let’s level. I’m tough, smart, well educated and, in the right lighting, fairly foxy (did I leave anything out?). And I let THAT guy make me feel like a big fat nothing?! Live and learn, my friends.
Anyway, the highlight of the evening was J’s confession that he is falling for some girl and that he’s scared shitless. In what was probably one of the more honest conversations I’ve had in a long time, he actually asked me if he deserved to have it blow up in his face.
J: Do you think I’ve made up for how bad I was to you?
H: Well…
J: That means no.
H: No, that means that I don’t think you can do anything to change what happened. Are you going to treat her better?
J: Yes. Absolutely.
H: Then you’ll have made up for it.
J: You don’t think after what I did to you, that….
H: Are you asking me if I wish bad things for you? That’s horrible. If anyone should, yeah, it should be me and I don’t. So I don’t think Karma does either.
J: I’m a bit scared.
H: Yeah, well, love is scary. None of us has been lucky in love or we would be married. Right? Maybe this is your chance to do it right.
J: I really screwed up with you. And I really do love you. You know that, right?
H: Yeah, but maybe you should have said it once in a while.
J: Ouch. That hurts.
H: Tell me about it.
In all honesty, I wish him well. But in a passive sort of way. I don’t think about him anymore. Six months of complete and total separation cured me of that. Now, even when we’re in the same room, it’s almost an effort to listen to what he says and not beg him to get a Ritalin prescription. And I’m not hung up on how he hurt me. What I am, is convinced it won’t be like that ever again. I’m none too shabby and I deserve someone who is not only going to really dig me, but have the cajones to say it, too.
Recognize.
I was standing in the kitchen last night, staring into the refrigerator searching for inspiration, when Roommate wandered out of his room. We exchanged what-are-you-doing-ups (it was after 1 AM), and he headed for the living room with a beer and an exciting looking book called, "Management Strategies."
He returned thirty seconds later carrying something different entirely.
R: I'm not really sure... but I don't think this is my size.
He handed me my bra. Oh sweet Jesus. Anyone who knows Roommate is aware of his fascination with the female chest and I'm pretty sure that leaving lingerie in the living room broke a cardinal law of co-ed roommates. Buggers.
Seriously, though, half-way through watching The Simple Life with my galpal, I realized I was totally uncomfortable. So I removed the offending bra, Flashdance Style and forgot all about it. Turns out, it wasn't the bra making me uncomfortable, though. It was Paris Hilton.
Okay, so I made peace with the snow on the way to work. There's something so very precious about crossing the footbridge in the morning sun and seeing Harvard covered in a dusting of snow. Sorta sweet -- a puritanical gingerbread village.
Last night, I went on a mission to find my old Polaroid camera for a friend. Digging through boxes in the hall closet, I got sidetracked here and there by photo albums, trinkets and handfuls of useless mementos. I clearly have a problem throwing things away. I got completely waylaid, though, when I stumbled across a black binder that held the majority of my college writing. My first novel, a few scattered poems, my assigned journal for my Writing to Young Adults class. The professor for that class was a really amazing woman. She had an Anne Bancroft way about her -- beautiful but tough. And she left notes in the margins of my journal that when I re-read them last night, made me smile.
I took the notebook into the bathroom and filled the tub. I set the journal on the bathmat and soaked in the tub, leaning out over the edge, reading. I read so long that the water cooled and had to be refilled...twice. When I finally managed to detach myself from the bath, I made tea and climbed in bed to finish reading. The lights went off by midnight, and back on again twenty minutes later. I'm fairly certain I saw the hour of three before I dozed off.
The year I kept that journal was pivotal. Growing up, I had an aversion to shows of emotion. I never felt comfortable crying in front of other people, accepting compliments, giving praise -- that sort of thing. I was a bit on the cold side, plastic, though never intentionally. Theories abound as to why.
But somewhere in that year, I lost the fear of expression, my nonchalant topcoat, and reading my old journal, I can remember it happening. And thank heavens it did. While still not totally comfortable with vulnerability, I am glad to have learned to be open.
And though I'm certain there's something to lose in being too exposed, there's so much to gain from being real.
I just looked out my window and there is SNOW on the ground. And falling from the sky. Snow. Is there someone I can call about this?? It must be stopped immediately. I'm not ready for winter!
No, no, no, no, NO. No snow. My vote was sunshine. Not snow.
Though, on second glance, it is kinda pretty. Wanna come outside with me and twirl? My roommate suddenly got too manly for twirling.
Someone has a Tickle Me Elmo doll here in the office. I can't see them. But oh, can I hear them.
Here I am, this close to taking a trip to Crazy City and someone starts in with that giggling freak of a toy.
H: If we can get a fixed rate instead of breaking down the billable...
Elmo: hee hee hee... heee heeeeee....heee!!
H: (jumps off balcony)
Whatever happened to nice, quiet toys like the Rubix Cube or yo-yos?
H: If we can get a fixed rate instead of breaking down the billable...
Yo-yo: .....
See? See how nice that is?
You've got to get up every morning
With a smile in your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
The people gonna treat you better
You're gonna find, yes you will
That you're beatiful as you feel
A bit o' Carole King, a good breakfast, the right shoes and I'm in suprisingly good spirits for my 7:00 meeting. Deadline at 2 PM today. Check on me then. If I still have a pulse, we'll go out and celebrate.*
* Celebration may involve tea and fuzzy slippers.
I'm wide awake.
I've been laying in bed, just daring sleep to take me on. It's so late. I need to sleep. But I've been thinking thoughts that make me anxious, and wishing my phone would ring at this indecent hour. It doesn't, though, and it's lonely, being awake at 1 AM on a school night, feeling like I have heartburn and wishing someone would tell me a bedtime story.
Or something.