A yawning J called me sometime around 1:30 this afternoon.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Leaving the gym with Trip. What's up?"
"I just woke up. Big show last night. I'm starving.... Wanna get something to eat?"
Eating was the one thing I had not yet done, so I accepted. We drove around for a good half hour before our stomachs decided exactly which restuarant had the best grilled chicken salads. And somewhere on Cambridge street, I remembered why I kept him around, even after all the fooling around and the ridiculous amounts of bad behavior. He makes me laugh. So effortlessly.
At home after lunch, I surveyed my morning's work. Floors were mopped, dying plants watered and entry mirror and keyrack FINALLY installed. That one was a bitch. Self-drilling wall-anchors? Big lie. I had to get out the drill and well, one Tim the Toolman Taylor moment after another and finally, I achieved success.
I reorganized my CDs this morning, too. Oh, and my taxes are filed, the ironing done and boots cleaned and polished. Did I mention I've been up since 7? Yeah, I have. And now, with two hours until I'm expected to be at a party, there's a relish tray to prepare and my face to put on.
Amazing how far a gal can go on nervous energy.
Please Note: This post is rated TMI for Too Much Information. It includes words like, pelvic, and may not be suitable for some viewers.
Over brunch one morning, a friend and I talked careers. I mentioned that even at my most ambitious moments, I had never intended to have one. A corporate career, at any rate.
“My plan was always to stay home, write, and have fat babies.”
As soon as the sentence had come out of my mouth, an odd feeling lept up in my stomach. The little worry knot. I prodded my salmon with my fork and pushed the knot back down. I smiled. Moments like those have always made me wonder if outwardly, things change as they do on internal levels. Did my face cloud over? Moments like those make me put on a bigger smile to run interference for questions like,” What’s wrong?”
Maintain current comfort levels. Smile. Eat your salmon.
It was very good salmon.
***
Months ago, six hours in the emergency room at Saint Elizabeth’s, the Phenagran drip making me woozy, I had been clear-headed enough to know that x-rays and ultrasounds were not necessary for simple food poisoning. Not to mention the pelvic exam. I'd stared at the ceiling and waited for the stranger to finish. No sense in making eye contact. There won’t be cuddling afterward. He'd made light conversation. Shhh… don’t talk, honey. It’s better that way.
“Hmmm.”
I had continued counting ceiling tiles.
“There seems to be a bit of … an abnormality.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have any of your sexual partners complained of… resistance?”
It’s the ones that don’t get that far who complain of resistance, right? Ha! But seriously, folks...
“No… I mean, I don't think so.”
“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Will make pregnancy a bit of a… difficulty… but we’ll worry about that when the time comes, eh?”
Phenagran in my brain.
“What?”
After his explanation, and watching the nurse change my IV, I'd gone back to sleep.
***
Over pink salmon in cream sauce, we kept chatting. I had a second helping and ignored the funny feeling in my stomach.
I had put off getting a second opinion (three scheduled and subsequently cancelled appointments). We’ll worry about that when the time comes. While, admittedly, it is a silly thing for a single girl of my age to do, I worry about it at other times. Like brunch. Or when looking at baby pictures or watching diaper commericals.
I am, in all other ways, in perfectly fine health. I do not have a disease, a disorder, a cut or a scrape. Just an abnormality and a worry knot attached to the idea that I may have been making all the wrong sorts of plans.
So, today, when my work calendar darted on to remind me of a fourth appointment, I pressed snooze instead of dismiss and dug through my purse.
Where’s my Blue Cross card?
I popped Shakira's Donde estan los ladrones into my Discman and hit the gym with Trip. There were no three consecutive eight-minute miles last night, but still had to give myself an A for effort. And another one for having remembered all the words to the album.
At home, I got in touch with a long, hot shower, and my inner gourmet. Fed, I went to catch an hour of Benson and Stabler, but instead found that Blow was on. One bloody nose at a restaurant and I thought, "Well, this certainly isn't going to end happily" and shut it off.
While Kitten played sneak attack (I'm wearing the battle wounds this morning), I dug out J's old pajamas. I'm a good six inches shorter than J and so his fleece-lined pants cover my feet and drag on the floor -- even when rolled twice at the waist. The comfort is both sentimental and real.
I put the pjs on and crawled into bed with some contact sheets and a Viggo-featured magazine (thanks!). The contact sheets were, for the most part, ignored. My 9 AM meeting will go less smoothly, but in the battle between work and Mr. Mortenson... well, there are very clear winners.
In an effort to reverse this funk, I spent my lunch hour in a cheery sort of way.
I started putting together a digital photo album. Though it made me miss summer hellawickedbad, it was a nice mini-break from my doldrums. And since we share this sort of thing now, here's the beginning of my "Things I miss about Summer" list.
I miss naps with GI Joe.
I miss halter tops and weekends at the Cape.
And I miss causin' trouble.
And I so miss my tan. How many days left of winter?
Gruff bark and no real bite, my father was always big on talk.
It was not uncommon for him to threaten to sell me to the gypsies for a three-legged pony. (It's fairly easy to see how that threat came to fruition. As a writer, I can only imagine the upside of gypsy life, and have more than once wished he’d shown a bit of follow-through to that end. I mean, my memoirs on the bestseller list by age twenty, not to mention my little sisters would have had a field day with that three-legged pony? Brilliance.)
One of my father's favorite (and thoroughly unconvincing) aces was, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Last night, I came home weary, still reeling. The universe had played too heavy a hand when I had nothing up my sleeve and no poker face. I’d spent all day avoiding what was bothering me and walked home in the snow, crying off my mascara. I couldn’t explain to anyone that it wasn’t something monumental. Just the feeling that my heart had been worn too thin, in a few too many spots.
At home, Chris had left a note, Never make apologies for who you are. I cried in the shower. Then I made tea, did the laundry and spent an hour on my yoga mat pretending to let the world go. The worn spots on my heart were starting to go numb.
I wandered back to my room, sitting down at the computer to do some work. My work email was full again of the usual requests and demands and... one email from my father. It had been a while since I heard from him. Post-divorce, and with unpredictable frequency, he now tends to disappear and reemerge. Disappear, reemerge.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Hi kiddo,
I can't afford to call, so I thought I'd take a trip to the library and write you. I can't ever read my own hand writing or I would send you an old-fashioned letter. I'm getting by and can't wait for winter to quit. It was different when I had a houseful and had to clear walks and things for the family. Now it just sucks. I guess I'm trying to say that I miss you and all my kids. I'd miss your Mom but that would be a waste of time. I don't check e-mail but every two weeks now, but write if you can.
Love,
Dad
And right then, the burden of empathy, the precarious balance of pity and reverence, made me feel as though all my stars had finally gone out. And though I have been weeping out of my own self-pity for what seems like days, and after all these years, my father finally delivered on his threats.
He gave me something to cry about.
I came home from work last night, walked down my swept hall, through my tidy kitchen, dropping bills and my purse on the clean table. I went into my room, sat in the middle of my perfectly-made bed, and cried, for no good reason at all.
Mostly because I felt like a complete mess.
S had thought I needed honesty. And so, over a glass of wine, offered a few tidbits.
Tidbit #1
S: You know what your problem is?
H: *whimper* Fire away.
S: You're too fucking polite, Miss Texas.
H: See, and here I was under the delusion that 'polite' was a good thing.
Tidbit #2
S: I'll be honest. When I first met you, I thought you were... Well, let's just say that I didn't think you were as smart as you are.
H: Because of how I look?
S: It was very small minded of me, I know. But yes.
I walked home from the bar, brooding. Until Trip called.
Trip had thought I needed endorphines. He picked me up and took me to the gym, where I set the treadmill on a eight-minute mile and ran my guts out. I got some endorphines, and on the way home, some groceries. And then I went back to the house and cried. Until the RSF called.
The RSF had thought I needed down time and some THC. I don't smoke much anymore. Especially not during the week. But as it seems to work more like Tylenol PM on steroids, I figured, it should do the trick. RSF provided some green goodness, a gift from his latest travels -- Ghiradelli chocolates -- and a listening ear. I went back home, full of milk chocolate and kindness, crawled into bed and cried some more.
I didn't need honesty, endorphines or chocolate. Or maybe I did. But I still feel like a needy, mushy mess. I'd go back to bed and cry some more, if I thought it would accomplish anything. Instead, I'm going to make my bed, dry my hair and go contribute to the Gross National Product.
Mostly because I don't know what else to do.
Whoever got to this site by searching:
phone numbers sexy old laides who like young boys in New Haven
Um, eeew???
First of all, I am not old. I don't live in New Haven. And it's perfectly well-documented that I have an afinity for older men.
And no, you still can't have my phone number.
Mondays at the Monkey Firm are brutal for me.
I have to hit the ground running (as in, be in the office operating with full cognitive powers) by 7:30 AM. A full hour before the rest of the office comes straggling in. Why? Because I'm a lucky, lucky girl!
Monday nights at my house, therefore, are anything but brutal.
Typically, I come home (boots off at the front door), slide down the hardwood hallway in my tights while on the phone with my favorite Tai Restaurant. For the good half-hour I'm waiting for delivery, I finish up some work from home, have a cuddle with Kitten (who by this point is tired of me being gone on weekends) and fill the tub. I'm usually pretty thrilled to see the delivery man and tip him a little too much. Then, food in hand, I crawl into a hot bath with some chopsticks and a carton of Pad Thai. Ahhhh, heaven.
Yeah, I eat in the tub. Sure, maybe that's weird. But hey, just add it to the list.
Last night, however, things got a little stirred up. We went out for Thai food. I know, I know. Crazy talk.
The intuitive waiter must have sensed that things were a little off for me, not being in the bath and all, and kindly spilled a rather large glass of ice water into my lap. Oddly equipped with a digital camera, my dinner companion managed to capture the moment. I was laughing so hard, that you may very well have been convinced that the puddle on the chair and my soaked jeans were a result of some rather unfortunate laughing-peeing accident. (But we all know that hasn't happened since girls' camp, 1991. And there is no need to bring that up.)
Soggy pants and all, I left the restaurant fairly sure the entire staff was laughing just as hard as I was (except for the poor waiter), got in the car and thanked Baby Jesus for the invention of heated seats.
My Monday kicks your Monday's ass.
***PS***
Pictures from New Year's Eve, courtesy of the Dollhouse. Please ignore the one where I have a double chin. And the one where I look like a rat. Thank you.
A few weeks ago, I got set up on Friendster.
A few weeks ago, I got set up on Friendster by someone whom I've never met, but thought I "seemed cute," and would make a good match for his also-cute friend, Jon.
Ballsy, right?
What I thougth was equally as ballsy was when I replied to his message with:
I'm sorry. I'm sure your friend Jon is very nice, but I'm not actually here to meet anybody.
Did that work? No way. Not only did I hear back from him with a note that said, "Perfect. Neither is he." but a rather charming message from Jon as well. So, I read the note, had a look at his profile and photos. Yes, turns out, Jon is cute. Maybe a bit too much hair-product use, but overall, attractive.
So, what? He's relatively cute. Okay, and fairly smart, too. For MIT and all. And the foreign film I have listed on my profile? He's not only seen it, but can quote the sequel. Why? Because he speaks French, too. You know, living in Paris will do that to a guy. He doesn't listen to atrocious music. He doesn't watch too much TV (not even sports) and he plays the guitar. Among other things.
I'm totally waiting to discover that he has a midget porn addiction or an extra toe.
'Cause that's just the way these things work.
Standing in South Station on Friday afternoon waiting for my train, I noticed a display in the center of the concourse. At first glance, my eye caught one of the posters and I thought, "Great color. I used to use that color all the time for my layouts."
Then I looked again.
It was my layout. My poster. My design. And it looked good.
I called my boss and asked why I had a poster up at South Station. Oh, she said, she forgot to tell me. My poster is now part of a traveling exhibit on women designers. It'll be in New York next and then DC.
So, um, if you live in New York or DC, look for it wherever random things happen, I guess.
I want to make out on one of the benches in front of the rain forest display of the Natural History Museum.
I just need someone to make out with. It's going to be something of an obsession until I do, so let's not make this any harder than it has to be.
Volunteers?
It was wise advice to take a friend’s advice and sit on the East-facing side of my southbound train. Dozens of train rides later, and I’ve never sat on the Western side.
Tonight, while there was still daylight, I caught the gulls and pelicans in their water ballet, the patchwork of frosted fields and flashes of quaint-looking towns with old fashioned train depots. At Mystic, the sky had taken on a lavender glow and by the next small town, the sun had left nothing behind but a delicate, rosy slipper of light.
I’d have liked to get off this southbound train at Mystic, just to see if the world felt lavender there. Maybe one day I will. Get off in Mystic and feel lavender. Someone once told me that purple was the color of an unsatisfied woman. I strongly doubt that’s the case. I simply don’t see how anyone, woman or man, could feel unsatisfied in a place called “Mystic” where the sky glows heather at dusk.
Maybe one day I’ll see for myself.
Work Boyfriend just informed me that I look disheveled.
Uh, thanks?
He's right, though, I am sorta disheveled this morning. In late last night from Happy-Hour-turned-Reunion with old Hungarian river pal, I noticed it was a bit chilly when I went to wash my face. So, down, down, down into the basement I went to check the boiler.
There was water everywhere.
Pretending I wasn't made completely of vodka, I made the appropriate phone calls. I suspected frozen pipes and crawled into bed before all the heat left the house. But as it turns out, it was the upstairs neighbor's hot water heater. I mean, poor saps and all, but I got my hot shower this morning, thank you, Water Gods.
However, waiting for me when I got out of the nice, warm shower, was an email from the Monkey Firm's CEO. He's giving a speech. Can I have a presentation ready for him by 9AM? I almost swallowed my tongue. It was half-past 7.
I threw on my clothes, tied my wet hair into a knot, tossed some clothes in a bag for my trip to NY and RAN out the door. In case you want to burgle me, my front door is unlocked (couldn't find my keys and no time to look). Just mind the sleeping Roommate.
Dear Friend,
I guess it's pretty late for a school night, but I've just come home, a wee bit more than slightly tispsy, and read something really intruiging. I wish you were here to tell you about it.
Love,
H
PS It's funny how being lonely, and being lonely for you are entirely different matters.
Today is my three-year anniversary at the Monkey Firm.
Some of you know what this means. For the rest, I’ll enlighten. Three years was the benchmark I set for myself – the minimum sentence in my corporate cell*. I’ve put in my three years and now, I give myself full permission to leave.
Do I want to? Of course I do.
God (and anyone else who’s been listening) knows that I’ve had my sights set on the Big Bad City for ages now. I am, at heart, a New Yorker – just a New Yorker with a rather long commute. J used to say that he was afraid I’d go down for the weekend and never come back. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.
Will I actually do it? That’s a horse of a different color.
A coworker of mine had this to say about my plan: “Why would you want to do that? So you can be one of the millions of lonely, unhappy women in the biggest, loneliest city? You’re doing well here. You wanna go there and get lost just like everyone else?” I called him a jackass and walked back to my office and thought, “He’s so right!”
And he’s not.
I’ve done it before, picked up everything and moved to a new city. Why can’t I do it again? Loneliness is hardly a matter of location. And as for doing well here? Sure. In three years at the Monkey Firm, I have been part of bringing in several million dollars in revenue. But, who’s to say I can’t do that elsewhere?
In three years I have also been responsible for kick-ass, morale-boosting efforts like, Margarita Friday, Surprise Popsicle Hour, and the infamous Halloween Extravaganza. I have been caught by the Director of Ops skate-boarding through the corridors on furniture dollies, hiding in the coat closet, sucking helium to sing Annie’s Song and doing a killer Mary Katherine Gallagher impression in the lobby.
I know I can do that anywhere. My quirkiness is totally portable.
But does New York really need any more nuts? Possibly not. But does this nut need New York? I do think so. But, she also needs a shot in the arm.
She’s not as brave as she used to be.
(*I say this tongue in cheek, as my “cell” is a windowed, corner office with a spectacular view, but we’re going for hyperbole here.)
I could wait until the first anniversary of This Fish (next month sometime) to make a big to-do, but I think that this celebration is more about the unbelievable number of you that stop by, take something with you and leave something behind. One hundred thousand since March is pretty spectacular to me. Thanks, guys.
When This Fish Needs A Bicycle was conceived, anonymity was key.
I created the original blogspot site as nothing more than an audience-free journal. But to my surprise, it didn’t last too long without an audience. One by one, strangers and familiars became reader and friend, and eventually, thisfish.com was born. Ah, isn’t she pretty?
From the beginning, I was paranoid that J (who, as it turns out is tragically illiterate anyway) would read my melodramatic rantings and the result would be catastrophic. Then the worry became, what if my mother found this site? Over the course of time, not only did friends, acquaintances, and my brother stumble onto thisfish.com, but eventually, so did my mother. So, that worry is out of the way. And as for J? J who?
I do believe that a lot of the appeal of this site has been the mystery, or at least the every-woman angle that it has going. Not only do I imagine a lot of you already have an idea of what I should look like, but I also, in my infinite insecurity, fear some of you may be disappointed with the actual product.
The feeling that it may change your perception has been something to contend with.
But, contending done, I’ll simply make it your option. Click, or don’t. Here I am.
(Yeah, I know it’s fuzzy. But it’s the closest thing I have to a head-shot and is one of the few pictures of me not eating.)
Thank you, and… come again.
Sometime in March, I dropped a little sitemeter on the bottom of this page. And sometime today, that little sitemeter will register 100,000 visits. Pretty exciting, right?
Well, now. How to celebrate? I could write something really meaningful. Or, I could post a picture.
We have until lunch time to decide.
Maybe it’s love
But it’s like you said
Love is like a role that we play
His approach has certainly been different.
One afternoon, a month or so ago, he sent me an email declaring his intention to spend more time with me. He wouldn’t call it dating, he said, knowing my instinct to flee from that sort of attention and turn suddenly chilly.
Who me?
He said I was worth his time. He listed his reasons, my “surprising wit” being at the top. When he calls to make plans with me, he leaves no room for excuses. And I have no reason to make any. He treats me well, doesn’t cross any of my invisible lines and for the most part, says the right things.
It’s all so practical, so cut-and-dried, that I have to wonder whether he actually likes me, or just really wants to like me because it’s good on paper.
I wonder the same thing about myself.
My left brain says that the relationship would be convenient and healthy. He’s very intelligent, successful and everything a girl should want. Everything I should want. He is also what you’d call a 'stayer' -- the hard-working, dedicated, bringing-home-the-bacon, family type guy who really only wants to love someone else.
And he’d most likely never break my heart.
My left brain tells me that I should be happy. I try to talk myself into feeling that way every time I see his name in my in-box or on the screen of my cell-phone.
My right brain tells me I’m not. Because I don’t feel that thing. You know, that rush of heady excitement that makes you want to do unspeakable things in public places. That feeling that you’re actually living and not just being. That knowledge that it could all just unravel as quickly as it began and you could be left broken and weeping and scarred.
Do I get some thrill from getting my heart broken? Certainly not.
But I do think that thing, the build-up previous to the seemingly inevitable heartbreak, is what makes life worth living and puts grit behind the words want and need. I mean, who writes love songs about the person that “just made lots of sense”?
Maybe he'll grow on me?
I could nip this in the bud and die alone, or I could do the grown-up thing, learn my lesson about love and find myself a stayer.
Though, I must confess, neither one seems very appealing.
I think I just walked onto the set of ET the Extraterrestrial.
Background: My office is an ellipse of windows, one end looking out over old Cambridge and the other a view of downtown Boston. Only, I never see any of it. Bad lighting and freakish glares makes it impossible to keep the shades open. So, for the last few weeks, my little space in the corporate world has been undergoing renovation. Track lighting gone, recessed lights installed and my feng shui friendly white furniture replaced with glare-resistant ebony fixtures.
And today is paint-the-walls day.
My entire office is quarantined, draped in floor-to-ceiling plastic. Seriously, I walked in and at once expected to hear Keys coming down the hall and see a potted geranium (?) and a funny little alien waddling around. But instead, I heard Highway to Hell and saw an army of too-belt clad fellows armed with spackling knives and paint brushes.
H: Uh oh. Where do I live?
ToolBelt Guy: This your office, Miss?
H: Yep.
TBG: We didn't know you were working today.
H: Sadly, yes. But you know what, it's really not a problem. I have to disappear into meetings for a couple hours. Paint away.
TBG: You sure? I can clear these guys outta here if you need.
H: Positive.
I'm between meetings now, hiding behind my plastic barricade and every time I see the shadow of someone passing, I croak out a very convincing,
"Elllllliotttt...."
Boy, do I give myself the giggles sometimes.
Somtimes, the simplest things make me feel so decadent. Hot tea. Salty baths. Lying in the sunlight on a quiet Saturday morning with an angora-soft kitten under my cheek and good music on the stereo.
The poor man's royal treatment.
I spent last night playing Monopoly with the RSF and company (the shrewdest, fastest traders out there, I swear), only to remember, about 10 minutes into the game, that I HATE Monopoly. Hate it. So I started trying to lose (Bad trades, developing cheap property just to get rid of money, etc.). It didn't take long for RSF to realize that's what I was doing and to thwart my every attempt. I couldn't lose that damn game to save my life! I finally told them that at a certain minute on the clock, I was bowing out and heading home for some much-needed sleep. Or at least that was the excuse. I mean, that game is torture!
The RSF now operates with the understanding that I don't play pool and I don't play Monopoly. It's good we got that out of the way.
We'll talk more about that whole situation later as it merits a nice, long, Why am I So Fucking Difficult post.
Now, go. Be decadent. That's what Saturday is for. There are sunny spots all over your house and you're wasting them.
Oooh! And go paint you toenails in the nude. That was unprecedented satisfaction.
I got two phone calls this morning before 7:30.
The first was B, calling from Florida, wishing me a happy Twenty-Seven Below Zero Day.
B: It’s 73 degrees here today. That’s what, 100 degrees warmer?
H: You’re such a bastard. If I freeze to death on the way to work, you’re gonna feel really bad.
B: Hey, you don’t sound too good.
H: YOU don’t sound too good. *cough cough* This is my sexy phlegm voice. Recognize.
B: My bad. It’s very sexy. Okay, well, just calling to rub it in.
H: I appreciate that, Florida Boy. Talk to you soon. I’m getting back in bed where it’s warm.
B: Bye, Kiddo.
I crawled back under the down comforters and tried to coerce Kitten into playing foot warmer. But as soon as I got comfortably entangled in the sheets, the phone rang again. It was the Resident Sports Fanatic.
RSF: Hey. Sorry to wake you.
H: Nah, I was up.
RSF: Will you check to see if you have water?
H: Yeah, we do. Why? Your pipes frozen?
RSF: Shit. Yeah. I was hoping it was a water main and not our house.
H: You wanna come shower here?
RSF: You don’t mind?
H: Absolutely not.
I did a quick bathroom check (I’m prone to draping lingerie on the back of the door and forgetting about it) and made sure there was something more than Roommate’s bar o’ soap in the shower. You know, in case RSF turned out to be closet high-maintenance. But, of course, he emerged from the shower smelling of nothing but Irish Spring, just like Roommate. Thank God. I’m an open-minded gal and all, but I do like to be the good-smelling one. I mean, if we both smelled like jasmine and rosewater, what would I bring to the friendship?
There’s always the rack, I suppose.
I spent yesterday in a coma.
More accurately, I spent yesterday in a coma punctuated by fits of coughing and root beer float breaks. Starve a cold, feed a fever, right? Well, root beer float for carnival throat comes after that. It just gets left off for sake of brevity.
I will spend today back at work, wishing I were still in my coma. And wondering if, seeing as I’ve had carnival throat at least three times this winter, I shouldn’t just get my tonsils out. I didn’t need my appendix; I don’t need my tonsils. Not only could I avoid looking like Quasimodo per all the swollen glands, but there’d be at least a forty-eight hour period in which no one would expect me to eat anything but ice-cream related products. Brilliant! And let’s not forget that it would earn me a day off from the monkey firm.
As I see it, there are no drawbacks to this plan.
Then again, there is that whole dying-while-under-anesthesia thing. That concerns me a bit. But on the upside (there’s always an upside), my family might get to be on 60 Minutes or Dateline or something. And getting them all in the same room would be pretty fucking miraculous. Right?
And maybe I could get some posthumous fame out of the deal as well.
Tonsils no more, 2004.
bender
n 1: an occasion for heavy drinking
I was already in my pajamas when he called.
Sure, it was only 7:30 or so, but the kind of day I had, plus the whole, it feels like I swallowed fire for a carnival sideshow sore throat thing I've got going on, I was ready to relax.
Wanna go out tonight?
I was inclined, and hoping for a movie. But it was not to be. We (me and three boys, yet again) ended up on a bender at a pool hall on a Tuesday night.
Now I'm at home, back in my pajamas, suffering from carnival throat and a mild hangover trying to decide which of the ridiculous and amazing stories to tell. It was that kinda night.
But that will have to be later. Right now, my brain feels just a mite too big for my skull. It's gonna be that kinda day.
***One conversation of note:***
RSF: H, you should consider becoming a lesbian.
H: Oh, I have! I'm signing the papers next week.
RSF: Excellent. Let's just hope you have better taste in women than you do in men.
It's 1:45 AM on a Tuesday (okay, bridging Wednesday) and I'm just getting home.
Hello, bed. You look so inviting!
We'll talk about this tomorrow.
"What do we do when we fall off the horse?"
(silence)
"We get back on!"
"I'm sorry, Maury. I'm not a gymnast."
Not five minutes after declaring my intentions to Paul, that I was taking a hiatus from the Man Scene, the following exchange took place in my office.
Coworker Paul: I have a question for you. A personal one.
H: (here we go again) No, I’m not dating anyone and no, I don’t want to meet your rich friend.
CP: He’s not like the last one! This one has a personality. And a Range Rover.
H: Paul, seriously. I thought I banished you from my office.
CP: That was yesterday. You don’t trust me, do you?
H: Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anybody.
CP: My wife thinks he’s nice. He was over on Saturday for the game (insert really long story here) Next time we have a party, I’ll call you…
H: *sigh*
CP: He’s Greek. Tall. Dresses well.
H: (Greek? Yum!) Dresses well? Even by your standards? Wow.
CP: He just broke off his engagement…
H: Paul!!
CP: Three months ago! But because she was a nag! You can be a bitch, but not a nag.
H: Eh, true.
CP: Wait, how old are you?
H: Twenty-five. Better question, hold old is he?
CP: 31.
H: If I were to agree to meet him, that would be an acceptable age.
CP: Wait. You’re only 25? How are you so young and so…?
H: Spinsterly? It’s a gift.
CP: Shut up. Okay, next party, I’m calling you. But that means you have to give me your phone number.
H: We’ll see. Now, get out of here. I'm busy.
Oh, sigh. I'd say something about Coworker Paul always trying to set me up with his silly, plastic, affluent friends. Like he has a problem with me being single... but then again I have a problem with me being single. Not a big one. Well, not any bigger than making a pretty pink page to talk about it all the time.
We'll have a good giggle over this one day. But right now, I really need that drink, the CD and some cough drops.
I'm not sure whether to tell you that you rock the camel's ass, or host an intervention. But I think I'd rather be an enabler in this case. My site stats love you. And so do I.
On a completely un-related note:
If I survive today at work, someone should totally buy me a drink. Or the Joss Stone CD. Or maybe just some cough drops.
A real post coming later. I promise.
It's not just Cinderella Steve. It's the epidemic he represents.
You do realize that you come here, I tell the same story with roughly the same ending, and I still act shocked and dismayed. Why? I mean, nothing changes!
Well, I can't say that nothing changes, because there are a few variances: The date on the calendar, the time on the clock. The length of my skirt and the amount of peroxide in my hair. His name. How long it takes him to say, "Oh, the things I would do to you...". The brand of beer on his breath at the time he says it. The excuses he makes.
I find myself giving credit to Cinderella Steve for even apologizing! It certainly saved me time getting all worked up delivering the You Insulting Little Prick speech.
It all just makes me so tired. Tired of being naive and disappointed. Of constantly choosing between bristling at attention or clinging to false compliments. Of deciding not to trust them anymore. And doing it anyway. Tired of thinking it's going to be different this time. But being pretty sure it won't.
Basically, just tired of being me.
Because this is MY fairy tale....
Cinderella Steve has a girlfriend. Isn't that just precious? Don't worry, it gets better. He was out that night looking to cheat.
How handy that I was there, no?
Word travels fast in magical kingdoms, and before he could say oh fuck, I had the little bastard on the phone. Cornered.
He denied it.
Only to call back fifteen minutes ago to apologize. Yes, he has a girlfriend. Yes, he's horribly sorry because (get this) I'm just so amazing and attractive that... well, you get the picture.
Cinderella Steve actually thanked me for being so "easy."
"Do you mean, thank you for being a whore? Or do you mean, thank you for being so understanding?"
"I meant, thank you for being understanding."
"You shouldn't have lied when I called you on it."
"I know."
"Fine then. Take care of yourself."
What is it with me?
Do I emit some sort of magnetic field that disables men and makes them forget significant factors like... they're already seeing someone? And it takes them several hours (during which they've attempted to go down my throat and up my skirt) to remember??
Let this be clear: I am no man's other woman. And what's more, I'm done with this. Done. You stupid lying bastards. My fairy tales do not end in "happily ever after." They end in, "what the fuck."
I totally hope he caught my cold.
It had been almost a year since I spent any time with the old gang.
gang n. Informal. A group of people who associate regularly on a social basis: The whole gang from the office went to a clambake. And in this case, J's friends, roommates (and respective girlfriends) who, for a substantial amount of time, were my confidantes, co-conspirators and Trivial Pursuit team partners.
Arriving late to the party (with the Original Big City Galpal in tow), was like walking into a big hug, what with all the "my god, it's so great to see you"s and the "girl, I've missed you"s. I mean, any entrance you make that erupts in a handful of people telling you how great you look is pretty phenomenal.
After all the build-up (I can't wait for you to meet Tricia!) and though I saw her among the other guests, I was never introduced to J's new girlfriend. Hmmm. Riddle me that. Maybe it was the quarter keg that J had already consumed. Who knows.
I couldn't have been less concerned.
Sometime after midnight, the second living room turned into a dance floor. J's ex-roommate W and I tore it up. W and I had always been very fond of each other. He spent hours teaching me the finer points to Grand Theft Auto IV: Vice City, and probably just as many consoling me when J was on his not-so-best behavior. Between he and B, they seemed to make up for the zillion ways in which I felt completely under-appreciated by their roommate. In short, I adore him.
At last night's party, after his girlfriend had departed and the drink had made him especially candid, W made my night. Though I am not quite sure how she interpreted his candor, she must have found it amusing, because it was Big City Galpal who decided that today's post should be titled as it is. W was in hilarious form and I had a tremendous night dancing and being silly.
W: H, being around you makes me horny.
H: HA! Rarrr. Thanks!
W: (to GalPal) Isn't she sexy?
GP: I've always thought so.
W: Um, H... your tummy is showing.
H: Yeah, I know. It's gotten a bit bigger since you saw me last.
W: I think it's beeeee-yutiful.
H: W, I think you're beautiful.
We promised to email and have drinks soon, hugged and kissed good-bye. It's never going to be like old times, but after seeing J drunk and disorderly at his party, I am ever-so-glad that's the case.
So, once upon a time...
We met at a party. He came as the guest of his roommate and when he walked in all tall dark and handsome, I amped up the flirt. We left the party together, headed to a dance club. Things heated up. But somewhere between the coat check and the street, we got separated in the mass exodus of club goers. He had disappeared without a trace. I was perplexed.
I mean, even Cinderella was kind enough to leave behind a shoe. Couldn't he have at least spared his phone number? I waited the appropriate number of days before asking about him. He never tried to contact me.
And then last night, at a different club in a different part of town, over a year later, there he was. Cinderella Steve. We moved in different circles for most of the night, watching out of corners of eyes, doing the Bar and Lounge Mating Dance. He not-so casually bumped into me and next thing you know, we were shooting Kamikazes.
You know, the stuff fairy tales are made of.
Several shots later, his hand resting on my elbow, he brought up our first meeting.
H: Mmm hmm... you mean when you disappeared?
CS: I did?
H: Yes. I asked your roommate about you. He said you weren't interested.
CS: WHAT?! He told me to back off because HE liked you!
H: Yeah, I sorta figured he did, but...
CS: Wait, you asked about me?
H: Yes. I mean, I wondered what happened.
CS: I didn't know you cared at all.
H: I did. Back then.
CS: But now?
He leaned in before I could answer.
CS: I want to kiss you. Really badly.
H: That'd be pretty bold.
CS: Are you playing games with me? God, you smell really good.
H: No. No games. Let's go to the dance floor.
And we did.
So, twice upon a time, Cinderella Steve and I steamed up a crowded dance floor. Only this time, he left with my phone number.
And he called.
I walked to work today.
My eyes kept tearing from the wind and the tears froze right to my little eyelashes. And the best part of it all is that the heat is broken at our office.
Tonight is drink, dance and be merry, complete with out of town guests, provactive behavior and... curly hair. All I need is a pair of really great shoes and I'll be a new woman for the night. It is pay day...
J is throwing a party tomorrow night. I said I'd go. The party is basically a coming out event to announce he and New Girl as an official couple. It'll be a scream. Funny thing is, I actually can't wait to meet this girl. He's so crazy about her.
I don't feel much like me today. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's this not-sleeping thing. Maybe it's that I have a whole bunch of thoughts in my head, and can't focus enough to write them. Last night, I came home, and took some Godiva ice cream and my cell phone into the tub. I sat in the steamy water, eating some really rich chocolate, and made a phone call.
G: Wow, my horoscope didn't predict this.
H: (laughing) Hi. Where are you?
G: Baltimore. You know, saving the world. How you doin'?
H: Cold. And tired. I wish you were here to take a nap with me.
G: Here I fantasize about getting a booty call from you for YEARS and now, when I'm a zillion miles away...
H: HA! And if you knew I was callin' you from the tub...
G: Sweet Lord.
H: Besides, I'd wouldn't be using you for your body so much as your body HEAT.
G: Hmm... you do have the coldest fingers known to man.
H: Remember how I used to stick them in your arm pits? You loved that.
G: (laughing) You're such a weird girl. (long silence) I miss you being weird.
H: I miss you, too. Sounds busy there. Maybe I should let you get back to saving the world, Governor?
G: (chuckle) Remember how you said you wanted to marry me so you could wear little white gloves and have tea time with ladies with big hair?
H: Hell yes. One of the few good things about being a politician's wife, right?
G: There are at least ten women in gloves and big hair in this room right now. You'd be in heaven.
H: Call one of them Buffy for me, will you?
G: Will do. Be good. Love you.
H: Love you, too.
Hot bath, cold ice cream and an old flame. I suspect that there's no greater therapy. Well, sex might be nice, but it's really too cold to shave my legs.
You should have warned us it gets so cold here
And the night can freeze before you set a fire
And our flames go unnoticed, diminished
Faded just as soon as they are fired
I crawled into bed at a decent hour, determined to defeat this latest bout of brutal insomnia. In bed, tucked under two layers of down comforters, head buried in the half dozen pillows, I encountered two obstacles. Neither of which were insomnia related.
Kitten
At first, it was such a happy, cozy scene, her snuggled against my chest, occasionally leaning back to lick me on the eyebrow (I’m assuming by how often she does this that either it’s a sign of affection or that she’s not satisfied with my own eyebrow grooming efforts). And then, in her own kitten fashion, 1 AM hit and it was play time.
Pounce!
Cut it out. Must sleep.
Pounce harder!
Kitten! If you make me move from this warm spot… I swear!
Now, Kitten (isn't she damn cute?) responds to one command. One. And she does it without fail (okay, for the most part). This is how it works: I say “kiss!” and she jumps up on the bed, in instantaneous purr mode, and puts her head down. And I kiss her little forehead. Simple enough. So, between pounces, I pulled my face out from under the pillows, gave the command, a kiss and settled her back into purr and cuddle mode. Success!
Obstacle two was not met with as much success.
The cold
I could not get warm. The Kitten Furnace did its job, but come on, she’s not that big. My feet were freezing. I’m starting to believe that getting married, just to have someone to warm your cold feet against, is as good of a reason as any (better than some I’ve heard, anyway). Someone legally obligated to keep your feet warm, to make the other half of the bed and to give you a reason to stay in bed on cold mornings.
Insert seductive tiger growl here
H: Would you think I was crazy if...
R: I already think you're crazy.
He makes a move to put Tea Kettle of Happiness on the wrong burner.
H: For the love of God! Put it on the right burner!!
R: (laughing hysterically) You just turned into the devil from Legend! I swear, your eyes were glowing!
H: Can we pretend that didn't happen?
R: Hell no! That was sweet. Here, does this make you feel better? (places Tea Kettle on correct burner)
H: *sigh* yes, yes it does.
Roommate leaves the room, and I stealthily move to the stove where I turn the Kettle to face the right direction.
Oh yeah, I've got issues.
I may have to divorce Roommate.
I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but either we seek immediate therapy or it's over.
It's no secret that I'm... well, nutty about some things. Like the closet. It's a neurotic, aesthetic thing. I get that.
And I try not to push off my "everything has its place" fanaticism on Roommate, because generally, Roommate (being the very tidy kid that he is) is very good with noticing where there is an existing H System. (He follows the color-coded sponge rule very well.)
But we have come to an impasse. Our first. An irreconcilable difference.
My beautiful kettle, provider of tea-time happiness, sits on the back, right burner. It just DOES. That's where it belongs.
Well, now Roommate, who used to make his coffee in the nice little coffee maker that I bought him, has found a new, ghetto way to get his morning jolt. And it involves using the Tea Kettle of Happiness.
Today marks morning five that I have come out of my room to find my world turned upside down, Kettle on the front LEFT burner. WHAT? Is he crazy?? Front, left burner?? No, no, no. Everyone knows that's not where it GOES.
Tea Time is ruined.
And I can't just say, "Hey, Roommate, could you put the Tea Kettle of Happiness back on the correct burner?" Because, dude, that just makes me look crazy.
We were high school sweethearts.
You know, in the way that only exists today in very small towns. (High school sweethearts, in that sense, seem to have gone out of style.)
I wore his letter jacket; we passed notes, left trinkets in each other’s lockers. I used to turn all the house phones off so my parents wouldn’t wake up when he got home from practice and called to say good night. We had a song.
We met when I was 14. He was a year older. And being the daughter of an over-protective father, I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. House rules. But at 15 ½, the law was bent and we had our first date. Both sets of parents agreed that it wasn’t in our best interest to form any serious ties. So, there were rules. So many rules. And we kept them all. I remember that he couldn’t take me to the winter formal one year. I had to go with another boy.
His mother died when I was 16. And not suddenly. Because of treatments and surgeries and transplants, her death (of a rare blood cancer) dragged out. It held everyone hostage, in a way. It pulled at some strings, tightened others. I remember when they crowned him Homecoming King, his mother standing by him on the windy football field, one arm linked through his, and the other holding down her strawberry-blond wig. And I remember sitting at her funeral, not too many months later, watching him carry her casket away. And I remember thinking that I hoped I never loved anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him cry.
I went away to college when I was 17. We wrote. But over the moths, we wrote less and less frequently and eventually went the way of all high school sweethearts (at least those who leave their small towns). And there I was at 17, in possession of years of letters signed, Always, Chris, and absolutely certain I didn’t want to love anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him leave.
He married when I was twenty-something. I don’t even remember the year. Because, of course, by then, I was completely recovered. Because at 17, we don’t know anything about our own resilience. And at twenty-five, I rarely think about him, except as an entry in my dating resume.
I do keep all of his love letters, though. Mostly because I’ve never gotten another.
They seem to have gone out of style.
We started out as four that night -- three guys and me, drinking, dancing, playing, “Would you go home with…” and hypothetically setting each other up with the club’s troglodytes.
It’s not a very nice game, really.
I was throwing back the vodka tonics, begging them to take me onto the dance floor. They did. And then suddenly, we were two. I remember being confused when I was handed my wallet and the other two left. But we kept dancing. I was being flirtatious. A kiss here and there. I wasn’t being coy. Just having fun and not altogether sure I wanted to head in any particular direction. He was the smooth-talking kind, clearly, having already smooth-talked his friends into leaving the bar before I knew what was going on.
I didn’t want to be talked into anything.
“You’re a line a minute, you know.”
“Why do you say that? You’ve been blowing me off since the 4th of July. And I like you! That’s not a line.”
“You don’t know me. How do you know you like me?” Again, I wasn’t being coy. Defensive, for whatever reason -- but not coy.
“Well, A, you’re sexy as hell. B, you’re a good dancer…”
“You’d better be able to go all the way to Z.” I laughed.
“C, you snort when you laugh.”
“And that’s likeable?!”
”Yes. It means you’re low maintenance -- not too prissy. D, you’re really considerate of your roommate. I like that.”
“Hmmm, alright. You can have that one.”
“E, you can quote Zoolander. F, great kisser. G, you’re amazingly soft.”
“Is that a euphemism for fat?”
“You’re insane. Are you going to argue with me all the way back to your place?”
“You think that’s where you’re going?”
By the time he made it all the way to Z, that’s exactly where we were. I put a movie on; we didn’t watch it. I don’t think I have to tell you to curb your imagination as to what happened. I’m a good girl.
And I’m a cagey girl.
Because when he came by the next afternoon, he got something of a cold shoulder. I knew I was doing it... but defense systems were engaged and I couldn’t help it. See, the worst part is, had you seen this guy’s face, you might have believed he meant that list. Maybe even down to the letter. And I? Well, I remember having to stop myself from calling him by another man's name.
Seriously, I should come with some sort of warning stapled to my face. (I’ll leave it to you to work out the exact wording.)
The girls came bearing dessert and Jose Cuervo.
I made tacos, strawberry margaritas and ice cream sundaes. We played tipsy Scrabble. (Though, I gave up after round 5, when thanks to the Cuervo, all of the letters became as difficult to place as Q.) We watched Law and Order SVU.
And we curled my hair.
It’s the greatest temptation. There’s not a Barbie-ownin’ girlfriend out there who hasn’t, at one point, wanted to make this stick straight mop into a mass of curls. So my girl came armed with a new ceramic curling iron, and an iron will to make me look less Stephen King’s Carrie, and more Carrie Bradshaw, Season II. She was a success. Even Roommate did a double take.
The new “do” debuts Friday night at Soho.
I know, I know. I had you at Cuervo and lost you at curling iron. And I know that Friday night’s hook-up story is much more interesting, but I haven’t quite figured out which gory details to omit, yet. But if you show up on Friday night, the likelihood that I’ll be blitzed enough to tell the whole, uncensored tale, is very high.
As for tonight, I’m staying in, ruminating, chowing on some homemade chicken fried rice, and about to settle into a hot bath. Bills are paid, the Q1-04 budget squared away, and I intend to start of my new year (which incidentally gets underway tomorrow) residue free.
At 5:30 AM, we discover he is allergic to cats.
At 5:42 AM, I send him home.
***edit***
1:34 PM
The REAL issue is not whether I can find a suitable curse word for the events that transpired but rather, what the hell was I doing bringing him back to my apartment in the FIRST place?!
I'm going to go shower now and find something to kill this hangover. And when I emerge, I hope to have the answer to that.
Oh, hi 2004. Were you supposed to be different? My bad.
Or, how I spent the last twenty-four hours
BosNyp
I brought Ayn Rand along because it's a long trip and Atlas Shrugged is a long, long read. I fell asleep after 20 pages. When I woke up, face smooshed against the glass, the train was dark. I blinked a couple of times to focus and when I did, I caught the reflection of HeMan, several rows up, staring at my reflection in the glass. (Okay, so maybe more Prince Adam than HeMan, but decidedly quite nordic, blond and brawny. SO VERY Flash Gordon). I did the polite thing, and looked away. You know, to give him a chance to do the same? He didn't. After a while, it started to make me nervous. And fidgety. Stop. Looking. At. Me. He didn't, so I looked back as if to ask, "What do you want?" He smiled. After the train ride we exchanged Happy New Years and I ducked into the subway.
NYC for NYE
"It's so good to see you! I have M&Ms. Peanut and plain. I know who I'm dealing with!"
If you know Ari, you probably understand that all of that came in one breath in the middle of a very big hug. I had some M&Ms (it would have been rude not to!), we got ready and then headed to the party, tottering in too high, too narrow heels, and amusing some fellas on the street with our,
"Sweet Jesus, how does Jessica Simpson do this ALL the time?"
"Too dumb to feel."
"Ah. Say no more."
Times Square area, or the festive recreation of 1949 War-torn Europe, was quite the experience. Every intersection down Broadway was another border (complete with half a dozen snarky cops). Us and our Evite passports. Well, really, more like, Us and our Evite passports and powers of flirtation. (Some of New York's finest really are some of New York's finest. Yowza.)
As for the party, a few items:
- Sam, wicked sorry for monopolizing your date. And those are some mad sneak attack camera skillz.
- Dahlia, girl, what a pleasure!
- Doug, there's an unopened bottle of vodka hiding somewhere in your apartment. Don't say I never gave you anything.
- Anyone who saw me open the bottle of champagne and hit myself in the face with the cork, yeah, it left a bruise, okay?
I know that by the time we left the party, I told someone I was pleasantly tipsy. LIAR. I was rocked. The original Big City GalPal mixes a strong drink! We three gals made it a few blocks (thank you for holding my hand, Ari) for post-party drinks, and I was really in a state. Shoes, booze and tongue all working against one another in a bizarre fashion. I was talking faster than my brain would keep up. And I'm fairly certain I told a story I have never told anyone since I left Dallas. Let's keep that one under wraps, okay?
Home around what, 4:30? Awake around 2 PM and back at Penn Station at 4 PM. And happily, no hangover in between.
NypBos
Well, that's where I am writing this. So, let's talk New Year's Resolutions. This year's theme is, Live Deliberately, and my goals are two-fold.
Debt No More, 2004
On June 1st, I intend to be finished with Visa and their interest rate rape. I should be living within my means. Ten thousand dollars in raises in one year and I have debt? That's ridiculous.
Do something well
I play the piano. I play the guitar (I do a mean version of Smelly Cat). I paint. All only marginally well. You know, party-trick talents. So, starting in two weeks, I'm taking of of my marginally practiced talents to school. Latin Ballroom classes.
Last year's resolution was to drink more water. Which I totally accomplished. Let's hope this year is as... successful.
Dear Everyone I Talked To Last Night in my Intoxicated State,
I do not think I have ever run my mouth like that in my life. My sincerest apologies for being that drunk girl. I do come with an off button, I swear.
Love,
H
(I wrote a whole post about New Year's Eve on the train home this evening. But, I'm tired. Bone tired. So I'll get to that tomorrow. Love and hugs and stuff.)