August 31, 2005

disaster relief

Intern Amy is safe and dry. She and her family were more fortunate than many to have escaped any real harm. But like many others, they will not even be able to return to their homes (or what is left of them) for weeks.

Please go here to see how you can help those affected by Katrina.

(Thanks, Tanya, for the link)

Posted by This Fish at 11:33 AM | Comments (10)

August 30, 2005

paging intern amy

I think I just fell in love with you.

I recapped my pen, crumpled the post-it note and tossed it over the cubicle wall. Then I waited. Soon, there was a rustle of paper and Justine snickered. She knew the reason for my ardor. Short of crushing his windpipe with The Force, she had just gone Darth Vader on the smart-ass intern – something I’ve been dying to do for a while now.

But I’ve got my own intern problems to deal with.

I’ve already had to run interference with higher ups who think she is cheeky and rude. She is. I agree. But I didn’t hire her and so far, her attitude hasn’t been reason enough for those in charge to let her go. She wears whore shoes, too. But I can’t seem to find that anywhere on an incident report.

Reason for dismissal? Bad, bad shoes.

Bad shoes and backtalk -- this never happened when Intern Amy was here. That girl was a dream. After week one, I ready to braid friendship bracelets and add her to the Future Bridesmaids list. She let us nickname her, she came out on the town with us and when I was having a fit of melancholy, sang along to the entire Carpenters Love Songs album.

Don’t you remember you told me you loved me baby?

Miss Teen Louisiana, singing into a Poland Springs microphone while bemused coworkers looked on. They were used to the antics Justine and I pulled, but surely this sweet girl was incorruptible. Hardly. We went into mourning when she left us to go back to school.

Justine and I have been texting and calling Amy for the last two days. Each time, we get the emergency response saying all circuits are busy. Of course, I have every faith that she and her family made it safely inland, but still, every time I pass the big screen TV’s in our firm’s library, and catch a bit of CNN’s hurricane coverage, I feel a little nervous. I imagine it’s only a smidgeon of what others are feeling – the dread of missing loved ones in the wake of this disaster. My heart goes out to them.

And Amy, if you happen to see this -- phone home, will ya? Justine, Loud Larry and I are worried.

Posted by This Fish at 04:35 PM | Comments (15)

August 28, 2005

holding court

On Thursday night I dreamt that I met Queen Noor. It took me until Saturday to realize it hadn’t actually happened.

And that’s not the first time I've suffered that sort of delusion. Shortly after Princess Di’s tragic death (and subsequently devouring the biography my college roommates bought me as a joke) I had a dream that I had tea with Her Royal Highness. It was so real that when I woke up, I was very disappointed we hadn’t actually shared little crustless sandwiches and stories about those rascally princes. Ever since my early childhood when I named every single one of my Barbie dolls Diana, I’d been convinced that the Princess and I were destined to be bosom friends.

I’m pretty sure I was depressed about it for a good day or two.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been reading bits and pieces of Leap of Faith. Ergo the dream. And just so you don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not that I went around actively thinking, Hey, wasn’t that cool how I met Queen Noor? But when I saw her picture somewhere (CNN maybe?), I thought, “Hey, wait… didn’t I just…”

No. I didn’t.

This is exactly why I do not entertain celebrity crushes. I obviously blur the line between imagination and reality a bit too easily.

And stalker is such an ugly, ugly word.

Posted by This Fish at 11:35 PM | Comments (20)

August 26, 2005

three in three parts

Part one: The Indecent Proposal

Read this.

Part two: The Holy Shit E-mail

Friday night, I stumbled into my apartment, dumped my purchases from my Atlantic City spree on the bed and turned on the computer. Having been disconnected all day, there was a lot of email to sort through. Nothing out of the ordinary – spam, spam, spam, a Birthday Evite (added to calendar) a few requests not to use the word ‘midget’ (duly noted). But then, suddenly, ordinary was left way, way behind when I got to the last unread message in my inbox:

To: Fish
From: Rob
Subject: Secret Admirer

It's not often that an intoxicated flirtatious encounter 4 months old winds up as a topic of conversation between me and a friend who initiates said conversation with 'I was randomly reading the archives of this blog that I like and I think it was about you...'

…lo and behold the very same encounter that I'd recounted for a number of close friends as one of my most randomly intimate and exciting. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it...and remembering the extremely tension filled moments of that evening.

...but Will Smith? hmmm. You clearly neglected to include my lazy eye and peg leg limp.

You left a lasting impression… I think I'd love to take you for some kind of unpronounceable frozen latte caramelo mocha chai thingy...or something wholly pronounceable like a gin n tonic.

I'm intrigued, Mademoiselle Poisson. Oh yeah, this is Rob.

I read the email three times, said ‘holy shit’ about three dozen times and then finally replied.

To: Rob
From: Fish
Subject: Re: Secret Admirer

Holy Shit.

Part Three: Something Wholly Pronounceable – like sake. And vodka. And wine

“I’m sorry to break the no-call rule…” He was late, stuck in a taxi just outside the restaurant. Something about change and five dollar bills.

After some back and forth about potential axe murders, tazers and bodyguards (should we meet somewhere where there are metal detectors?) Rob-the-Threesome-Guy and I had agreed to drinks Thursday night after work.

“That’s really okay,” I said. At this point, rules were fairly useless. He’d already propositioned me, smacked my tush and kissed me. We weren’t exactly following any sort of protocol.

We settled into a table at Matsuri and I studied him closely. Without the dim lighting and the vodka colored glasses, he was a little less Will Smith and a little more…well, someone else, but he was still quite attractive and indeed, Rob the Threesome Guy.

What should have been weird, or at least slightly awkward, wasn’t. And while I sipped gingerly at a saketini, Rob explained in more detail how he found my (his?) story on the internet one night.

“It’s such an amazing set of coincidences. We should go get married right now.”

I laughed at the suggestion and fished a slice of cucumber from my martini glass.

“Don’t you think we should get the kids thing settled first?”
“I want a big family”
“I could do four.”
“Four works for me.”

It was settled. But Instead of getting married, we got another round of drinks and some kobe beef. We talked about string theory, foreign travel, books we’re reading and why men and women can’t seem to speak the same language. Somewhere in there, I asked him what inspired his original indecent proposal.

“I’ll get to that.”

Four and a half hours later, when we wrapped up dinner at Paradou, he still hadn’t gotten to that. We’d gotten to every other topic possible and even to a kiss or two. Sometime after midnight, I poured myself into a northbound cab, promising to send a text when I arrived home safely. The cabby turned the Mets game up and as I sent obligatory “I am not dead” texts to Tanya and Stephanie who had been on alert all evening, I realized then I never did get that explanation.

Guess that means there might have to be a Part Four then, huh?

Posted by This Fish at 12:22 PM | Comments (58)

August 24, 2005

tidbits

After tomorrow evening, provided I do not get axe-murdered and buried in pieces in shallow graves throughout Central Park, I should have a good story for you. Right now, though, this is all I got.

If I had not already learned my lesson about musicians, I could certain have wasted a big chunk of time on this guy. Yes indeed. Very good thing I learned my lesson. ‘Cause that tattoo on his forearm is awfully hot. His music’s good too.

(update: as Indie Rock Boy points out, I already have a Todd Martin so this is not open for discussion)

Tanya and I are having a sleepover this weekend. This is what we do when we’re abandoned by those we love. No, no, you kids enjoy the VMAs. We will be too far gone on champagne and too busy having pillow fights in our underwear to miss you.

I don’t mean that. I miss you. Come home! Seriously.

Today I saw the policemen that came when my skylight was broken. I was playing hooky and they were… well, doing cop things. We talked about baseball and I realized that, now having seen my brother as a cop, the uniform just does nothing for me anymore.

I put Justified on repeat today. For three hours. I can’t explain it either.

J and his girlfriend broke up. I had nothing to do with this. We’re going to a wedding together in three weeks and by god, they had better get all patched up by then because I was sort of counting on girlfriend insurance to moderate everyone’s behavior. And no, Sarah, not even for old time’s sake.

Well, I’m tapped. But I promise, you’re going to love tomorrow’s story, so stay tuned.

Posted by This Fish at 11:28 PM | Comments (40)

August 22, 2005

retreat!

When we arrived in Atlantic City, I felt like -- and was behaving like -- a sullen teenager.

I had my reasons. The plush seat of the luxury bus had been wet and for whatever reason, it had taken me several minutes to notice. Snug, wet jeans became beyond uncomfortable when paired with the bus’s air conditioning (it brought back feelings of being in my swim suit on the long bike ride home from the city pool) and the trip itself was utter chaos. Too many voices in too small of a space. Who was missing? Is it too early to start drinking?

I do not do chaos.

Add to that, I did not want to be in Atlantic City to begin with. I had all but begged to stay behind at the office. I know; who does that? But there was just so much to do and I get a little uptight about things like deadlines and doing my job well. Atlantic City was more important, however and the plan became, then, for me to work in the hotel suite while the rest of my coworkers frolicked in the gambling wonderland.

Wet, cold pants and the prospect of driving two and a half hours on a noisy bus to do work I could do much better in my own office? You understand.

But when the bus pulled into Caesar’s and we trailed upstairs to the company suite, I made a plan-changing discovery: there was no wifi. I took this as a sign and promptly booked a massage at the hotel spa.

For the rest of the day, I loafed. I was oiled, massaged, pampered and waited upon. I draped myself on a chaise lounge and drank fresh squeezed juices. I hopped between steam rooms, saunas and whirlpools with four of my coworkers (being naked around my colleagues was way, way less weird than I’d have thought.) sharing stories about travel, food and men.

I did not think about work once.

What’s more, in all my spa-ing, it seems I missed out on the excitement. Someone was arrested (I’m looking at you, Justine), someone fell, drunk into the street and cut her head, someone puked her guts out all the way home and someone cried hysterically. Stories flew around the office today as higher ups talked about making plans for next year’s trip.

I can only shake my head. And wonder how far in advance the spa accepts reservations.

Posted by This Fish at 09:41 PM | Comments (16)

August 21, 2005

how the other heather lives

This afternoon, I was feeling antsy. And after a while, as it became obvious that a) I couldn’t sleep the entire day away and b) the mess spilling out of my bedroom closet might actually swallow my kitten, I decided to put some of that nervous energy to work.

In rearranging the closet, I found a few out-of-sight-out-of-mind items. First was the red lace garter that Kate gave me for Christmas. I didn’t want it to get lost in the closet again, so I slid it onto my left thigh. Oooh, pretty! A few minutes later, while chatting on the phone with Ari, I happened upon the pair of full length black satin gloves that Biscuit gave me. I put those on, too.

And when I passed a full-length mirror a few minutes ago on my way to the kitchen, I got an eyeful. Tousled hair from a failed napping attempt, tank-top and lace boy shorts, garter belt and full length gloves. I decided that a) I should always clean the house in tranny wear and b) This must be what it’s like to be the other Heather Hunter.

Go on. Google her.

Posted by This Fish at 06:54 PM | Comments (28)

August 19, 2005

is there anything more romantic than a midget wedding?

I had some funny stories to tell you about watching Willow with Sarah last night. But because the Universe is cruel and twisted, I am in Atlantic City for the day on a company retreat.

I know. Don’t ask.

But if you don’t hear from me, it’s because there’s been an accident involving cheap booze and the hotel pool. And maybe a cocktail waitress or two.

Posted by This Fish at 06:34 AM | Comments (13)

August 18, 2005

stuck in the middle (with you)

“I hope you’re not too hungover to hang out tonight. I wore a nice shirt.”

There are only two squares on this month’s calendar marked with the word “Tanya,” so ridiculously moody or not, I wasn’t about to cancel. I promised I was not crapping out and that my ‘tude and I would meet her at the W Hotel at six-thirty.

We ended up sipping mojitos down the street at Sushi Samba, chop-sticking chocolate fondue and talking about things like families, infidelity and… lip gloss -- the latter because she had brought me some. God bless girlfriends and thoughtful gestures.

“I brought you something!” and handed over two glittery tubes.
“Ooh! It’s Jessica Simpson lip gloss! I have the chocolate flavored body glitter.”

Shit. Did I just admit that?

Now, sometimes, Tanya intimidates me a little bit. She’s smart and fierce and a very intense listener and there is just no bullshitting her. So while I wanted to backtrack (No, no. I was just kidding. I don’t actually own Jessica Simpson beauty products), I knew I had to own it.

“It smells like cookies,” I offered.

Tanya owned up to Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper lip gloss and we were square.

I could have gotten trashed on mojitos. But I was feeling so nearly perfect that I was glad when she suggested we take a walk. So, after making one more trip to the bathroom so she could make eyes at Jimmy Fallon, we headed out to the street for some window shopping.

“Can we cross?” She gestured to her right, where the red DON’T WALK hand had already started blinking. We were standing on a double-laned avenue separated by one of those cement islands. I hesitated. “I like being stuck in the middle.”

I smiled. I love quirky people. I love people who will say things like, “I like being stuck in the middle” because I know exactly what that means.

Incidentally, it was while we were 'stuck in the middle' that I discovered that the gifted gloss was of the plumping variety. Lip venom, I think they call it. The result is a feeling akin to what I imagine it would feel like to make out with a bee.

When I went home an hour or so later, my lips still stung and tasted of banana split, and I was feeling a little bit lighter. As if therapeutic dinner and good talks about things that matter (and a few things that don't) didn’t convince me that Tanya is fairly fantastic, her letter to Jimmy Fallon this morning sealed the deal.

Because Jimmy Fallon, if you were a dick to her I would totally beat your ass.

Posted by This Fish at 11:45 AM | Comments (15)

August 17, 2005

wannabe harriet the spy

My eyes are puffy and my heart seems to be beating at the wrong speed.

Sometimes, melancholy feels like hunger. But waking up this morning with the pit of my stomach hollow and burning, I wished it was breakfast I needed. I hugged my pillow and took off what was left of last night’s mascara with some leftover tears. It was far too early for such white-flag behavior.

Caramia played on the shower CD player. Why, why, why, why? It didn’t help. Putting it on repeat didn’t help either, but you know what they say: Self-pity is the spice of life.

I let it play one more time as I toweled off.

Sir Hal purred up at me from the top drawer of the bureau. I rolled my eyes and scooped up a handful of displaced unmentionables from the floor. "You’ve gotta stop nesting in my underwear drawer." I flipped through hangers in the closet, stopping at the black baby tee with i like presents in small white lettering.

Maybe today it should say, i like to make the same mistakes.

I swallowed my vitamins with cold water and then patted a bit of it on my eyes for good measure. Though, really, puffy eyes wouldn’t trigger any questions this morning at work; Tuesday’s happy hour had been significantly… extended. I have vague recollections of Courvoisier and Ladies Man jokes.

Upset came later, with vodka hiccups and the question, "What are you thinking RIGHT NOW?" My own answer made me feel frustrated and sad and foolish. I hung up the phone, cried until I slept, then slept until being on-time for work was all but impossible.

Which brings us to now.

Posted by This Fish at 11:37 AM

August 16, 2005

duplicitous

Sometimes, I feel extra. Unneeded. Like the Universe’s middle child. Fuck the ‘no small parts, only small actors’ shit. Sometimes I know exactly what it feels like to be Jan Brady and I don’t like it one bit.

Posted by This Fish at 11:07 PM | Comments (26)

August 15, 2005

you. make this go away, please.

I told the story only as many times today as I had to. Rachel, Ari, Wes, the folks at work who wanted to know why I was late.

“Someone tried to break in last night. Through my skylight.”

If I didn’t talk about it, perhaps I could avoid indulging in the feelings of insecurity that it left me with. Perhaps not.

Forget all the shitty jokes that seem to fly naturally because I once dated a cop, but when the boys in blue showed up, I wanted to hold onto them. You. Make this go away, please. The same way I routinely hand over my stapler and beg Justine to fix it. Sometimes, I just can’t deal. Please? Instead, I brushed glass from the cat’s fur and offered the officers water or tea and phoned in late to work.

In the end, the whole ordeal was afforded less drama than my quirky stapler.

“What happened at your apartment?” Stewart asked me as I dug a questionably old container of yogurt from the fridge in the office pantry. I shrugged and sighed.

“Someone tried to break in last night. Through my skylight.”

“That must feel awfully violating.”

Yes. It does.

When some drunken kids shot the windows out of our house in Boston, glass poured in onto the floors, waking me from a dead sleep. I made tea that time too. Corey, roommate and man of the house, cleaned up glass and called police while I sat, ashen at the kitchen table.

“Go back to sleep, Shorty. I got it.”

I made a pot of coffee and crawled into Corey’s bed and dozed to the sound of low voices on the front porch. You. Make this go away, please. Only, I didn’t have to ask him. Just like sometimes, I simply perch that damn stapler on the cubicle wall, and it comes back stapling again with a roll of the eyes and an I got it, babe.

It’s not always the magnitude of the problem, I’ve learned. There’s just a certain point where enough is enough and I give up. Thankfully, this morning, I did not reach that point. Instead, I brushed glass from the cat’s fur and decided it was best not to chance it with the stapler at all.

I used a lot of paperclips.

Posted by This Fish at 11:50 PM | Comments (34)

August 14, 2005

girl, you'll be a woman

The wind was in my favor last night. Walking up Second Avenue, the breeze caught my skirt just enough to produce the Donna Reid effect – a perfect halo of pale pink cotton and silk as my heels clicked uptown toward home.

Girl, I think as I consider maybe doing a pirouette under the street light.

At dinner, though, it was different. The gazpacho was served and as I slid my spoon in backwards to take a bite, a pair of eyes lit up across the table.

“You just… did you see how she eats her soup?” Chris turned to Mike. He was beaming at me, one hand to his chest, almost in reverence. And I knew, right then, that was how he thinks Julie Andrews eats her soup. “It’s just so… refined!”

Woman, I think as I consider maybe sending my mother a thank-you for years of etiquette dinners.

When a friend asked me the other day whether I was a girl or a woman, I questioned first his reason for asking and second, my reason for answering, both. Some days, to be honest, I just don’t know.

When I’m at work, I’d tell you woman, for sure. There’s no room for girl at that conference room table on Monday mornings. Likewise, when I’m paying bills, I am woman.

I am girl when it’s late, and I am lonely and the only person I want to talk to is my mother and the only place I want to be is home, even though neither exists they way I remember them anymore. And I am girl when I smile and say nothing even though my brain is screaming. I am girl about texture and color and touch.

I am woman about how I budget, who I love and what I decide to keep. I am woman when I ask hard questions and refuse to accept easy answers.

Girl when I cry. Woman when I kiss. Both when I laugh.

It’s one of the more difficult things about growing up – fitting into one or the other, and I actually get nervous about one day defining myself completely as woman. Will there be no more pirouettes and pink? More responsibility and resolution?

I don’t know. For right now though, I’m wont to think that both is a good fit, and that maybe, just maybe there was something insightful about that Britney Spears song.

I kid about the song. Mostly.

Posted by This Fish at 05:38 AM | Comments (30)

August 12, 2005

free kittens!

click here to learn more about getting your free ninja kitten

Join the Heavyweights this Saturday night and get a *free ninja kitten of your very own. You've heard the hype, now come and see what these furry little buggers have been training their whole lives for. (The kittens, too. I hear they're pretty skilled.)

*while supplies last.

Posted by This Fish at 07:06 AM | Comments (7)

August 11, 2005

whispering aristocrats

“A guy walks into a talent agency and says, ‘Boy, do I have an act for you…’”

Not desiring to taint the Whispering Wall with any more of my newfound knowledge, I stop there.

“And?” comes the voice in the other corner.
“No, that’s it.”
“Nuh uh.”

I laugh. No, I giggle. Like a blushing school girl who’s deeply ashamed at having misunderstood Bob Saget all these years. Forgive me, Bob. I didn’t know.

“Well, go on.”
“No! I can’t! There are children around. And besides, I’m a lady!”
“The ladies in the movie were some of the most vulgar! Carrie Fisher…” the rest of his sentence gets lost.
“Women.”
“What?”
“Women told the joke. Not ladies.”
“What’s the difference?”
“One is what sex you are and one is how you behave.” I’m full of crap and he knows it.

He says something else and I laugh and look over my shoulder at him, losing the last of his sentence in the bad reception. I notice tourists are milling around, waiting for their turns. I suddenly become very self aware and step away from the Whispering Wall before either of us says the punch line. We all know what it is by now anyway.

Except maybe for Eddie Izzard. He seemed a bit confused.


Posted by This Fish at 11:48 PM | Comments (12)

August 10, 2005

absence makes

“When did you get that freckle on your eye?”

I laugh and hug her. How had she even taken a good look at me? She’d climbed out of her responsible silver four-door (the Ford Ranger of our college days long since traded in), handed me the baby and at once took stock of three years change. My hair is longer I have a freckle on my left eye.

She is still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen up close.

“I am so glad to see you.” Over the two days we spend together, I will say it at least dozen times -- in between exclamations of how ridiculously gorgeous her child is. Those eyes! That laugh! Those ears! Are you sure he’s yours?

***

I hitch my skirt between my knees (the better to reach the clutch, my dear) and drive out to her home in the desert near the West Mountains. Instantly domesticated, I change diapers and mix rice cereal while she makes last-minute preparations for tonight’s show. Her husband’s band is opening for LeAnn Rimes, and the missus is a whirlwind of cowboy boots and diaper bags. In her father-in-law’s suite at the venue, we will link arms and sing along, Amber using an Evenflow baby bottle as a mic.

***

“What perfume do you wear now?”

In the quiet of the post-concert car ride, a tuckered out babe sleeps in the backseat, while we do some more catching up. What perfume? It’s so like Amber to want to know the details. There’s absolutely no tedium to her questioning, though, and in the twelve years we’ve been friends, I have never been able to help but gorge myself on her attention. Making people feel wanted is her talent.

She wants to know about subways and parties and shopping. I want to know about childbirth.

“I was so scared, Heather. I cried all the way to the hospital, that’s how scared I was.”

Then we spend the rest of the ride playing Remember When. The time we drove to Vegas for just for a burger. The time I tortured her OCD boyfriend by stepping on his shoes. The only time we ever fought in college.

When we get home, we retire to the office at the front of the house (it’s fairly safe to say that there were more rooms in her home than total square feet in my apartment). I download photos of the baby (it’s the closest I’ll come to smuggling him home with me) and chat with Wes while Amber flips through an Avon catalog. I tell Wes about my envy of the house in the desert, my shame at knowing the words to at least four LeAnn Rimes songs, and all things Amber.

“How old is Manber?”

I relay his question and Amber crinkles her nose and laughs. Manber! She can’t wait to call her husband that when he gets home. Later, he will ask if Manber is good enough for my best friend. I’ll think about the morning I left, Manber looking up from the Sunday paper when he overhears us talking about my brother’s truck. I tell him about the funny sound and the acceleration problem. We talk diagnosis and I smile, remembering what it’s like to date men who know practical things. He tells me to call if I have problems on the way home. He then prods Amber into visiting New York in the fall.

“Oh yes,” I'll tell him. “He’s good enough. He’s wonderful.”

***

There isn’t a big production when we say goodbye that morning. I kiss the baby, blow a raspberry on his belly for good measure and hug his mother. I should have hugged her harder, because the instant my door is closed, I miss her intensely.

***

I’ve always been of the mind that absence – unlike the saying – does not make the heart grow fonder, so much as it makes people forget. People become ideals or demons – the reality of a person blurred by hours, years and miles between them. Meaning gets lost, too. But on my ride back to the southern valley on Sunday morning, I changed my mind. If I’d put Amber on a pedestal all these years, I’d found no reason to take her down from it. Our friendship had not rusted at all over time. I guess I realized that, for people who really matter to each other, absence makes no difference whatsoever.

Posted by This Fish at 07:56 AM | Comments (25)

August 09, 2005

help found

Jason is my hero. He fixed my comments and now I will buy him beer. Because apparently, he has no use for ninja kittens.

(thanks also to all you who offered your assistance. you're the best!)

Posted by This Fish at 04:56 PM | Comments (4)

August 08, 2005

reach out and text someone

When you're traveling, everything gets a little bit...off.

From my sleep schedule to eating habits, nothing has been as it should be. A couple days into my trip, I started to feel the effects of displacement pretty intensely. Homesickness set in. I wanted my bed, my cat, my computer and my routine. I wanted my friends and my end of day IM chats. I wanted home.

On Friday, after another long day of wholesome activities, I crawled into my borrowed bed in the Beehive State. And just seconds after I turned out the lights, my cell phone lit up the room. New message, it said.

I flipped open the phone.

------From------
Ben
----Message----
Gnite H.
------End--------

I smiled, texted back my Gnite B. I don't know that it made me feel any less homesick, but I felt pretty sure that it was exactly why the baby jesus invented text messaging.

Reach out and text someone. Amen.

Posted by This Fish at 12:31 AM | Comments (11)

August 05, 2005

postcards from out west vol. 2

Indian Paintbrush

Posted by This Fish at 04:25 PM | Comments (9)

August 04, 2005

postcards from out west vol. 1

Dear New York,

The things we do for entertainment out here. This picture was taken moments before we took him on his first cow-tipping; he was a natural.

Wish you were here.

Heather

Posted by This Fish at 11:35 PM | Comments (15)

August 03, 2005

flight patterns

I’ve never really minded flying. Probably because from take-off to touch down, I’m out cold. The plane’s vibrations, the hum of the engine and din of other voices… well, they’re as good as any little blue pill for me. ValiumAir. Right from the moment the plane starts to taxi, my eyes get heavy and I won’t be cognizant of anything else until the captain turns weatherman and it’s seventy-two degrees and partly cloudy and welcome to my destination, it was a pleasure flying with me.

Yawn, stretch, careful when opening overhead compartments.

Once, on a connecting flight from Boston to Chicago, I fell asleep per usual and woke up two hours later on the shoulder of the man next to me. Our internal magnets must have aligned just right, because once asleep, I apparently drifted right for his fatherly shoulder and stayed there. I was mortified. But not only did the gracious stranger not seem at all bothered, he said that he himself had caught a few winks. I was so embarrassed I got the hiccups. And I’ve selected a window seat when possible ever since.

I bring my own pillow, too.

I prefer to fly at night. Not only is it a better use of time (one less vacation day to take) it works quite nicely with my in-flight narcolepsy.

My flight tonight isn’t until sometime after 8 which leaves me another whole workday to wish I was already on vacation. There’s a good book in my purse, some new-to-me music on my iPod and four pairs of flip flops taunting me from my black rolling suitcase and the prospect of some peace, quiet and time with the folks I love calling like a beacon from out West. It’s going to be a good, good week in the country.

Just so you know: When I get back, things are going to be a little different. But don’t fret – change is good (usually) and besides, we knew things couldn’t stay the same forever.

Also: I searched and searched for an MP3 of Glass Tiger’s Don’t Forget Me When I’m Gone and sadly, came up empty handed. I’m hoping it’ll get stuck in your head anyway. Grin.

Catch ya on the flipside, my friends.

Posted by This Fish at 09:38 AM | Comments (29)

August 02, 2005

perk

When I was a kid, my mother used to come into my bedroom on Saturday mornings, throw open the blinds and sing me awake. Alternatively it was, Oklahoma’s “Oh what a beautiful morning” or “Good morning, good morning” from Singin’ in the Rain. It was pure torture.

I didn’t understand morning people until I became one. And not that I’ve been fully converted – there’s still that space between asleep and fully awake where my inner pre-teen still clenches her fists in fury beneath the comforter. But the moment my feet hit the floor and Sir Hal and I have our good morning exchange (me filling his bowl with breakfast to shut him up), I’m pretty darn perky.

I sing in the shower. I eat breakfast, tidy up and have a cuddle with my ornery cat. I go through a thorough flossing routine and then decide which flip flops to try to get away with at the office that day. I’m little Mary Sunshine.

Unless…

Okay, here’s the thing: you know that very first thought you have when you wake up? The one that’s still cloudy and half-formed -- a reminder of the night before, a something coming up that day, maybe even the last thing you thought about before you went to bed? If that thing, that first eye-rubbing leap into consciousness is a bad thing, I’m fucked.

I’m way too susceptible to first thoughts.

Usually, my first thought is a person. A friend, my boss (sigh), my father, a coffee date, my 9AM interview. John Wayne. Yeah, John Wayne; but a young John Wayne, so it’s more mojo than mosey. Anyway, what shouldn’t be too surprising from my writing here is how easily affected I am. When my first thought is something daunting (boss) or something worrisome (say, my father) my morning is less perk and more… funk.

Fortunately, this morning’s first thought (thanks to last night’s movie choice), was Gael Garcia Bernal (rowrr) and then real folks like Jen and Sarah who are inked into tonight’s calendar. I can’t tell you how great it is not to be thrown into my day by thoughts of work (mercifully slow this week), but rather un-lullabyed by the something sultry and foreign, something friendly and fun and by promise of much-needed vacation.

I’ve been grinning like a fool for two days. A good first thought, a song to sing off-key – It’s summer time, and the livin’ is surprisingly easy.

Posted by This Fish at 10:31 AM | Comments (21)

August 01, 2005

my fruited plain

On Wednesday, I’m headed out West to more... wholesome parts of the country for a little purple mountain majesty and some amber waves of grain. I know that after a few days in all that clean air I’m going to be pining for my filthy city streets, but right now I’m really looking forward to it. I will see stars. I will hear crickets and I will drink water from a garden hose. I might even catch night crawlers and bait my own hook. Pfft. Who am I kidding? I didn’t even do that before I became hopelessly citified. That’s why god invented fishing lures.

After years of lusting for city life, I still have this strange little dream about owning a little house in the middle of a field somewhere green. A white house with tall windows and a porch that wraps all the way around. A porch swing. A hook in the kitchen for aprons that I will wear because there’s plenty of room for cooking. A middle stair that creaks. A yellow dog and bare feet and perennial gardens.

It’s my middle-America dirty fantasy and it comes with excellent cellular reception and wi-fi in every room of the house.

Posted by This Fish at 09:23 AM | Comments (24)