This Fish t-shirts are going into production TODAY (or maybe tomorrow depending on procrastination techniques)! If you are interested in pre-ordering, please go here:

This Fish T-shirts

FAQ

1. Yes, they come in pink.
2. Yes, they ship out of the US

The price per shirt is $13.50 during the pre-order phase. After that, they’ll be $15.

Right now, we’re limited to baby t’s for the ladies and regular t’s for the gents. I know this doesn’t do much for our bosomy friends, but I’ll be adding sizes and variations later if there’s enough interest. (Size Large does accommodate a “C” sized chest, ladies)

Please note: These are the developed designs. That actual t’s should not vary much, if at all. If you don’t like them, please do not fill my comment box up with exactly why you don’t. It’s just too late for that. I don’t even have an Evil Customer Service Hag to sic on you, so be nice.

T-shirts are being produced by Rock’n Clothing out of Chicago.

***If you already ordered, and Pay Pal sent you a strange email, you should now have another, less strange email telling you that all is right and your shirts will arrive soon! Thanks, guys. You’re supremely patient and in all other ways grrreat!***

I hate calling customer service lines. Having believed naively for years that Customer Service is the lifeline one clings to in moments of Customer Panic, I’ve recently discovered that the person on the other end, despite his or her job title (customer service representative, usually) has absoutely no interest in serving the customer. None.

Example in the first:
I spent Friday evening with John, my friendly Dell Customer Service Dementor. When he could not answer my question (or rather, he could but with unintelligible words strung together in what I can only assume he thought was an actual, logical sentence), I gritted my teeth, thanked him for his time and pounded my head into my desk until I lost consciousness.

What I really did was get so frustrated that I truly felt my body temperature rise. I now fully understand the term, ‘hot under the collar’ as it applies to anger. I had to take off my sweater. And then the rest of my clothes. I had to get into the shower to calm down.

It takes a lot to push me to the edge of sanity. But John, my Dell Dementor, had succeeded in driving me to complete frustration in less than seven minutes. He should be given a prize. Like say, mouth herpes.

Example in the second:
I spent Sunday morning with Stacey, Customer Service representative of Hosting Matters – the company which took my money for, but failed to renew my domain registration. No big deal, problem quickly solved. But in one of our exchanges (and here I go being naïve again), I asked Stacey if anything would be lost. I don’t know these things! I am not savvy! All I knew was that my site was gone and I had very limited insight as to whether or not it would be coming back.

Stacey’s reply:

“Like what? It’s not like it was a server problem.”

I wanted to take Stacey by the hand, lead her to a peaceful little stream deep within the heart of a dew-kissed woodland forest and hold her head under the cold, cold water until her body stopped twitching.

Apparently, Customer Service really means Snark Bitch Mocking of the Kids who Don’t Know Jack about Computers Service.

After spending such an exasperating chunk of my weekend in Customer Service Perdition, I was uber hesitant about dialing Sleepy’s 1-800 number this morning. Those guys had fucked up royally, too. They delivered a new headboard/footboard. Put it together. IT WOBBLED APART. I was displeased. But however hesitant Perdition had made me, I needed my bed fixed more than I needed my sanity. So I gathered my patience (it was wadded up in little pieces at the bottom of my purse) dialed, held my breath and was greeted with… the most pleasant voice I’d heard in days. Maple syrup. I wanted to pour Betty on my Belgian waffles and sing the Hallelujah chorus. She apologized for the fucktards who put my bed together wrong.

She said she was sorry. It’s amazing what a little, “I’m sorry” will do for a girl who’s two-stepping her way to Crazytown, one bad customer service call at a time.

I thanked Betty with all my cold, black heart and happily crossed Customer Service People off my To Kill list. For now. Cialis spammers are keeping me plenty busy anyway.

Sunday mornings are built for New York Times spread out all over my living room floor and coffee and spending way too long in pajamas. NOT for dead panic, what-the-fuck moments of frenzy. So when, to my complete horror, I woke up this morning to find that thisfish.com no longer existed (despite the fact I’d paid for my domain renewal several days, maybe a week ago), I was sorta miffed.

First, I called Paul, while still in the Sorta Miffed stage. If anyone would know anything, it would be the guy who built my site all that time ago. I lamented into his voicemail.

Then, moving into the More than Sorta Miffed stage, I opened the first of nine tickets with the support function of my hosting company (who was supposed to have taken care of the renewal). I freely admit to using too many capital letters.

I IMed with Sarah. Thankfully, brunch was off. Because shower? How can I shower when I’m into Fully Miffed stage and why haven’t those monkeys fixed my site yet?

Thirty minutes had passed — which, in reasonable person time is nothing. But I wasn’t feeling reasonable. My Sunday morning got jacked, and that’s excuse enough for me to continue using way too many capital letters until the problem is resolved.

Which I think it is now. At least, I have my email back (phew!) and I’m seeing pink (you know, instead of seeing red? Sorry. Had to be done).

I apologize to Daniella for not seeing her note sooner:

We are holding a Celebrate Mike party on Friday, February 25th at 7 PM at the Overlook Lounge, located 225 East 44th St, between 2nd and 3rd Aves in NYC. You are all welcome, whether you knew Mike “in real life” or only through his blog. A bunch of us will be swapping anecdotes and raising a glass to our friend. This will be night of celebration—because that’s what Mike would have wanted us to do. Please join us. I would also appreciate it if you could help spread the word.

Finally, if you would like to make a donation in Mike’s name, his parents suggested the March of Dimes. You can click to send a donation here.

– Daniella

I probably shouldn’t respond to this at all, but it raises a few points that need to be addressed. I know that we’ve been through this before. Apparently, not everyone was listening.

From Anon:

what happened to you? early Fish was naked, raw, tragic, familiar and totally mesmerizing. I read it now and it is so disgustingly crafted, vapid, and BORING. Not surprisingly, your running shoes, workout woes, shameless plugs, and attempts at fabulousness inspire little in me par pity. But the way you address the passing of a friend, familial dysfunction, the end of a relationship—its insipid, insulting, and disappointing. Everyday you have friends and strangers telling you how excellent you are and it appears to have made you arrogant and worse, lazy. I am sure this falls into your definition of an ‘obnoxious, anonymous comment’ and no doubt you’ll pull it, but please pay attention.

From me:

Oh, I’m paying attention alright. I’ve been paying attention all along. So, now you pay attention and hear this:

You are the very reason I no longer empty my soul here on this blog. You, who appoint yourself as The Critic, who have the audacity to assume that I have something to answer to you for — over what amounts to my online journal. Talk about self-important! I owe you nothing. Not a god damn thing. It is you who has succumbed to arrogance.

The rise in traffic over the last two years has made change necessary. I no longer feel the desire to exploit myself emotionally and even if I did, this would no longer be the forum for such things. I daresay you would not be any less self-conscious about getting naked in front of three thousand people (you can’t even leave a real email address).

I’m not lazy; I’m guarded.

And wisely so. Why would I offer up the best of me to the worst of you? Pearls before swine! You might hate that I talk about sneakers, but I hate that you even exist. So, I guess we’re even.

I’m not raw and tragic anymore because my life is not tragic anymore. I find it genuinely disturbing that there are people out there who actually want other people to be unhappy… so that they can be mesmerized. That’s sadistic and troubling.

My head is on straight and I’m happy. If all this good mental health bores you, why are you still here? People change and evolve. Blogs change and evolve. Sometimes life is tragic and heartbreaking. Sometimes it’s frivolous and fun and healing. It cycles, and recycles. Today, we talk about sneakers. Tomorrow, we may talk about what’s really been on my mind lately. But highly unlikely as long as you’re still around.

You do not deserve disclosure. If for no other reason than, as evidenced by your comment, you lack compassion and understanding to a degree that is shocking.

Get bent.

I went for a run last night. I don’t even know what came over me. One minute I was hovering over the fridge trying to decide between leftover Chinese take-out and some tofu Thai concoction, and the next, I had my sneakers all laced up and was headed out the door. iPod cranking Justin Timberlake, my sneakers pounding the pavement – we’re talking alternate universe here.

Don’t worry, it didn’t last long. About three-quarters of a mile on my little journey, my heel started to hurt. A lot. So I made an about-face (not willing to sacrifice my body any further) and when I got home, limping and really, really pissed, I decided this meant one of two things:

1) God does not want me to exercise. Or
2) I need new sneakers.

I figured God had lots more important things to worry about and it was probably just time to invest in some new kicks. Buying new running shoes, though, seems even more overwhelming than the notion that the Almighty concerns himself with whether or not I’m getting my cardio in.

First, there’s the price. Not cheap. I guess the not cheap price may prod me to use my investment more and do the running thing less sporadically. But still. It’s not like they’re pink, or satiny or look really hot with jeans, qualities that normally lure me into spending that kinda cash on footwear.

Then, there’s what kind of running shoe to get. Here’s where I’m totally lost. I’m retiring a good old pair of New Balance. Maybe I should be brand loyal? Can you hear the advice ban being lifted? I need some direction. And soon. I plan on hitting the pavement again as soon as possible. Because, aside from the achy, bleeding heel, it actually felt really good. Probably all those crazy endorphins.

It could have been any number of things. Work had been hectic. It was dark and raining. Or it could have been my fault entirely, listening to that old Duncan Sheik album on my commute home. But whatever the reason, by the time I got where I was going, I felt broody and just a little bit bent out of shape.

My mother says I’m an observer of human nature. I do a lot of watching, a lot of speculating and a lot of living inside my own head — my own little laboratory where I figure people out. I suppose I take for granted that other people do the same: watch, glean, judge. And so when I’m yanked out of the observation booth, dragged out into the light to become the observed, I get a little thrown off.

Perceptive people are refreshing. And challenging.

When I’m feeling challenged, I get thinky. And thinky, plus rain, long days and Duncan Sheik equals me feeling just a little bit bent out of shape — the remedy for which, as you know, is reality TV. Or not. Because when I got home from dinner and a heartwarming hour of Trading Spouses, I reverted right back to pensive.

“What do you want?” had been the question. Simple enough. But what I realized was, I’d been wrestling with whether my public answer matched my private, inner laboratory answer, or whether I had been spewing complete bullshit.

I wrestled enough that I actually made myself write it down, sort it out and analyze myself the way I do so unapologetically to others. And once I did, I reached the conclusion that my answers were one in the same. I know what I want. Simple enough. But still, I feel a little thrown off.

Self awareness is refreshing. And also pretty challenging.

I got “No, after you”ed in the subway just now. And there were Godiva chocolates on my desk when I got back from my early meeting. I ran to the window to look for horsemen and a sky of blood, but apparently, it is not the apocalypse at all.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

Truth be told, I’m a sucker for the holiday. I tried to hate it because of all the icky consumer-driven, Hallmark manipulated love stuff, but I can’t. I love the love. I even gave Sir Hal extra annoying kisses on his little black face this morning and wished him a happy You’ll Never Get Laid, You Poor Neutered Bastard Day. And even though I’m quite single, I’ll continue to be charmed by the day because I know someone, somewhere is having some romantic candle lit somethingorother.

This year, because I knew I would be without Valentine, I recruited last year’s long distance stand-in. We have a very specific relationship, limited to providing each other with affection on holidays for which we might otherwise be absolutely alone. He was my New Year’s kiss, too. But that he’s in Boston the day’s festivities are limited to silly, flirtatious emails, like the one that just popped up in my inbox:

Hello my Luvah. I love you, Luvah. Happy Valentines day! We’ll pretend to have a nice romantic dinner tonight, then we’ll have a roll in the hay.

Swoon. What more can a girl ask for?

Well, for starters, dinner with my other platonic Valentine. We’ll probably order take-out and watch bad, bad reality programming. Because nothing says love like Trading Spouses.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

To: Heather
From: Stephanie
Subject: Tomorrow Night

Don’t forget we’re hittin’ it. What, I don’t know, but we are. And hard. We’re going out with a vengeance.

***

After the week I’d had, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hit anything other than my bed and a bottle of wine. But when Friday evening rolled around, I put on some goin-out shoes and hailed a cab to meet Stephanie in the West Village where she was TGIFing with coworkers. A few hours later, I was double fisting a vodka tonic and Veuve Clicquot, surrounded by male models and E! Reality TV stars… hitting it hard. And it hit back, believe me. But it was worth it. If for nothing more than to sip champagne and giggle every time a model walked by looking confused and beautiful, “Betcha he can’t turn left.”

(random blonde lady, Heather & Kim)
Photo by Chris London of Manhattan Society.com.

See more pics from the night…

Yesterday sure kicked my ass.

The news about my father was not actually at that all surprising. In fact, it explains a few things. However, the origin of his mental illness has always been of concern, and the more layers of it that are discovered, the more my siblings and I become worried about… well, catching crazy. Or, inheriting it, rather. Genetics can be a bitch. If it seems that I’m being glib about something serious, or that I’m being unkind, understand this: My father is a man who doesn’t want to live with secrets. And he’s a man who fights hard things with humor. This is how we deal.

You want gentle, go pet a bunny.

The news about Mike, on the other hand, was horribly shocking. I’ve been seeing its radiating effects in comment boxes and on blogs all morning. His death strikes me as very senseless, and if it’s anything I can’t stand it’s lack of reason. I found myself wanting to argue with Paul when he told me. Which is just so me. Yes, let’s convince Paul that he’s wrong, and bring Mike back. I suppose it’s a natural reaction. Silly, but natural.

Instead of fighting, though, I sat at my desk and cried for a while. Then I patted my puffy eyes and retreated to Ari’s for good company, warm food, and the comfort of The OC. Oh, come on; don’t tell me that brainless television doesn’t make you feel a little better. That’s why God invented vegging, you know. Because he knew even a bagful of Hershey’s kisses only goes so far when you’re feeling whipped.

That’s probably also why he invented alcohol, though I suspect that may have had more to do with encouraging procreation. People are far more likely to be fruitful and multiply when they’re feeling drunk and flirty. Speaking of drunk and flirty, I think I’m headed out tonight for a bit of fun (no procreation, though). Let’s hope it results in scandalous stories, too, because I’m getting kinda tired of morose.

Besides, I’m out of Hershey’s Kisses. Again.

Blogger and friend, Mike Wolf passed away last night.

This comes as shock number two for the day. When Paul told me just now, my first response was,

But I just talked to him yesterday!

As though the recentness of our emails makes his death impossible. My second utterance was,

But he was so happy!

As though this makes his sudden passing all the more tragic. It does, though. For me. I’ve just moved our conversation — that was mostly about his new girlfriend and the upcoming blogger bash — into my “To Keep” folder. I imagine it will stay there for a long time.

Mike was kind to me for no reason. My life, and the world at large, will be a much emptier place for his passing. May he rest in peace.

If you live in New York City, and your dating life is less than superhellawickedcool, you should really check this out. Go ahead. Click.

Okay, now that you have, and are feeling pretty skeptical (as you should, because you are smart), let me tell you a story.

When the folks behind this project approached me about plugging it on my site, I went into mother bear mode. The words “reality show” have left a bad taste in my mouth, synonymous with “public humiliation” and “junior high.” I couldn’t, in good conscience, send anyone into that lion’s den. Even people I’ve never met.

I replied, expressing my… extreme reservation and was invited in for a preview.

So I checked it out for myself, and here’s what I found. Not only is the project worthy and entertaining and really, really interesting, the people running it are smart, sympathetic and wholly uninterested in embarrassing anyone. So forget junior high and reality programming. Think: documentary. About you. Fairly cool, huh? If you’re interested, send your photo and a short bio to cgadtv@yahoo.com.

My parents argued a lot when I was a kid. It was almost always about money — which is, I suspect, the case with many families facing insurmountable financial problems and uncertain futures. But arguments aside, I have very few memories of my mother and father really fighting. Raised voices, doors slamming and dramatic declarations spat out in the heat of the moment were pretty rare in our home. In fact, I only remember that happening once. But the memory is burnt on my brain.

I didn’t see the fight, only heard it from the bed sheet cocoon I’d made in my bedroom at the bottom of the stairs. They were screaming at each other. What they said either my ten-year-old brain didn’t understand, or seemed much less important than what happened after. The yelling escalated as someone stormed down the stairs and out the door. I held my breath as I listened to our silver Chevy roar off down the road. It did not come back for a very long time.

When I thought it was safe, I left my bedroom to find my mother. But I found my father instead, angry, crying and pacing the living room, oblivious to my presence. I retreated, shocked and terrified. For whatever reason, that it was my mother (and not my hot tempered father) who’d left us, knocked my small world off its foundation. I was broken.

I cried until I slept. And when I slept I dreamed. The dream was simple and absolutely terrifying. Wooden barrels tumbled toward me, falling out of a black sky, and helpless, I was unable move out of the way. I woke disoriented and feverish and cried until I was delirious.

I’ve had that dream a dozen times since, when something is off kilter, when my world is not right and my foundation is shaken. But one thing I’ve found comforting about growing up is that foundations tend to shift. And it has been years since the barrels have tumbled out of a black sky.

But just this morning, I was forced to steady myself against the new and terrifying reality of my father’s mental illness. I swallowed “schizophrenia” with a cup of water from the office pantry and tried very hard to remember that my world is no longer built on the stability of my parents or the constancy of home life. My foundation is me.

Regardless, I feel an old, familiar helpless feeling. And I can’t help but wonder about my newer foundation…if I have been built solid enough not to be broken. And I wonder what my dreams will be like tonight.

I know it’s early, so I won’t ask you do to any more than to please (pretty please?) click here and vote for my most excellent friend, Ari, who’s in a sudden death match for Best Personal Heeb Blog.

Thanks, guys!

For the most part, I have always considered myself to be a flexible person. In making and changing plans and the like, I’m fairly easy to please. I adapt well to new situations. I make friends pretty easily. You get the idea. But when it comes to new ideas… when it comes to changing my mind? Turns out, I’m stubborn.

A few weeks ago, Ben and I were chatting over email about, of all things, dating and sex. (That we no longer actually do these things together apparently does not preclude us from discussing them with a Jerry & Elaine frankness that I find bizarre and simultaneously really comforting.) During our exchange, Ben brought up an interesting theory (not his own) that throws the Three-Date Rule right out the window. We’re talking three months here, folks. I’ve never subscribed to the Three-Date Rule or — any other rule for that matter — because I believe these things should be more… organic and progress at a pace completely unrelated to palm pilots and desk calendars. And three months? That seemed even more ridiculous. So, I said as much and dismissed it. Then Ben presented its merits and I dismissed those, too.

“You’re being stubborn,” he wrote.

That pissed me off. Stubborn? Me? I wasn’t being stubborn simply because I refused to admit that an idea — one which happened to go against my own possibly damaging behavior — had some merit.

Wait. Yeah. That sounds pretty stubborn.

In the short time it took me to hit reply and begin to type the ever so predictable, “I am not!” response, I’d cooled my jets and dropped the guise.

Maybe I’m stubborn because I don’t like being open to the possibility that I could be wrong. And I hate being wrong. I’m smart, so I should never be wrong. I’m careful and deliberate so I should never make a mistake. I should be fucking flawless! Turns out, I’m also human, making that whole perfection thing sort of impossible. (Unless of course, you’re the Baby Jesus. But don’t get me started on him.)

Human frailty has always been a really hard for me to deal with; my own, most of all. But as I get older, more forgiving and more inclined to take a minute before hitting “Reply,” I realize, it’s not such a bad thing. Being human is actually a very okay thing. It’s frightening and disorienting and painful, but it’s also really rich and wonderfully funny. My idiosyncrasies crack me up. They have to. Otherwise, they’d drive me so crazy I’d probably be in a little white room with padded walls and no internet connection.

And no one wants that.

While I’m thinking of it, I should probably update the links again. I try to keep the “Recipro-Link” list current, so please drop me a comment if you’re missing.

Yesterday, I went back to the gym.

I hadn’t ventured into the treadmill jungle since I moved to New York, but seeing as I was paying a monthly fee anyway (‘donating to the gym’ as Stephanie calls it), I figured why not? I should go check on my investment.

As much as I like yoga and prefer it to say, the mortifying gracelessness that is me on an elliptical machine, I do it more to keep myself from going crazy than to keep from getting fat. And fat, it appears, I am getting. I’m starting to see curves where no curve rightly belongs. Like in my bra. No, seriously. I’m not a busty gal by any stretch of the imagination, and so when it suddenly appears that my cup runneth over, it’s high time to stop considering my walk to the subway as exercise. Such was the case yesterday morning. I spotted an uncharacteristic amount of boob and went back to the gym.

Actually, I went back to the gym, saw that it was too crowded, went back home and watched Annie Hall while eating a big bowl of Frosted Flakes.

So I lack resolve. This is nothing new. But what is new is that I’ve learned there is absolutely no sense in beating yourself up about such things. It just makes you too sore to work out should you actually ever choose to stay at the gym.

Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.

A month or so ago, Alison Pace was cool enough to send me an advanced copy of her book, If Andy Warhol Had a Girlfriend. I realize this isn’t much notice (as in, enough to go go out, read the book, like it, and want to join us) but tonight, Ari and I are heading over to her reading at Lenox Hill Bookstore. There will be the drinking of cocktails afterward, if, you know, you need encouragement.

If Andy Warhol Had a Girlfriend, by the way, was a great read. It’s chick lit, of course. And say what you will about the genre , there can be some really smart, really sympathetic characters in chick lit. Alison’s book is proof. Heavy on the humor (there’s this thing with miniature schnauzers) and light on wallowing, it was the perfect companion to my wintry stay-under-the-covers weekend at home.

Lenox Hill Bookstore
1018 Lexington Ave
6:45 PM

Anyway, that’s where we’ll be tonight. If I can find Ari. I’m beginning to believe she took up permanent residence in Florida with OJ Simpson. You never know with that girl.

In a meeting just now, a discussion was going ‘round the table about possible business contacts in a foreign city. Remembering that a certain coworker often bellows about his twenty-six years of owning his own business in that very place, I offered,

“Loud Larry should know plenty of people there.”

The table went silent. Silent and smirky.

“Loud Larry?” My boss halted a laugh and turned to face me. “Does he know you call him Loud Larry?”

“Well, no. But he is loud. He has to know.”

And if he didn’t know before, he does now. He just heard me telling this story to another coworker. Classic. Like the time I told one of our higher-ups that he was “in love with protocol and wanted to have its babies.”

I need a new filter.

***

Weekend stories to come…

I returned to the office after my lunch break, stopping at the hall closet to leave my coat.

“Aha!” Miriam said, pointing a long finger at me from the doorway of the accounting office. “Who vas zat?”

“Who was what?” I unwound my scarf and draped it over a hanger.

“I saw zhu!” Miriam said. She was being playful.

I replied in Spanish — something about her being half crazy — and then asked what the hell she was talking about.

Miriam put on a little skit. She tossed her hair flirtatiously and perched on one leg as she kissed an imaginary someone (a tall someone) on the cheek.

“Zhu know. At zee library.”

“Oh! You mean Stuart. My friend’s husband.”

She dropped playful as the look on her face became suddenly very stern. Hands flew to hips. Eyebrows knitted.

“Heazzer. No.”

I laughed from the deepest part of my belly.

“Miriam! I was giving him something to take to his wife! We’re not having an affair!”

She stood there, mothering me with her posture.

“Besides? I was gone ELEVEN minutes.”

“Zat ees all it takes!” she said and spinning on her heel, disappeared into the office.

I relayed the story to Krissa and Stuart tonight at some point during our date at Dylan’s Candy Bar. The three of pushing plastic spoons through gooey sundaes sharing a gossip, ice cream and a few laughs. Krissa, of course remained unthreatened by my rendezvous with her beloved. When we parted an hour or so later (after ravaging the bulk candy bins), our heads were buzzing from sugar highs. It then occurred to me, that if I were going to get into any kind of trouble with Stuart, it was much more likely to have something to do with lockjaw and an Everlasting Gobstopper contest. And those things last WAY more than eleven minutes.

The elevator in my apartment building is broken. Again. This is hardly news – it happens so often that ‘news’ would be if the tired old lift were actually functioning. The management simply replaces one handmade “Out of Service” sign with another and we, used to being elevator orphans, trudge up the back stairs without too much complaint. Except on laundry day.

On Tuesday night, my head felt crowded. I’d spent the day on the phone and email having heart-rending ‘Putting Down the Dog’ conversations with my mother and baby sister. I wasn’t dealing with it; I was dealing consolation, pushing it like a street drug. I left the office later than usual, needing to stay busy — to keep my mind on something practical and concrete — not entirely ready to face anything emotional. So I did my laundry.

I stripped the bed, sorted lights from darks, gathered detergents, bleach and softener and made half a dozen trips to the Laundromat on Second Avenue. The first few times I pushed up the four flights of stairs with my Downy smelling armload, I felt invigorated. I had a goal. I was achieving. I was not dwelling. But by the sixth and final trip, I was exhausted. Thoroughly.

The curtain rod was draped in damp denim (I refrain from using dryers whenever possible), sweaters lay drying on every available flat surface and the bed, a plane of slate blue, lay naked and beckoning. I stood in the doorway to my bedroom, staring, feeling the heaviness of the day pulling at my shoulders. It was late, and the clean linens resting folded on the club chair needed to be pressed. I switched off the light and undressed where I stood. Then I wrapped myself in a down comforter and crawled onto my sheetless bed.

The world stopped being busy, and there I was, all dealt out of consolation, finally dealing. I cried. Hard. Full of guilt and remorse and missing. I cried until I was done, then turned the pillow to the cold side and went to sleep.

My heart was a little bit broken. Again. It happens every once in a while, but I take it as a sign the tired old thing is actually still functioning. One day is replaced by another and I, growing more and more accustomed to love and loss, carry on about things without too much self pity. Except, of course, on laundry day.

If there were such a thing as a This Fish Needs a Bicycle t-shirt would you buy one?

Designs are in the works (for both bike and fish t’s) and I have every faith that they’re going to be hellawickedcool. I’ll post them as soon as they’re ready. But for now, I’d just like to gague interest. You know, so as not cart before the horse. Or the bike before the fish. Whatever.

Takers?

(As far as price, I’m thinking in the $12-$15 range. Details to come.)

(And, um whether to your pleasure or dismay… they will not be pink. Unless you wash them with red socks or something. But I leave that up to you.)

Update: Okay, Okay! There will be PINK shirts available. Ordering info coming up soon.

I launched my first successful marketing campaign in the summer of 1992. I was thirteen years old.

Mindy Coleman’s dog had puppies, and I wanted one desperately. Unfortunately, no canine had lasted more than a year in our home. They chewed irreplaceable books, peed, barked, bit. And having been put through the rigmarole of three dog disasters, my parents had decreed No More Dogs.

I was certain my dog would be different. You had only to see this pink-bellied, squeaky, cotton ball of a puppy and be overcome with the desire to scoop her up, take her home and sleep with her on your pillow. (You’d probably also want to tether her to the end of a red, patent leather leash and parade her around, but you’d have get over that. She really hates the leash and will probably just sit on the sidewalk and yelp.)

I was determined to overcome. For every “no, you can’t” I heard from my parents, there grew in me a stubborn seed of “oh, yes I sure can.” It was from this seed that the Puppies R Nice campaign sprang to life and assaulted my parents with such puppy-loving ferocity that I am surprised we didn’t bring home the whole litter.

I did the dishes without being asked. I cleaned patio furniture. I dusted (god, do I hate to dust). And at the scene of every good deed, I left a note featuring my slogan: Puppies R Nice. There were inserts in the National Geographic, “puppies r nice” whispered in the ears of parents when we kissed good night. I was relentless. Just inside of two weeks, my mother presented me with a contract, outlining my responsibilities as a pet owner, and a fluffy white puppy came home to sleep on my pillow. (You probably already guessed how the leash thing worked out. We only tried that once.)

Last night, my mother called to tell me that my puppy, now an aging arthritic dog, is dying. She cried when she told me the vet recommended ‘putting her down.’ As is my way with my mother, I pragmatically explained that this was the kindest thing to do for a sick, blind pet.

“Poor thing,” I said.
“Who? Me or the dog?”
“Both.”

I hung up and cried.

They’re at the vet right now. I’m doing everything I can not to picture the scene. And I’m trying to maintain that magnanimous feeling we had on the phone last night — that killing my dog is the kind thing to do. But mostly, I’m feeling really, really sorry.

She was my first campaign and subsequently, my first breach of contract (I didn’t exactly keep up my end of the bargain). And she was also the first thing that I loved so much it hurt.

A quick glance around my apartment will give you a good idea of how the weekend went.

Three novels abandoned in various states of read decorate the ottoman, the living room desk and my bedside table, pointing to my ADD Friday night in. One pair of pink satin shoes (now sadly blackened from a detour in the dirty snow bank) start the trail of discarded clothing between the front door and my bed, breadcrumbs to my Saturday night out a la Stephanie Klein. There’s an overturned wine glass on the crimson table runner, balanced nicely with an opened bottle of Tums and an empty Gatorade jug, evidence of my Sunday recovery. Scarf, pink coat and iPod tentacles dangle from where they were thrown over the club chair after Tribe brunch in Brooklyn (and before nap number two). A handful of wadded napkins from my crying spell while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition with Ari over spaghetti and meat sauce.

Yeah, I bawled over a god damned house makeover show. But seriously, show me pictures of an 11-day-old baby who needs a heart transplant – when I’m hungover and by nature overly sensitive? It could have been that ridiculously redundant Discovery Channel motorcycle show and I’d have needed a moment.

I know as well as anyone how terribly pedestrian it is to recap your weekend in stories that begin, “I was so drunk I…” But I think it’s fairly safe to say I have never had to have a cab driver count my money and I have never missed the bed and landed on the floor hard enough to surely dent concrete (but at the same time fail to wake The Snorer who has been particularly heinous lately). It was, overall, the kind of weekend that leaves a mark.

I called in sick this morning and spent the day doing things that made me feel more like myself. I read, I napped. The really good fiction I picked up at Barnes and Noble this weekend is good in the way that rich, foreign desserts are good. Or time spent with my mother is good. It’s best appreciated in small doses.

When I’d had enough (of the book and of being alone), I went across the street to the grocery store where I wandered up and down the aisles to see if anything struck my fancy. Baker’s chocolate, mini marshmallows. In the dairy cooler, a man stocking the yogurt serenaded me with whatever Lionel Richie song was playing over the PA. I grinned and dropped an obscene amount of milk into my cart. I don’t drink milk, but there was a plan involved.

Tonight, Shiv came over bearing Peppermint Schnapps. We drank spiked cocoa (at the last moment, mini marshmallows seemed overkill), moving on to the expensive wine that had been meant for a dinner with Joe. Then we ended our reign as The Last Two Reasonable People to Have Seen Garden State.

And here’s where I take a tangent…

It seems that The Bloggies, like the New York Times article, has unleashed the demon blog critics. Like last time, it’s all been fairly ridiculous. I do not belong on the list with my competitors. I slept with the Bloggie Committee. I have a big nose. I am self-serving. And I am dull.

I do not belong on the list. As far as that goes, it might have something to do with the fact that this is a personal blog. The only personal blog on that list. So yeah, maybe I don’t! But, I didn’t nominate myself, so maybe what it amounts to is not everyone has the same tastes. Can we agree on that? Fine. Moving on.

I slept with the Bloggie committee. Nope. I’d have totally written about it if I did.

I have a big nose. It’s true. I do. Point conceded.

I am self-serving. Again, this is a personal blog. What else can I do but shrug and point out that this particular tidbit came from an ad-supported site. I’m totally convinced that they must donate all their ad revenue to blind deaf orphans. You know, otherwise that would be sorta… hypocritical, right?

I am dull. I’m going to go ahead and suggest that “dull” is rather subjective. This not one of those blogs in which I oh-so-cleverly snarks about other people’s lives without offering up anything of my own — except, of course, wherein The Five Funniest Things I do While Drunk and/or High passes for disclosure. It’s a personal blog, full of disclosure. It’s going to be self-serving and really self-involved and maybe even dull. And I’m so totally cool with that.

Anyway, I was saying that Shiv and I watched Garden State, which was as impressive as I was led to believe. And in it, someone who is not Zack Braff — after the Peppermint Schnapps and the red wine, I can’t be expected to remember anyone that is not Zach Braff — says,

“You know, I’m okay with being unimpressive. I sleep better.”

While not exactly my sentiments, it speaks to the point that, whether you be critic or comrade, I’m not doing this to impress you. That’d be too much pressure. So unlike the last time these self-appointed critics reared their ugly heads, I can actually see the ridiculous for what it is. And I don’t feel overly inclined to take much of it to heart. I still care, but not nearly as much. And I sleep better.