Ahh!

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

They want to interview me this week.

**PS**

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

“Can I get you anything else?”

“A job?”

We double over laughing as the confused waitress wanders away.

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

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

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

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

“I’m not kidding. What about the Business Week thing?”

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

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

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

“I want to be a sex therapist.”

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

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

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

And what I really mean to say is, “It’s going to be so lonely without you.”

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

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

Work Boyfriends 1 and 2
Gay Boyfriend
My Boss

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

Dude, why do they keep me?

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

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

Toes to the line. Strike first.

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

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

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

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

Toes to the line. Strike first.

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

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

Hey Sister Sledge,

Just thinking about you. How you doin’?

Hella wicked fine.

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

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

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

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

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

There he is. On my caller ID.

Flip open.

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

Flip closed.

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

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

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

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

Flip open. Flip closed.

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

Until 1:24 AM.

Flip open.

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

Flip closed.

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

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

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

Flip open.

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

Flip closed.

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

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

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

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

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

If

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

Then

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

And could you please call it a “family emergency”?

Thank you in advance.

I can’t do it again today.

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

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

I
give
up.

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

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

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

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

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

My Gym Buddy

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

My Brother

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

My Doctor

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

And last, but not least,

The Man

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

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

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

WRONG!

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

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

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

Thank god for back-up boyfriends. And cats.

I’m not perfect.

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

I have one love handle.

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

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

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

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

The love handle of shame.

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

I’d like my apology to be issued on an white linen 4×6 card, embossed with the CBS logo and signed by the following:

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

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

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

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

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

I have heartburn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

Phil Seibert

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

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

Always with fondness,

H

ps

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

Can’t talk now.

I think I’m about to be fired.

*** update****

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

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

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

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

We never talked about it.

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

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

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

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

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

And I don’t really want them to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat day, fat day…

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

Nothing fits!

Tell me you have days like this:

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

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

And NO it is not that time of the month.

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

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

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

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

This morning really kicked my ass.

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

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

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

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

Quick, quick, slow.

“Cease fire!”

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

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

“Adelante. Para atras…”

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

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

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

Vale!

I’m sitting around in my underwear eating brie.

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

Krissa, come talk me out of my breadtruck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like romantic bench-warming or something.