We grew up in a rural community that did not lock its doors at night — crime was smashing mailboxes and stealing gum from the Texaco station. If Mom wasn’t watching, and we were feeling brave enough to shimmy up the telephone pole a few feet, we could see the tree line of the next county.

We drank water straight from the hose. We caught fireflies. The sounds that kept us up at night were crickets or coyotes, depending on the season.

On early summer mornings We Three, hair unbrushed, noses already freckled from the June sun, would drag the red wagon from beside the garage, climb in and wait. Dad would come out of the house soon after. He’d have a yellow Roman Meal bread bag, closed with a twist tie – peanut butter and honey sandwiches for us, and maybe some extra bread for the ducks, if we were headed toward Curly Slide Park. But if he came down the cement porch steps with three small green fish nets, we were going the opposite way down the gravel road, to Pollywog Hill.

Topped by a tree whose apples never quite ripened each year, and behind a thick wall of pussy willow reeds, the embankment we called Pollywog Hill rose sharply from a narrow, dusty road. When we were very small, Dad would have to give us a start, a hand under each of our backsides. The littlest would ride on his shoulders. At the top, the oldest and I would wait (We’d been scared into the idea that the irrigation canals weren’t somewhere to be without an adult) until Dad’s plaid shirt was in view among the overgrown weeds.

Some years, we were too late and our adventure would end in a picnic under the sour apple tree. But when we were on time, there’d be pools of them, darting black specs, in the shallower, shadier spots along the ditch. Some would have already started to form stubby legs, their tails shrinking to form smooth frog bottoms. We’d crouch, watching them until Dad would produce three, lidded baby food containers and the three green fish nets. Then he’d lie back on the bank, a hat shading his face from the sun and say “Have at it.”

Later, sandwiches eaten (by We Three, uninvited ants and scavenger Starlings), Dad would collect a graceful bouquet of pussy willows for Mom and we’d head home to introduce our frogs-in-progress to their new, pyrex home on the kitchen counter. Perhaps one or two would survive, growing into slippery, wriggling frogs that if hardy, would be sent to live in the back yard Irises to croak night music with the crickets that summer.

And twenty years later, when I randomly emailed my big brother to ask, “Do you remember Pollywog Hill?” he replied, “Yes, do you remember pussy willows?”

There are a few things that people need to understand about me — things that just are, definitively, who and what I am. My closest friends don’t need to be told what these things are (and never did), which is most certainly how they achieved such Close Friendedness® in the first place. But not understanding these things, these Great Truths, can bring an end to potentially fine relationships. So, in favor of preventative measures, let’s get on with the disclosure.

I do not like to be told what to do.
And by ‘not like’ I mean, totally hate. Those who have achieved the aforementioned Close Friendedness® have learned to restrain themselves when it comes to advice-giving. Oh, not on every matter, mind you. Tell me which color ¾ length sleeve shirt to buy when presented with Banana Republic’s oh-so-many choices. Recommend a CD. Suggest a location for my birthday extravaganza. These are all perfectly acceptable. But in more weighty matters (life, love and the pursuit of happiness), it should be assumed that if you’ve thought of it, I have already spent one, if not more, nights awake entertaining (or dismissing) the same idea. It’s called being neurotic. And I do it really well.

I suck at being angry.
I don’t do it well. And no, I don’t want to talk about it because I’m hoping that we can just ignore it and it will go away. See, I get confused by The Angry Feeling, and when I get confused, I don’t know what to say. Confrontation will only increase The Angry Feeling, and thus the confusion and inability to speak. So just back the fuck off, okay?

Ahem.

Ice cream makes me happy.
That’s pretty self-explanatory. Pink Old Navy flip-flops make me happy, too.

I secretly like being made fun of.
If, you know, it’s malicious-free mocking and really only serves to say, “I like you” in that playground sort of way. I reserve the right to pout, but this is only to mask my glee at being liked in the playground way.

And last, but not least

I hate roller coasters.
Drive fast with me in the car. Take me rappelling. Pack me into a cannon at the circus, but do not ask me to get on a roller coaster. Do not say, “You’ll like this one!” Do not tell me it’s safe. Do not tell me you’ll make me walk home from Six Flags New England if I don’t ride Superman with you. I’ll walk. And don’t remind me that I’ll rode every ride at Disney World. Cause, duh, that’s Disney. It doesn’t count.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes when Roommate emerged from his room.

“Hey, Punk.” I said, loaded the dishwasher and snapped it shut. The microwave stopped microwaving and for a second or two, the kitchen was dead silent. Roommate was looking at me with the strangest expression on his face.

“What did you call me?”
“Punk. I said, hey, punk. Why? What did you think I said?”

Roommate just laughed. Hard. He put his hand out to the counter to steady himself. “I thought you said, ‘Hey, Pumpkin.”

“Ha! Okay, no. No, I didn’t. But from now on, you can bet your sweet ass that’s what I’m calling you.”

“You better not!”

Roommate poured some coffee, disappeared into his room. I was getting ready in the bathroom when he passed on his way out the door.

“Okay, I’m going to work.”

“Have a good day, Pumpkin.”

“Fuck you.”

I will not order take-out. I will not order take-out.

I’m in this Simplify Mode and I can’t seem to talk myslef out of it. Why make lunch when I can order ridiculously expensive take-out that neither requires the dirtying of dishes nor the cleaning of them? And laundry? For last night’s party, I could have thrown on a pair of clean jeans. I mean, at least, right? Nah, I’d just have to wash ‘em. So I shook out a pair that were on their third wear, spritzed ‘em with the squirt bottle and left them on the radiator to de-wrinkle.

When did I become a boy?

I ate Swedish Fish for breakfast.

Those who have been along for the whole High Maintenance ride that has been my life have got to be raising some eyebrows.

Gah.

Okay, okay. I’m up. I’m going to sort my laundry, DO my laundry, make brownies and apologize to the RSF for bailing on his party (We had a deal, see. I go to his party, he drives the U-haul to New York. And if I don’t want him to pull over somewhere and the highway and declare, “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I’d better DO something.)

And I’m going to make a real lunch.

PB&J anyone?

Due to an impending reduction in closet space (and to the fact that no reasonable human being needs this many clothes), I am spending the morning filling boxes. Destination: Goodwill.

To Keep or not to Keep?

Old boyfriend t-shirts. I could make arguments for both sides. But when it comes down to the fact that they are the most comfortable articles of clothing I own, they go in the To Keep pile. Besides, I gotta have something to wear while I’m cleaning the toilet. Right?

Out-of-date suit? Not to Keep.

Favorite sweatshirt from freshman year of college? Not to Keep.

Assorted formal gowns? This is so tragic. The pale yellow princess dress with embroidered bodice and absolutely no practical use in the Universe? Sadly, Not to Keep. The black one stays. It just does. Sometime, someone is going to take me to something requiring a floor length designer gown with the most stunning plunging neckline ever. I just know it. To Keep.

Twenty-something sweaters that never made it off their shelves this winter? Not to Keep.

And so on. I’m doing relatively well letting go. Which is probably only made easier by the fact that I’m headed up to Kittery this afternoon to go outlet shopping with the girls. Don’t bother with an intervention. I’ll just go back to my old ways the moment I’m alone with my Visa card.

I’m feeling a bit down today.

I’m sitting, Indian-style in my ergonomic Herman Miller chair, wrapped in a black pashmina, with a four-year-old sitting across my desk drawing me a good-bye picture. Olivia is here often enough that my tack-board is equal parts custom made kid art (three years’ worth) and assorted personal effects. She’s drawing, I’m typing my letter of resignation, pausing occasionally to admire her efforts. For the most part, no actual work will be done in this office for a few hours.

The thermostat says it’s 75 degrees in here, but I feel cold.

At lunch, I let it slip that I might be the slightest bit worried about being a complete screw-up at the new job and ending up unemployed on the streets of New York City.

“Zero percent chance,” Stephanie said. She made a big circle with her hands, then rearranged the Thai food on her plate. “Absolutely impossible.”

Michael said, “If you were stock, I’d invest in you.” And then he asked what I wanted for a house warming gift.

The heater is finally kicking in and I’m hoping that I’ll warm up a little.

I’m actually puzzled by this feeling that’s overtaken me today and hope it’s just from being a little tired. Though I am worried about my father again. And that may explain the pounding in my left temple.

But the heavy feeling in my chest, I don’t really know how to explain that one. Well, yes, I can. As a product of many, many moves in adolescence (five schools in six years), I know what this is, really. It’s separation anxiety. And it will pass. Especially since this is what I wanted and I know it’s the right thing to do (if there’s really any right or wrong to it).

Whatever, or whomever, I’m leaving behind will only be lost if I let it be.

Still, I feel so lonely right now, sitting here at my desk, chilled, waiting in limbo. I’ve got nothing to concentrate on other than this filmy melancholy I’ve drifted into. And this letter of resignation.

And this morning, J’s girlfriend broke up with him.

J: Am I so critical that sometimes its impossible to be around me?
H: Sometimes you’re picky about things that don’t/shouldn’t matter. I’ll admit it used to make me self conscious. Like I had to be uber perfect. Why, what’s up?
J: She broke up with me. She said that when I was ready to accept her and love her without having something to pick on, then I can call her. But not until then.
H: Oh my. That took some balls.
J: Yeah, she’s good. And she’s totally right.

Yes, yes she is. While I feel for him, I sat here wishing I’d been that ballsy. Those are the things I wanted to say and never did. Mostly because I knew he never would love me for me.

And it makes me wonder if he’ll actually change.

“Remember throwing ice into that chimney?”

“I was just thinking about that! We met that night.”

After several minutes of “Remember that time we” reminiscing, I’m not surprised when he gets quiet and starts pushing his rice around on the plate. J is the sentimental type.

“You’re going to miss this.” He moves the rice and I watch some fall onto the table cloth. “I’m going to miss you.”

And me? I’m somewhat detatched sitting there, looking over J’s shoulder at Fenway thinking about mint green tile and change of address cards. Did I pay my Sprint bill?

New Girlfriend returns from the bathroom, and J pays for the meal. When the credit card receipt comes back he signs, looks across the table and says, “You ready to go?”

I nod and reach for my jacket.

Yes. I am.

J has been in Miami for the last week and a half. He’s missed a lot.

We’ve made plans for tonight. Dinner, a movie, drinks. I feel quite certain, though he’s not said as much, that New Girlfriend will be joining us. So I’ve invited my Valentine (to whom I owe a bit of face time anyway) to buffer the awkward, So You Don’t Know This Inside Joke moments. And I wouldn’t be the one feeling awkward. J and I have this way of talking, of never completing sentences or speaking solely in movie quotes, that tends to be somewhat exclusive. And we tend to be more than somewhat oblivious.

J’s lucky. He’s catching me on the calm side of the storm.

This morning, I got confirmation that someone is going to take over my lease (after last night’s affair with Craig’s List that lasted into the wee hours of the morning). Has it only been a week since I gave notice at the Monkey Firm? I surprise myself at how quickly this is all happening. I mean, for being such a planner. And, well, the irony of this situation does not escape me. And what irony is that? Let me share.

About a month ago, I decided to shift my focus. Back to Boston. No more frivolous spending and heading off to New York City two, three times a month. I needed to spend more time focused on my job, the friends I’d felt I’d been neglecting, and my health (which, at the time, needed a bit of attention).

I have to laugh at the Universe for so openly mocking my resolve. Que sera sera. It’s not just a superbly written weblog, kids.

What will be, will be.

So, don’t try pushing off your agenda on the universe. You’re not it charge around here.

For someone who’s written maybe once a month since shipping off to Cuba, the Fireman has been Mr. Communicative lately. Four, sometimes more emails a week for the past few weeks. And mind you, we never had that much to say to each other.

Silly, silly transparent boy. He’s hedging his bets!

He’ll be on leave here next week and is trying to secure a little somethin’-somethin’ in advance. I just laugh and shake my head. Because what’s most amusing is how not tempted I feel about it. Yeah, he’s cute alright, and will probably come back all tanned from the tropical sun. And two weeks ago it sounded like a fine time. Getting sent off with a bang. Or two. Or three. You get the idea.

But now it just seems sorta pointless and something of a hassle.

Is that the moving stress talking?

I’d like to send out a big What the Fuck to Blue Cross Blue Shield of Massachusetts and my local CVS pharmacy.

I called this afternoon to refill my birth control prescription by phone. “No, I’m sorry,” says the cheery CVS pharmicist. “We can’t refill that until March 29th. Your insurance company won’t allow it.”

Um, okay. Right-o. Two major problems with that.

1. I will be in New York.
2. I will be out of birth control by March 20th.

What kind of system is this? I mean, I don’t have an absurdly active sex life that requires some emergency intervention. But you can’t just stop and start again a week late because Blue Cross Blue Shield has a preset date for your refill. What are they using anyway? The Mayan calendar?

I’m wacky enough with out a not-needed hormone imbalance.

I’d also like to send out a Dude, You’re Really Super Cool to my doctor who said he would resolve the issue and to check back in the morning.

I hope he karate chops them in the throat.

“Swedish Fish.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Noooo. I need them.”

We’ve been at Target for a little over a half hour and I’ve had semi-psychotic episodes in two different aisles in housewares, and one in home furnishings. He had witnessed each episode and seemed bemused, if not charmed, at watching me come unglued.

“I’ve seen what shower curtain hooks did to you. I’ll find you some fish.”

He had stopped the shower curtain episode by placing his hands on my shoulders firmly and saying, “Listen, if you don’t end up liking it, I’ll drive all the way to New York and replace it for you myself. Okay?”

“Yeah? And will you carry my couch up four flights of stairs?”

“Absolutely.”

I just nodded.

He leaves me with the carriage. I’m a few aisles away when I hear the rustle of a bag and I have to smile knowing that I will go to sleep tonight completely cracked out on Swedish Fish. He tosses the bag on top of the piles I’ve made.

“I was going to use you as a backboard, but you’re not very playful tonight.”

“I’m playful, god damn it! It’s just easily confused with combative and strung out. But I’m playful.”

“Uh huh. A bucket of monkeys.”

“Barrel. It’s ‘barrel of monkeys’ Big Guy.”

“Someone just earned herself a nice, long walk home from Target! Smart ass.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“I know. I try not to think about it.”

And suddenly, we’re having an earnest moment. I suppose it makes sense that we’re standing near the card aisle, surrounded by Hallmark greetings. But I’m not prepared for earnest. Good-byes will come later, and I’ll be ready for those.

“Bucket of monkeys,” I say and shake my head.

I think he understands, because as I dodge sentiment and push the cart away toward the check-out, he simply follows a few steps behind. He doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. Just why I’m not wearing any socks. And that, I can work with.

Maybe a gal should actually read her offer letter when she gets it.

I just printed out the letter, signed it and tucked it in an envelope to mail to the powers that be at the New Job. As I was doing so, I noticed the start date. A WHOLE WEEK LATER than was previously discussed. Oh, sweet mercy!

As Ari put it, I should really buy a lottery ticket while I’m at it, because this luck can’t last long.

My mother says I wake up like a cat.

I yawn, stretch in the sort of exaggerated fashion belonging mostly to felines (and early film starlets), make a weak attempt at getting out of bed and then curl right back up before the sheets have lost their warmth. Snooze and repeat. I wake up in stages. Sometimes it takes me a good 40 minutes to actually climb out of bed once I’m awake. Seems a waste of time, to my mother (Why not just get up?).

Because not getting up is one of my favorite parts of the day.

In fact, I’ve been not getting up for the past hour — bad form considering I should be leaving my apartment for a meeting at 7:30. Perhaps I’m not altogether too inclined to head off to the Monkey Firm to face the anti-climax that will be my last two weeks there. I know how it’s going to be. Not so gradually at all, they will begin (or have already, I think) to phase me out of projects and responsibilities. I have already been not required to attend a handful of meetings and caught only tail ends of conversations that I most certainly should have been privy to. And while I’m perfectly willing to buckle down and work just as hard as ever, it appears that I’ll be leaving in stages.

Seems sort of a waste of time to me. Time that could be much better spent not getting up.

*Yawn*

Boston-bound trains leave Penn Station roughly every half hour. I’ve stopped checking Amtrak schedules and instead just show up, check the board and buy a ticket. If I’m feeling impatient and relatively wealthy, I’ll take the next available train, which always happens to be the Express. But today I waited for the Regional. I was in no hurry.

I’ve logged a fair amount of time at Penn Station in the last, oh, six months or so, reluctantly waiting to shuffle back to Boston. I sit in eateries or Amtrak waiting areas eating, reading, making lists. Men in suits attempt to make polite conversation. I answer in short, close-ended sentences, trying with some amount of grace, to convey that I’d simply rather be left alone. I watch homeless and other afflicted folk stumble in, asking for change, food, help. This afternoon, one man, a cup of change in his hand, stopped briefly only to say, “You’re the prettiest girl of the day” and then wander off again, having asked me for nothing. Though, I’d have given whatever change I had on me. A compliment like that deserves a buck or two.

This afternoon’s train ride marked another (and yet, probably my last) less-than-24-hour stay in New York City. Tuesday morning, I rode back to Boston in Business class, with a new job offer and worries in my head. Today, I came back (this time with an unreserved coach ticket. It’s starting to ad up!) having more or less secured an apartment. I left New York feeling very relaxed and extremely lucky (even more lucky when it turned out that my unreserved coach fare had gotten me a business class seat on an Express train).

In two weeks, I’ll head back to start the New Job and then soon after, move into my new place. I’m positively thrilled. Oh, and did I mention I already know one of my neighbors? Yup. She’s close enough to borrow sugar.

Life is sweet and pleasantly surprising. Kinda like having vanilla ice cream in your coffee.

After Brian called me yesterday morning at work to give me a tele-bitch slap (“Girl, you just need to calm down. Everything will be fine.”), I decided to take some wise advise and give myself a break.

I had just given official notice at the Monkey Firm, which was one of the most liberating moments of my entire life (You know, somewhere up there with getting my driver’s license or my first Pocket Rocket). And realizing that all this Craig’s List mania was just making me… manic, closed out of my interenet explorer, opened a box of Thin Mints and took a much needed deep breath.

And then I went shopping.

Two suits, two sweaters, two pair of kick-ass shoes later, dinner with one of my best gals and I was feeling like myself again. Who was that crazy woman? Yeah, don’t know. But man, was she a freakshow.

Today is looking pretty promising, too, with a lead on a pricey (yipes), but doable apartment, and someone scheduled to come look at mine this weekend. We’re definitely back to registering Excitement! on the Moving to New York Meter.

More excited, less anxious AND I’ve got new shoes?

Someone should totally be playing the Wonder Woman theme song when I walk in the room.

It’s hard for you to explain.

Everyone says, “Oh my god, you must be so excited.”

And you are. Only, you’re so overwhelmed that you stopped really feeling excited sometime between 3 and 10 pm on Monday night when reality slapped you in the face.

Everyone says, “I know you can do it!”

And sure you can! You’ve done hard things before, right? But you can’t really explain to anyone why minor cash flow issues, and a gazillion Craig’s List apartment listings and the date March 22nd have you nearly wretching in the ladies’ room.

So you don’t explain. You say, “Yes, I’m so super excited to move to New York.” Because mostly you are. Your job will be hard as hell. And you will love that. You will feel like you’re really living again.

But when you crawl into bed, and the hours pass, and your brain is so full of the things you feel like you’ll never accomplish in time, and you’re scared (yes, you’re scared, you’ll admit it), you might give in a little to that overwhelming, “What have I done” feeling.

And you’ll cry. Mostly because you don’t know what else to do besides wish there was someone there to hold your hand or pat your head or just say, “I’d probably cry, too.”

But it’s just you and an oblivious cat (who will have to be force-fed Kitty Valium for the move), and a computer. So you write a little, cry a little more, and hope that you’ve worn yourself out enough to sleep.

You’d wish you’d thought of it sooner, but it’s way too late to take Tylenol PM.

Having already given away the punch line yesterday, I won’t bother to regale you with too many interview details. You know, like, details about how the moment I walked through the elevator doors I knew I’d want to work there. And how when the Pres showed me my future, Fifth Avenue corner office, I was even more convinced. And how I have been completely unable to relax since the moment he said, “I’d like to offer you the job…”

I squealed through three (or was it four?) really tasty martinis with Krissa, not stopping to realize that my nervous stomach was also a completely empty stomach. I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day. To our rescue came the uber cute bartender with Chinese delivery. Really good Chinese delivery.

I spent all Monday night not sleeping. And would have spent last night in the same fashion – tossing and turning, my brain focused on the phrase, “You’ve just changed your whole god damn life, you silly girl.” – except for multiple strawberry daiquiris with the RSF over a nice, “Congratulations” dinner. A Tylenol PM later, and I was out like a light.

My list of things to accomplish within the next three weeks is relatively short. Sublet my apartment in Boston. Find an apartment in New York. Move. You know, easy stuff. Totally doable, right?

I start in three weeks.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.