This Fish Needs A Bicycle

that interview thing

Know what makes me nervous about this interview in New York?

That they might actually offer me the job.

Roommate is counting on it and has already put in his request that a Swedish bikini model sublet my room (on the condition that she cooks topless).

My mother is counting on it and has already dedicated a portion of her tax return to bring my Smart Assed Sibling for a visit to the Big Apple this spring.

My Galpal, Em, is counting on it and has demanded that I give her something of mine before I leave (she will choose what that thing is). Oh, and that she gets to ride in the moving truck.

Em and I spent all day together shopping, eating, and talking about New York what-ifs. Only for her, it wasn't so much a what-if, as a done deal.

Em: When I drove from your house last night, I got sadder and sadder.
H: Awwww. Emmm! I'm not going anywhere!!!!
Em: For real, I'M SO GAY
H: They might not hire me. But you're right... you are so gay.
Em: Shut up.
H: You.
Em: I'm gonna miss you.

Watch me blow the interview. That'd sure teach 'em.

i miss those silly kids

Today, no one came into my office to bother me.

The sign on the door says, Do not Disturb. Usually, my work boyfriends totally ignore that sign. I feel rather lonely. And that's totally worse than being constantly interrupted.

Man, I miss those silly kids.

done!

I did it!
I did it!
I did it!

Three articles, one award submission, three qualification packages and two interview preps. DONE.

Now I gotta work on my resume. And pick up my suit. 'Cause, yeah, I have an interview on Monday.

gah!

Who's been up since 3AM working? ME!

I've got caffeine surging through my veins and I DON'T DRINK CAFFEINE.

I feel like a wind-up monkey.

you know, hypothetically speaking

If I were ever going to have an affair -- you know, hypothetically speaking -- I’d start by picking a remote location. Say, a dusty tent somewhere in New Mexico, or a chintzy, art deco motel in some Florida tourist trap. Or maybe an inn in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. The kind with views of the water.

I’d probably put just as much thought into choosing my lover. I’d be quite selective, I think. Perhaps I’d pick someone with a sense of adventure. The sort who’d pick me up by the belt loops of my jeans and toss me onto a king-size bed just before binding my wrists with his leather belt (not too tightly, of course). Or, maybe I’d go for the sentimental sort who’d feed me caramel pecan cheesecake in bed the next morning. Then maybe months later, I’d write about it and imagine eating the caramel pecan cheesecake off of that lover.

If I were going into details, I’d think it would be wise to keep the room temperature elevated. You know, if I chose to conduct my affair in the winter. All that heat, and the sweat… if it got too cold in the room, I just might need to keep active for much of the night in order to compensate. And there’d be no sense in wearing a lover out too quickly.

I’d probably take loads of white candles -- the kind that smell like warm vanilla. I’d take massage oil. Even if I didn’t end up using it. After all, talking about using it could be fairly hot on its own, I bet. And I’d take lingerie that I wouldn’t wear for more than a few minutes. And a pair of jeans that flatter my backside. And a return ticket home, that I would try not to think about for at least 20 hours.

I’d laugh while my lover pranced naked in front of the open curtains. I’d eat too much for dessert -- most of mine, some of his. Maybe frozen pears in ice cream. I’d lounge about, drinking cocktails and listening to big band music. And I’d try to sleep even though I’d be wide awake feeling his breath on the back of my neck and pretending it doesn’t make me want to wake him up doing scandalous things.

And after it was all said and done, I imagine the smallest little thing would probably remind me of that affair. Something hanging in my closet. The taste of pears. The smell of sweat and the faint taste of cigarettes on someone’s breath.

And I’d probably never really lose the temptation, every time I’m on a New York City-bound train, to get off at the quaint little depot in Old Saybrook, Connecticut.

You know, hypothetically speaking.

dropping the ball

Yesterday was overwhelming.

In fact, for the first time since coming to the Monkey Firm, I felt like a complete failure, due to no fault of my own. While I'm used to having a whole lotta balls in the air at one time (I am quite the multi-tasker), yesterday turned into some sort of sick, sadistic juggling act. Everyone had a ball to throw my way.

If the following scene makes any sense, I offer it as an example. It is in no way exaggerated. Three people in my office and one on the phone.

Paul: I saved those drawings to the file.
H: Which file? Cheshire?
Paul: CIMIT.
H: Okay, okay. Listen, CIMIT is due Friday. Cheshire is due TOMORROW. Can ya work with me here?
Paul: I haven't started on them...
H: I'm going to banish you again!

In walks President

President: H, I know you're busy but {your Boss} was working on a few things...
H: (already handing him the files) These two are for your review. I finished them up last night. They go Fed-Ex to California. You have two hours. The third can go out tomorrow night, right? It's not done.
President: Now, I know things will be tough without {Boss} around, but your progress here will be determined, in part, by how much you can produce. Oh, and I need this duplicated. One copy to {large bio-tech firm}...

Phone rings

H: This is H...
Higher Up: Hi, yeah, um {Boss} was handling the Business Week article. What are we doing about that?
H: don't. cry. Um, Okay. Bill, I have a 4:00 free. If it doesn't bother you to have to debrief me on the strategy, I'll fit it in somehow. Your office at 4?
Higher Up: Fine.

In walks Chairman

Chairman: (exchanging plesantries with the others crowding my office) Those boards ready for the MGH interview on Thursday?

Three minutes later, I was in the ladies' room, hiding in a bathroom stall.

I got nothing done yesterday and my desk is piled with half-completed tasks. They're waiting for me right now. I dreamt about work all night. My body aches and my eyes are burning from working at this fucking computer until way past midnight last night trying to write some bullshit article about the biggest hotel in the world, and screaming inside my head, "Who the FUCK cares?"

Who the fuck cares? I do. And therein lies the problem.

but, i, uh....

Ahh!

I submitted my resume to a Company Confidential listing. I just got an email from the head honcho at one of the more respected monkey firms in New York City.

They want to interview me this week.

**PS**

If you tried to comment earlier, and it said you were blocked... My bad, kids. I sorta screwed things up. I blame the tequila.

the fireds

"Can I get you anything else?"

"A job?"

We double over laughing as the confused waitress wanders away.

"Oooh! Wait! How about some dignity?"
"Look next to the salt."

It carries on this way for a good part of the evening, the twelve of us around a long table filled with cheap Mexican food and booze. The Fireds are animated. They've been drinking since 3pm. I feel a little out of place until I've had a drink, and then we're hugging and laughing and trash-talking.

It gets somber for a second. My boss wipes strawberry daquiri from her mouth and says, "It's really going to suck for you there isn't it?"

"Yes!" I say. "It's all about me! Forget that you got laid off. I'm the one who's really suffering!"

"I'm not kidding. What about the Business Week thing?"

"I know. I'm not going to say I didn't think about that. But what really concerns me is who's going to hold my purse when I go shopping at lunch."

Work Boyfriend leans across the table, mock-drunk. "Still me!" he slurs. "Only, in my bathrobe. Are you drunk? NO! But it's only 9AM, there's still time!"

Plenty of time, they all chime in. And then they make up new professions. New ambitions. Work Boyfriend will drive an ice cream truck. That way, he and I are sure never to lose touch. Gay Boyfriend will model thong underwear. And my boss?

"I want to be a sex therapist."

Cheers to that, someone says. We go back to our drinks. I lean my head into Gay Boyfriend and stay that way for a while. He knows how sorry I am; there's no point in saying it. And I'm terrible at sincere, heart-felt moments.

We're friends, he says. We'll always be friends, stupid monkey job or no.

I hug him and get up to leave. Good, I say. But you do realize I'm totally going to have to find someone else to sexually harass.

And what I really mean to say is, "It's going to be so lonely without you."

impending doom

You know how I was feeling "Uh-oh" about today? It had nothing to do with visit to New Doctor.

I have just outlived my what, fifth? round of surprise lay-offs in three years here at the Monkey Firm. Among the 15% that got the axe today were:

Work Boyfriends 1 and 2
Gay Boyfriend
My Boss

I'm going to stop there. I feel all dizzy and my fingers are numb.

Dude, why do they keep me?

hella wicked fine

I woke up this morning and before my eyes had even adjusted to the gray morning light, I felt the feeling. I sometimes wish that I didn't get those premonitions. That I could just get blind-sided by the universe more often, and not have to know it's coming. To have to wait for it.

I didn't take my time getting ready. If the Universe was going to be in my face, I was going to be ready to fight. Maybe I'd even strike first. You know, put my toes to the line and let 'er have it. Strike fast and hard, like Dad taught me. How many fathers teach their daughters to fight? Probably the same kind that teach them to use guns. And change radiator hoses.

Toes to the line. Strike first.

I left the computer in sleep mode. No time for blogging. In the shower, my stomach flipped. My hair had been falling out too easily, no matter how gently I worked the conditioner through. Roommate had noticed and even brought it up last night.

"Your hair's been falling out a lot."
"Side effect of the new wonder pill."
"Or stress. Seriously, you okay?"
"Hella wicked fine."

There's liquid Ivory Soap in the shower. I don't use the froo-froo stuff anymore. Too many smells too early in the morning. I move the suds down my shoulders and... is that a...

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I make the call to New Doctor as soon as I get out of the shower. His office is open at 7:30. I call at 7:15 and am not surprised that his nurse answers. She says to come in. So I miss my 8 AM and go in.

Toes to the line. Strike first.

Turns out, it's not. New Doctor takes more blood (we do this every other week), gives me antibiotic for swollen glands and tells me to take it easy. I laugh. Don't worry about the hair, he tells me. Your body's just responding to the change in hormones. Duh, I think. I can read the insert. Doesn't mean I like it.

At 9:04 AM, I'm already tired of fighting with the Universe. So, I make a cup of tea, take time to blog (cyber therapy) and decide to take it easy at work today. Unmaking my stress. J's email is the first in my inbox when I open my Outlook.

Hey Sister Sledge,

Just thinking about you. How you doin'?

Hella wicked fine.

easy like sunday morning

I lay in bed this morning, half buried under the folds of down comforters, watching morning slowly become afternoon. I read every word of Rolling Stone and bargained with myself that in another fifteen minutes, I'd get up in earnest.

Finally, the RSF called and badgered me out of bed.

"We're going to the gym in 45 minutes. I'll be on your porch and I am immune to your whining."

He, however, was not immune to my powers of negotiation. A trip to the gym became a trip to the grocery store for red meat, Girl Scout cookie ice cream and curly fries.

That's what's called going to the gym, Sunday style.

gettin' the buzz

There he is. On my caller ID.

Flip open.

"Hi you!"
Enthusiasm. Not cagey. See? I can do this.
"Hi. Yeah, so that was me calling at 1:30 this morning. I sure hope I didn't wake you up."
"No, I didn't even hear it ring. Were you drunk-dialing?"
"Uh... yes. I was in rare form last night, I apologize."
"Nothin' doin! Getting drunk-dialed lets a gal know she's still got it. You know, whatever it is."
"Ha! So, what's going on tonight? You busy?"
Zero to cagey in five... four... three... two....
"Yeah. Sorta. Grocery shopping, then hanging out with the boys."
"Oh. Um, well, maybe I'll run into you at Stop n Shop."
"Maybe. Hey, I'm gonna run, okay?"
"Sure, so I'll talk to you later in the week?"
"Yep."

Flip closed.

Yep? Do I mean yep? Sure I do. Or maybe. I should go to the grocery store. Maybe they sell I Can't Believe it's not Borderline Personality Disorder. You know, in the dairy aisle next to the cans of spray cheese.

buzzing

I've flipped open my phone three, maybe four times now, to return the missed call, only to flip it closed again.

Some days, this is what I readily admit to as being stubborn. Some days it is cagey. But right now, it's simple indecision.

Stubborn was yesterday when his last email said, "Give me a buzz" and I thought, no, YOU give ME a buzz. I didn't buzz. And, well, neither did he.

Flip open. Flip closed.

Stubborn was when I kept my phone on the table of that diviest of dive bars last night, drinking tequila sunrises and thinking, give me a buzz. I didn't buzz. And neither did he.

Until 1:24 AM.

Flip open.

If I were being cagey (which I'm not!), it might be because I don't know what I'm doing. And in such a case it's easier to do nothing at all. Right? Of course right.

Flip closed.

But since I'm just being indecisive, I might just not know what to say when I do call him back.

Hi. Yeah, no. Just really busy. Went out with friends last night.
Hi. Were you drunk-dialing me at 1:24 in the morning?
Hi, sorry I'm so short-bus about all this. Still wanna get together?

Whatever. Something like that. I'll just wing it.

Flip open.

"Hi," I say to his voicemail. "It's me. I, um..." Gah! This is going very well. Perhaps I should stick with cagey and stubborn. "Give me a buzz."

Flip closed.

my friday five

One message from the Fireman saying he is indeed coming to town next month and that we must plan a Big Night Out. Mmm hmmm. I'll be planning alright. {insert seductive tiger growl here}

Two scoops of ice-cream at lunch. Yeah, yeah. I'll go to the gym later.

Three emails from my Valentine, taking time out of doing scientisty things to make plans and tell me I'd look hot in his lab coat. I ::heart:: my Valentine.

Four hours spent on Overstock.com looking at things I would buy if I were not so dilligently paying off my credit cards. Do I need a black beaded Prada tank top? No. But do I want it? Hells yes. Good thing I left my credit card at home in the freezer. And yes, it's actually IN the freezer.

Five attempts (all thwarted by actual assignments) to sneak out of the office for the rest of the day on an "off-site meeting." Will someone please add "tanning salon" to the roster as an official meeting? I'm tired of fighting this battle.

if... then

If

you live in a climate that is currently sunny and at LEAST 80 degrees, and somewhat in proximity of a beach...

Then

could you please invite me to come visit for a few days?

And could you please call it a "family emergency"?

Thank you in advance.

white flag

I can't do it again today.

I can't eat my healthy breakfast, make my bed and put on uncomfortable shoes and go back to that place.

I can't meet another impossible deadline, take one more Jeckyl-and-Hyde moment from my boss's boss and not get paid enough to do it.

I
give
up.

After producing what normally would have been three or four weeks' work in five days, my department was using yesterday to re-group. It was a fine enough day, the first, we thought, in which we could take a second to breathe. By 3PM El Presidente was yelling (red-in-the-face yelling) at me over something way beyond my control. And by 5PM (the issue having been resolved), I surrendered. Walked out the door.

And I'm sitting here this morning, wet-haired, in my big, soft white robe thinking, "I can't do it again today."

I do believe this is what they call an unconditional surrender.

motivating factors

For someone who loathes the gym, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time there. Why suddenly decide to brave the guidos, stalker personal trainers and all-around stink fest that is my local Bally Total Fitness? I’ll tell you why. The men in my life.

And here they are, in no particular order, the masculine motivating factors for going back to the gym:

My Gym Buddy

If my persistence gets Trip to the gym on a semi-regular basis, and he passes his PT Test for the Sheriff’s office this spring, I cash out. That’s right. I nag him to go to the gym and he PAYS me. In case you missed that, I’m getting paid to nag. Now, not being a nagger by nature (in fact, being a very poor nagger even with practice), this isn’t quite as easy as it sounds. But, seeing as Trip and I will probably be forced into a back-up marriage at some point within the next 10 years, it’s beneficial that I learn how to badger him early on. And get a couple hundred bucks while I’m at it.

My Brother

The challenge has been set. When he graduates from the police academy in June, my brother and I are going on one of our Wilderness Adventures. In college (when I was, shall we say, not so squishy as I am now), our Wilderness Adventures meant anything from strapping on snowshoes and a 60-pound pack in the dead of winter, to Colorado white water runs. I’m through with the whole, sacrifice my body on a Class Five river run (remember that?), so the specific challenge is still up for debate. I chose desert. He chose mountain. Sweet lord, let it be desert. I don’t care how many hours I bust it at the gym, I’m not going to have the sort of stamina I did back in the day. And I have some pride to save here. You know, seeing as this was my idea and all. Ahem.

My Doctor

I’m now convinced that he’s not out to prevent future non-cancerous breast tissue, but rather construct a race of ravenously hungry, water-retaining she-beasts. And I’m having none of it! Okay, the new rack was one thing (I can skip the bra and still have cleavage. Who’s complaining??), but I swear to god, if I wake up just one more morning feeling like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I’m gonna have a melt down.

And last, but not least,

The Man

You know, as in THE Man. I have yet to set a date for my interview with the NY Monkey Firm (don’t worry, they’re in no hurry) because I can’t quite shimmy into my best suit. It’s either shell out another $400 for a new one, or get thee to Bally. I don’t even remember being such a cute size six, but I clearly was once, and I went suit shopping. Silly girl.

(Oooh, and according to my source -- good morning, source! -- we may have a mainland siting of the Cute Fireman next month. Huzzah! I won't officially add him to the list as that would just be... silly. Mmm hmmm.)

more on that...

Friday night’s trip to Bizarreville was courtesy of my boss, who for some time, has been trying to get me to meet her upstairs neighbor, Kevin. Kevin the, 30-something, scruffy faced, SUV-driving, software engineer with loads of money, upstairs neighbor. And previous to Friday night’s weirdness, I had been thinking that he seemed just about right.

WRONG!

Boss: So, what did you think of Kevin?
H: Well, truthfully, I felt a bit… mauled.
B: Aw, I’m sorry. He’s so cute though, right?
H: Cute?! He bit me on my stomach! After just meeting me!
B: Yeeeeah, he called the next day to apologize for being so drunk and silly…
H: I seemed to have missed that apology.
B: Oh, come on! You guys seemed to get on so well!
H: I get on well with LOTS of people. That usually not a reason suspect they'll lift my shirt and bite me on the bare stomach!

Turns out, Kevin the upstairs neighbor is more like, Kevin the, 30-something, condescending, not-good at kissing, too aggressive when drunk, upstairs neighbor.

Singledom may get lonely, but one thing’s for certain. The world will never be that cold and dark.

Thank god for back-up boyfriends. And cats.

incongruent

I'm not perfect.

I know, shocker. And after you regain your composure, I'll tell you which imperfection I'm currently obsessed with. But first, you must promise you'll love me anyway. Go on, promise. Thank you. Here we go then:

I have one love handle.

Being of the curvier variety, I try to keep a fairly well-defined waistline. It's the key difference between hourglass and obelisk. But last year, as I became more sluggish in the long, way-too long winter months, I found myself sporting a love handle. Those in the know can vouch for its existence...and the lack of an accompanying one on the other side. Of small relief, I have to say it is a small lovehandle. I mean, it doesn't overlap my belt or poke out of my shirts. But it is there, nonetheless, taunting me with its asymmetry.

But I ask you, why is it there?! Is it a tumor? An alien child? Does it exist for the sake of harmony, to balance out the cute little appendix scars on my right side? Do I need uglying up? I mean, come on!

I suppose a possible solution would be to grow one on the other side in order to create symmetry -- which, as we all know is the key to aesthetics. But that kind of "aesthetic" would not be aesthetic at all. And would certainly rule out any co-ed, clothing optional activities. Will the Ab-doer save me? Or am I destined to live out my life as a lopsided individual?

I know many people lead perfectly normal lives with lopsided bodies. I have had many roommates with one foot bigger than the other or one breast bigger than the other. I have two matching feet and two matching breasts.... so I suppose I deserve this:

The love handle of shame.

say you're sorry, cbs

CBS is once again busy handing out apologies, and I'd like to get in on that action.

I'd like my apology to be issued on an white linen 4x6 card, embossed with the CBS logo and signed by the following:

At least one member of the current Survivor cast
David Letterman
Marg Helgenberger (or suitable CSI replacement)
Paul from As the World Turns (I don't care what his real name is and I don't want to know, so if he could just sign it "Paul," previous to rubbing it on his manly chest, that would be fine.)

I haven't decided what to be offended over yet, but while everyone is getting apologies, I don't want to be left out.

First this whole Janet fiasco... I'd have gotten on board with that woman suing on behalf of the American public, but instead of being offended, I was slightly turned on. And I'm sure that would have come out in court and ruined everything. And now, the Native America Cultural Center is upset about OutKast's Jell-o green Indian motif outfits during the Hey Ya! performance. And while I thought Lime Jell-o would be the first to throw a fit, it seems the NACC is really in a tizzy.

Perhaps I'd better pre-empt the NACCs wrath by issuing my own apology regarding those occasions I wore turquoise jewelry during my prairie skirt phase. I'm sorry. Really. But come on, it did seem cool at the time.

I guess none of us should be surprised when there's some big Ophthalmologic uprising over the fact that CBS doesn't use an anatomically correct model of the eye for its logo.

ouch

I have heartburn.

You know, the actual literal "I can't lay down or the lava will erode my tonsils" kind of heart burn.

I've become accustomed to sitting up nights bothered by the metaphorical kind, sobbing myself into a snotty little heap in front of my Dell. But this... this is new. And it's driving me fucking crazy.

And Tums? HA! Forget about it. That shit ain't cutting it.

This is totally what it must be like to get old.

mind over mojo

When he emailed me Friday afternoon and asked if I would be his valentine, I said yes. (Actually, I said YES!!! Why mask my enthusiasm?)

I spent my Valentine's Day recovering from Friday night's experience with reckless abandon and about three too many mojitos. It's all sort of patchy, but I had to applaud myself when I woke up Saturday morning in my own bed. Alone. Because really, from the way the previous night had been going, it was quite a feat of mind over mojo.

I cat napped all afternoon, finally putting in a couple of hours of work when the constant nightmares about my current deadline wouldn't let me ignore it any longer. I ordered Thai food and tried to decide which short black skirt to go out in. I settled on jeans. Afterall, it was my valentine's day, and who was I trying to impress? My Valentiness already love me.

Thge four of us hung in for a few hours and then made our way to a local college bar (read: Frat Daddy Infestation) where I sat looking out at the crowd thinking, "THIS is what's out there? No wonder I don't go trolling." The one good thing about a room full of over-confident, preppy boys is that you start to feel really satisfied about being single.

I mean, it's a little hard to feel sorry for yourself when you're too busy feeling sorry for several dozen jokers with upturned collars on their Izods. Freaks.

my blind date

He grabbed my ponytail and pulled, his kiss starting at my collarbone and working its way up. He got to my lips, and I asked for a phonebook and called a cab.

Why?

Because, this is how it always seems to start, and I'm a little tired of how it ends up.

Though, it is nice to have your hair pulled every now and again.

en memorium

Phil Seibert

Visionary, mentor and greatest rascal ever to have graced the Monkey Firm.

Gone, but certainly not forgotten. Happy hour will never be the same.

Always with fondness,

H

ps

we are having oreos and milk in your honor. right now. in the lobby. it's not like you to be late.

um... fuck?

Can't talk now.

I think I'm about to be fired.

*** update****

Not fired. Not clear as to exactly what just happened, when I do figure it out, you'll be the first to know.

Oh, and I got an interview in NY for a big monkey firm. Score.

on why i'm not sleeping

If J left me with anything at all, it was a sense of my own limitations. And of my limits. Those two not being the same thing.

It wasn't that at the end of two years, he chose someone else. It was that time and time again, during those years, he didn't chose me. Repeatedly. I'd find some girl's hair on his pillows, or hear his bandmates talking about another one back stage at some small town show. And I'd know where he'd been when he stood me up.

We never talked about it.

Because he'd covered his bases! After we'd broken up the second time and gotten back together, we were still not "together." He loved me, he said. But he wasn't sure if he loved me.

I went along with it. Why? Why do I do any of the foolish and vain things I do? Because I did. Because I was set on making my own mistakes. And because I loved him.

But when he came to bed on Valentine's Day last year, smelling of her, of the girl we'd just met in the hot tub, I'd finally found my limits. I could not let my ego take one more beating. And I'd found my limitations. I could not make someone love me.

What's interesting (funny even?) is that tonight, just thinking about it, my ego feels just as battered as it did then. The voice in my head kept me from falling asleep just now saying, "Don't kid yourself. You're not so tough." as I thought about the final legacy J left me.

I can't let my ego take one more beating. I cannot make someone love me.

And I don't really want them to.

double chocolate

Mystic Michael called my desk sometime around two and asked if he could bring me some chocolate. Of course, I said.

I’ve spent all day deciding whether to actually get upset over the fact that my Valentine’s Date has cancelled on me. And while I’m not heartbroken over it, it was nice to have plans with someone who’d put some thought into it all. He does have a good excuse. Mostly. But for all his talk about taking a different approach to courting yours truly, it’s fairly amusing that he’s behaving just like all the others.

It’s just a Man Thing. What can you do?

Well, for one you can let Michael buy you chocolate and tell you how great your boots are. And for another, you can let Stella talk you into going to New York City Saturday night to get too drunk and totter around in too-tall shoes, flirting wildly like you used to do before disappointment made you forget just how great that is.

And you can decide that you will go home early tonight, mix up some strawberry margaritas (even though you no longer drink during the week), watch Ten Things I Hate About You and go to bed very tipsy.

But first, you’ll have some more chocolate. Because it’s been a double chocolate kind of day.

the fat fairy

Fat day, fat day...

I didn't ever really believe in the tooth fairy. But I believe, with all of my soul, in the Fat Fairy. You know, that evil little winged bitch who comes and waves her cellulite wand over you while you sleep and poof! when you wake up, it's like magic!

Nothing fits!

Tell me you have days like this:

Days where your clothes don't look right on you and your thighs touch in just too many places and the world would be a much better place if you could go to work in your pajamas -- clothes without waistlines or shape at all. Days where the only item of clothing that fits, you're wearing on your feet, and even your feet seemed to have put on weight over night. Where are my ankles? Just how much sodium did I ingest yesterday?!

A ring that was too loose yesterday is now snug on my finger. I let my belt out a notch. I actually fill in all the space in my bra (Ok, that's a bonus).

And NO it is not that time of the month.

I've been eating better, busting my ass at the gym five times a week and this is how the Universe repays me?

Back in the day, I used to think that the Fat Fairy worked for my little sister, so that on Fat Fairy Days, I'd just throw one of my frustration tantrums and give her all my clothes. I don't think that anymore.

Nope. I'm convinced that The Fat Fairy works for a greater evil. A dark, dark force as yet unidentified. I'm on to her, though. And one of these days, I'm bringing her evil little fairy ass down.

And I'm putting it in jeans 2 sizes too small.

siente el ritmo

This morning really kicked my ass.

And just now, I sat down to write a bitter little diatribe about all the ways I was pissed off and diappointed all before 10 AM, but even I don't write that anymore than you want to read it.

So let's talk about gettin' my groove on, Latin style.

And how tonight also really kicked my ass. But in a good way.

The Adorable Instructor, as he shall henceforth be known, rocked my little gringa world. A few of my dance partners also rocked my world, but that's another story altogether. Adorable Instructor is a silver-haired flamboyantly gay man who laughs at his own jokes and suddenly yells things like "Cease fire!" to a room full of bodies moving awkwardly to their own rhythms.

Quick, quick, slow.

"Cease fire!"

And we all stop and watch him try to find his words. Or rather, for him to slow down enough so that we may interpret them. He's a lively one.

I had only one real salsa lesson before in my life, in a downstairs dive bar in a section of Madrid, known for prostitution. My instructor was a hooker named Chary. She wore purple vinyl that crinkled audibly when we moved.

"Adelante. Para atras..."

I learned a few really great swears from Chary as well, but those left less of an impression than the sudden discovery that my hips would move that way. And move that way they did again tonight.

Any dance lesson I learned from her has slowly been diluted by my attendance at gringo clubs, forgetfulness and the lack of trained partners. But after Adorable Instructor and his entourage of machismos get through with me, I'm going to be one hot blooded, salsa-dancing machine.

I have some DLG on the stereo, and can feel my quads are a little tight from dancing. And my face hurts from smiling. Which totally beats how I started off the day.

Vale!

a real post later. i promise.

I'm sitting around in my underwear eating brie.

Okay, no I'm not really. I'm swamped at work, frantic and crazed. And basically every man alive (excepting maybe Paul Gutman and Brian) will most likely end up on my Shit List at least once today. Some will remain on said Shit List on a semi-permanent basis.

Krissa, come talk me out of my breadtruck.

back-up girl

Saturday morning, while watching Kitten follow the sunny spot across the bed in her usual napping pattern, Harris and I agreed to grow old together.

We’ll be aloof to the neighbors in order to lend an air of mystery, to give us some appeal in our old age. We’ll keep kittens, have tea time (no biscuits – we’ll be watching our figures), and breakfast on yogurt and organic granola. He’ll write songs and I’ll write… anything but songs, and we’ll fancy one another in peace and harmony for the rest of our days. There will be rocking chairs involved at some point, I imagine. And he’ll allow me to eat ice cream right out of the carton, just so long as I share.

And all this can be mine if neither of us is married by age 35.

Trip and I formed a similar arrangement earlier this year, but I have to say, it lacks much of the appeal of the Harris Agreement. I have promised Trip only a passionless marriage and two bitter children. There would be no fancying, no rocking chairs and no kittens (as Trip is allergic).

It’s all about having the Back-Up Plan. You know, preventing the whole dying-alone-with-your-cat thing, while at the same time, leaving the present open to all sorts of romantic possibilities with whomever should happen along.

It’s not a bad deal, really, being the Back-Up Girl. While it’s not as pleasant as being someone’s One and Only, being number two on a whole lot of lists is something, right? So I’m not the girl he wakes up thinking about, but at least I am the first one that comes to mind when the object of his real affections isn’t pulling her share.

It’s like romantic bench-warming or something.

things that make you go WTF?

The comment:

"Fish, no, I'm not bitter. But that's the usual reaction of vain women to criticism. I gave your blog a chance and in the past have praised you - as you know. Oddly, while you were in the throes of J pain, you seemed to write. Now you're a steady diet of "look at me look at me" with no expression of interest in anything outside your own need for attention. It's just boring. So yeah, I'm going to stop reading. I appreciate writers not jewish princesses."

The response:

Okay, first thing’s first. I was raised Mormon, not Jewish.

And now that we got THAT out of the way…

Vain? I’d have to out on a limb and say yours is the reaction of one rabidly unhappy woman. Honestly, if you read here you’ll see that I debase myself more often than praise myself. Some days, I feel like hiding in my room with all the blinds pulled shut. And some days, I want to prance around singing selections from West Side Story. I do believe that is what one would call normal.

J had a way of eroding my self-confidence that made me deeply miserable. The fact that I’m not now, and that it bothers you, speaks nothing of my writing. What I have always been a steady diet of is… well, me. Me then was morose and self-conscious. Me now, is less so. Much less so.

I don’t always have something deep and meaningful to write about here. But it’s my journal and if I want to write about sitting around in my underwear eating brie, then that’s what I’m gonna do. If I want to post about loving my ass three days in a row, I will. I guarantee there will be just as many posts about hating it. And if it’s boring, don’t read it! You won’t be missed.

Look at me. Look at me.

that's gonna leave a mark

Last night, I agreed to dinner and a movie with the RSF on the condition that we hit the gym first.

I figure it's not exactly cheating on my gym buddy, since we're not, you know, exclusive. It's a big gym. I can't be tied to one buddy.

I had just found my running zen, heart, feet, salsa rhythm all keeping the same beat, when it hit me. The Stink. Now, if there's two people on a long row of treadmills, one of which being me, and I know I didn't create that funky smell... Well, you get the picture. Farting Guy totally stunk me right out of the happy running zone.

I retreated to the suana.

Steamed, showered and hungry, the RSF and I opted for dinner in Harvard Square, which shall henceforth be known as Really Slippery Icy Nightmare Square. And the incident in which I fell, and lay laughing on the sidewalk, shall be known as That's Gonna Hurt in the Morning.

And indeed it does.

I'm sporting a bruise the size of a small Baltic nation right on my ass and my wrist looks like I tried out for Ninja Amateurs Night. At least I was smart enough to ice it before bed. On several cold margaritas.

Now that's thinkin'.

buh-or-ing

Thursday nights, I have a standing gym date with my buddy Trip (so named for being the third, as in Gilligan's Thurston Howell III). Last night, feeling fritzed out from work, I pestered him into taking me to a movie. He was resistant, but I employed charm, pouting and when that didn’t work, I simply told him he was taking me out.

Trip: Can’t we stay in and watch one?
H: No. We’re going out. The movie is at 7:50.
Trip: What about the gym?
H: We have to be at the gym by 6:15, shower there, get out the door by 7:30 and head to the theater.
Trip: I hate showering at the gym cause I never know what's going on with the germs on the floor.
H: It’s no worse than the germs on the machines
Trip: Blech... ick. I can never go to the gym again.
H: Yes, you can. Stop worrying
Trip: But how else will I keep my throat ulcer?
H: Hmmm… Battery acid?

(We saw Along Came Polly. The irony did not escape him.)

Basking in my spontaneity, we raced from the gym to the theater, got our tickets and headed in to the nearly empty theater. Nearly empty, meaning, J and his new girlfriend were also there. Um, what? I was beyond thrilled, sporting my Aunt Jemima meets Pipi Longstocking look. Even more thrilling was when they sat with us. Trip nailed it on the head by saying that New Girlfriend is… “boring. Buh-or-ing. I pity the foo’.”

I have very little pity left for J, so mostly, I take amusement.

I’m watching the snow fall outside my office window and certain that any plans I had for heading to New York City tomorrow for Mr. G’s terribly tempting party are disintegrating. I suppose it’s just as well. I am trying to save money, right?

Being practical is really boring.

PS
Today I have Princess Leia hair. And if I say so myself, I look adorable. So if the Universe could please line up all my exes down Mass Ave while I walk by, I'd totally appreciate it.

on my mind

My day yesterday at the Monkey Firm was nothing short of chaotic. I might have strangled myself with the cord to my endlessly ringing phone, but I was feeling so darn pleasant that none of it really got to me.

Why so happy?

It could be that I spent the morning taste-testing Hershey’s new line of double chocolate products. Double chocolate Kit-Kat? Yes, please. It could have been the random Instant Message from adorable, broody Harris that declared, “I fancy you.” Or my quirky co-worker’s sudden “H, I was just thinking that I’m glad I met you. We’re made for each other.” It could also have been a product of a Higher Up, pausing mid-meeting to thank me for my work. “I appreciate the quality of what you’ve produced for us, but more than that, I appreciate how easy you are to work with.” I am pretty sure I blushed.

How great is it to be appreciated, to have your company wanted? To be fancied?

Pretty fucking great.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to know that people are thinking of you, even when they don’t have to be. For me, there are some people who will never be out of sight, out of mind. People for whom more than a passing thought goes out during the day. I don’t often tell them. But after being the object of yesterday’s love fest, I think I will make a better effort to. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

Hey,

I’ve been thinking about you. Not in any stalker-ish sort of way or anything (please ignore the glint of binoculars). I just want you to know that you’re appreciated, wanted and fancied. And I’m glad I met you.

xo,

H

why i love today

I'm wearing pigtail braids.

I
am
unstoppable.

because we haven’t talked about my boobs in at least twenty-four hours

I noticed it last night sitting in the sauna at my gym.

Bowing my head to let a bead of sweat roll down my nose, I caught an eye-full. Well, hello, there. And this morning, there wasn’t a bra among the twenty that would fit quite right (if at all). Heaven has worked a mighty miracle! Heaven or the Pill. Who’s to say?

My adorable Intern Extraordinaire said I was lucky. “You’re not gaining weight, you’re gaining volume!” Fine and dandy, I say, except for the fact that I’m simply not used to having an impressive rack and wielding such power.

It’s just a good thing I’m too tired to take them out on the town.

everything considered

Margarita Tuesday has become Margarita Monday.

However, my Margarita Monday was more along the lines of Tea n’ Toast Monday (rockin’ it invalid style, yo) , but all the same, I appreciated the company.

Even though company nearly drove me nuts.

“Are you sure you’re not too tired? Do you want to go to bed?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to rough you up a bit?”
“No.”
“Seriously, are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty positive I don’t want you to rough me up a bit.”
“Shut up. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m f-i-n-e fine. And if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to punch you with the arm I can lift.”

Once my okay-ness was firmly established and my favorite obscure Brendan Fraser movie in the VCR, there was once again peace and happiness in the land. Or something like that.

I was insanely late to work this morning. After waking to find that I couldn’t lift my left arm high enough to wash my hair, everything seemed to take just a little bit longer to accomplish. And on the way to work, already angering the Punctuality Gods, I cranked up my Sheryl Crow and took the long way. The really long way. I wandered around Harvard for a bit, stopping by the Winnie the Pooh door, dropping by Starbucks for some Passion tea. Letting the sparse snow flurries park on my hatless hair. It’s been so long since the weather allowed for any wandering, that I thought I’d take advantage.

Pink up my cheeks, clear up my head.

It worked nicely. I’m bruised of body but sound of spirit. Which, everything considered, is a perfectly acceptable way to be.

pins & needles (& pasties)

Mother may I?

Yes, I may.

Turns out (as I suspected) that the ER Doc was something of a quack. I'd thought as much when, even before examining me, he was positive that all signs pointed to appendicitis. You'll remember that I don't have an appendix. New Doctor was very kind and told me that not only is my situation not an abnormality, one third of all women are so anatomically constructed.

A buncha pricks

The biopsy went as expected. Painful beyond all reason, of course, but indicative of yet another false alarm. I'm fine. If sore as hell is fine. I swear to God, if you bump into my left breast any time soon, I'll rip your throat out and feed it to you. Got it?

Unlike past physicians, New Doctor (who is, if nothing, very thorough) has his heart set on figuring out exactly why I have this recurring nightmare. Early blood tests showed an elevated white blood cell count. That, combined with The Lump and swollen lymph glands had him concerned. So, today, it was back to the lab. For a girl who has an unparalleled fear of needles, I have to say I was one tough cookie. Not only did I sit through several vials of blood-letting without wincing, but I watched the biopsy. WATCHED the needle go in. Me. I did.

Those in the know are now looking at their monitors in disbelief.

Unless blood tests come back with any shocking revelations, New Doctor is operating under the assumption the cause is hormonal and prescribed for a lower-dosage estrogen birth control. Know what that means, kiddies? Mmm hmm.... for the next few weeks, it'll be Emo City 'round these parts. In other words, business as usual. *ba dum bum ching!*

Okay, okay, I know you're bored with all this girly doctor stuff, but we're moving on from my boobs to Janet's now so, relax.

Tit for tat

Accidental my ass! Janet may have looked a wee bit shocked but Justin didn't. So Brit kissed Madonna. Justin showed us all Janet's pastie-covered breast. I for one wasn't shocked. Should I have been? MTV may have pissed off the NFL, but we're all talking about it this morning so, you know what they say about ends and means. As far as marketing ploys go, this is hardly a new trick. And we know MTV is an old dog.

Down boy.

in full retreat

The first time this happened, I didn’t tell a single soul.

Two years ago, I didn’t say a word to my girlfriends or my roommate (who also happened to moonlight as my best friend and younger sister). I didn’t tell my parents. Instead of getting it off my chest (ah, the beauty of the double entendre) and sharing my worry, I carried it by myself. And it made me a little crazy.

I lashed out when unprovoked. I slept. I cried a lot.

The doctor had told me it was perfectly alright to bring someone with me to the appointment. Someone to hold my hand. At the time, the idea seemed ludicrous. What was I going to do? Send out an Evite? Saunter home one day from work and say “Hey, Sis. I have a lump in my breast. You’re totally invited to the biopsy on Thursday morning.”

I went alone.

Now, in light of my other medical issues, my girlfriends have been tremendous at volunteering to have my babies for me (should that be necessary), but this seemed a little out of the realm of assistance. And besides, it’s old hat. Tomorrow morning, at 8 AM, I’ll have another non-surgical biopsy. I’ll be a little nervous, but mostly because I know how fucking badly it hurts to have a needle stuck into my breast. In will go the needle, out will come the fluid. I’ll get dressed and go to work.

Did I mention this is my third biopsy in as many years? I’m a pro at it. I should get corporate sponsorship or something.

The first time this happened, I didn’t tell a soul. I blogged about the experience afterward – from finding The Lump, the waiting, and the actual biopsy. My parents read the entry. Why didn’t I tell them earlier? My father told me not to try to be the hero all the time. I don’t remember what my mother said.

This time, I told one person, and I’m surprised I did that. And here I go now; I’m making it public. It speaks, I think, to the notion that I’m feeling less inclined to be the hero these days. Stoicism just makes me get drunk early on Everything Chocolate Night, sending my apologies to the hostess the next morning. And it makes me ditch Super Bowl parties in favor of hiding out in the living room in my bathrobe eating Key Lime Pie yogurt and watching The L Word.

In effect, I’ve been in full retreat.

I’ve never really been one to say, I need help. Because, frankly, I’ve never been one to admit I need anything at all. I’ll just go out and get it for myself, thank you very much. But being in full retreat is starting to be even less appealing than being in need.

Even though tomorrow’s appointment is probably nothing to be worried about, I do think that if my sister were still here, I wouldn’t hesitate at all to say, “Hey, Sis. I have a lump in my breast. You’re totally invited to the biopsy in the morning.”

You know, someone to hold my hand.

fantasy

My dreams last night guest-starred Pierce Brosnan.

Ignoring the fact that yes, he's a bit on the ancient side (too old even for this older-man-lovin' girl), he is indisputably gorgeous. And in my dream, I was completely in love with him. And, because it was a dream, this enormous love was reciprocated.

So Pierce and I are running through an airport, very late for our flight. I'm running in stilettos because, well, practicality aside, that's what one wears when out with Pierce. I also have a very small dog on a leash, but it disappears half-way through the dream, so let's forget Tinkerbell or Fifi or Bubbles or whatever else people name their extraordinarily small, annoying dogs.

In the middle of the jet way, I stop our frenzied pace and say to my devastatingly handsome co-star,

Why do we have to get on a plane at all?

Turns out, we didn't. And that's when the dream went into Fancy Hotel Room Mode and well, ladies, Pierce Brosnan has a very nice ass.