I could wait until the first anniversary of This Fish (next month sometime) to make a big to-do, but I think that this celebration is more about the unbelievable number of you that stop by, take something with you and leave something behind. One hundred thousand since March is pretty spectacular to me. Thanks, guys.

When This Fish Needs A Bicycle was conceived, anonymity was key.

I created the original blogspot site as nothing more than an audience-free journal. But to my surprise, it didn’t last too long without an audience. One by one, strangers and familiars became reader and friend, and eventually, thisfish.com was born. Ah, isn’t she pretty?

From the beginning, I was paranoid that J (who, as it turns out is tragically illiterate anyway) would read my melodramatic rantings and the result would be catastrophic. Then the worry became, what if my mother found this site? Over the course of time, not only did friends, acquaintances, and my brother stumble onto thisfish.com, but eventually, so did my mother. So, that worry is out of the way. And as for J? J who?

I do believe that a lot of the appeal of this site has been the mystery, or at least the every-woman angle that it has going. Not only do I imagine a lot of you already have an idea of what I should look like, but I also, in my infinite insecurity, fear some of you may be disappointed with the actual product.

The feeling that it may change your perception has been something to contend with.

But, contending done, I’ll simply make it your option. Click, or don’t. Here I am.

(Yeah, I know it’s fuzzy. But it’s the closest thing I have to a head-shot and is one of the few pictures of me not eating.)

Thank you, and… come again.

Sometime in March, I dropped a little sitemeter on the bottom of this page. And sometime today, that little sitemeter will register 100,000 visits. Pretty exciting, right?

Well, now. How to celebrate? I could write something really meaningful. Or, I could post a picture.

We have until lunch time to decide.

Maybe it’s love
But it’s like you said
Love is like a role that we play

His approach has certainly been different.

One afternoon, a month or so ago, he sent me an email declaring his intention to spend more time with me. He wouldn’t call it dating, he said, knowing my instinct to flee from that sort of attention and turn suddenly chilly.

Who me?

He said I was worth his time. He listed his reasons, my “surprising wit” being at the top. When he calls to make plans with me, he leaves no room for excuses. And I have no reason to make any. He treats me well, doesn’t cross any of my invisible lines and for the most part, says the right things.

It’s all so practical, so cut-and-dried, that I have to wonder whether he actually likes me, or just really wants to like me because it’s good on paper.

I wonder the same thing about myself.

My left brain says that the relationship would be convenient and healthy. He’s very intelligent, successful and everything a girl should want. Everything I should want. He is also what you’d call a ‘stayer’ — the hard-working, dedicated, bringing-home-the-bacon, family type guy who really only wants to love someone else.

And he’d most likely never break my heart.

My left brain tells me that I should be happy. I try to talk myself into feeling that way every time I see his name in my in-box or on the screen of my cell-phone.

My right brain tells me I’m not. Because I don’t feel that thing. You know, that rush of heady excitement that makes you want to do unspeakable things in public places. That feeling that you’re actually living and not just being. That knowledge that it could all just unravel as quickly as it began and you could be left broken and weeping and scarred.

Do I get some thrill from getting my heart broken? Certainly not.

But I do think that thing, the build-up previous to the seemingly inevitable heartbreak, is what makes life worth living and puts grit behind the words want and need. I mean, who writes love songs about the person that “just made lots of sense”?

Maybe he’ll grow on me?

I could nip this in the bud and die alone, or I could do the grown-up thing, learn my lesson about love and find myself a stayer.

Though, I must confess, neither one seems very appealing.

I think I just walked onto the set of ET the Extraterrestrial.

Background: My office is an ellipse of windows, one end looking out over old Cambridge and the other a view of downtown Boston. Only, I never see any of it. Bad lighting and freakish glares makes it impossible to keep the shades open. So, for the last few weeks, my little space in the corporate world has been undergoing renovation. Track lighting gone, recessed lights installed and my feng shui friendly white furniture replaced with glare-resistant ebony fixtures.

And today is paint-the-walls day.

My entire office is quarantined, draped in floor-to-ceiling plastic. Seriously, I walked in and at once expected to hear Keys coming down the hall and see a potted geranium (?) and a funny little alien waddling around. But instead, I heard Highway to Hell and saw an army of too-belt clad fellows armed with spackling knives and paint brushes.

H: Uh oh. Where do I live?
ToolBelt Guy: This your office, Miss?
H: Yep.
TBG: We didn’t know you were working today.
H: Sadly, yes. But you know what, it’s really not a problem. I have to disappear into meetings for a couple hours. Paint away.
TBG: You sure? I can clear these guys outta here if you need.
H: Positive.

I’m between meetings now, hiding behind my plastic barricade and every time I see the shadow of someone passing, I croak out a very convincing,

“Elllllliotttt….”

Boy, do I give myself the giggles sometimes.

Somtimes, the simplest things make me feel so decadent. Hot tea. Salty baths. Lying in the sunlight on a quiet Saturday morning with an angora-soft kitten under my cheek and good music on the stereo.

The poor man’s royal treatment.

I spent last night playing Monopoly with the RSF and company (the shrewdest, fastest traders out there, I swear), only to remember, about 10 minutes into the game, that I HATE Monopoly. Hate it. So I started trying to lose (Bad trades, developing cheap property just to get rid of money, etc.). It didn’t take long for RSF to realize that’s what I was doing and to thwart my every attempt. I couldn’t lose that damn game to save my life! I finally told them that at a certain minute on the clock, I was bowing out and heading home for some much-needed sleep. Or at least that was the excuse. I mean, that game is torture!

The RSF now operates with the understanding that I don’t play pool and I don’t play Monopoly. It’s good we got that out of the way.

We’ll talk more about that whole situation later as it merits a nice, long, Why am I So Fucking Difficult post.

Now, go. Be decadent. That’s what Saturday is for. There are sunny spots all over your house and you’re wasting them.

Oooh! And go paint you toenails in the nude. That was unprecedented satisfaction.

I got two phone calls this morning before 7:30.

The first was B, calling from Florida, wishing me a happy Twenty-Seven Below Zero Day.

B: It’s 73 degrees here today. That’s what, 100 degrees warmer?
H: You’re such a bastard. If I freeze to death on the way to work, you’re gonna feel really bad.
B: Hey, you don’t sound too good.
H: YOU don’t sound too good. *cough cough* This is my sexy phlegm voice. Recognize.
B: My bad. It’s very sexy. Okay, well, just calling to rub it in.
H: I appreciate that, Florida Boy. Talk to you soon. I’m getting back in bed where it’s warm.
B: Bye, Kiddo.

I crawled back under the down comforters and tried to coerce Kitten into playing foot warmer. But as soon as I got comfortably entangled in the sheets, the phone rang again. It was the Resident Sports Fanatic.

RSF: Hey. Sorry to wake you.
H: Nah, I was up.
RSF: Will you check to see if you have water?
H: Yeah, we do. Why? Your pipes frozen?
RSF: Shit. Yeah. I was hoping it was a water main and not our house.
H: You wanna come shower here?
RSF: You don’t mind?
H: Absolutely not.

I did a quick bathroom check (I’m prone to draping lingerie on the back of the door and forgetting about it) and made sure there was something more than Roommate’s bar o’ soap in the shower. You know, in case RSF turned out to be closet high-maintenance. But, of course, he emerged from the shower smelling of nothing but Irish Spring, just like Roommate. Thank God. I’m an open-minded gal and all, but I do like to be the good-smelling one. I mean, if we both smelled like jasmine and rosewater, what would I bring to the friendship?

There’s always the rack, I suppose.

I spent yesterday in a coma.

More accurately, I spent yesterday in a coma punctuated by fits of coughing and root beer float breaks. Starve a cold, feed a fever, right? Well, root beer float for carnival throat comes after that. It just gets left off for sake of brevity.

I will spend today back at work, wishing I were still in my coma. And wondering if, seeing as I’ve had carnival throat at least three times this winter, I shouldn’t just get my tonsils out. I didn’t need my appendix; I don’t need my tonsils. Not only could I avoid looking like Quasimodo per all the swollen glands, but there’d be at least a forty-eight hour period in which no one would expect me to eat anything but ice-cream related products. Brilliant! And let’s not forget that it would earn me a day off from the monkey firm.

As I see it, there are no drawbacks to this plan.

Then again, there is that whole dying-while-under-anesthesia thing. That concerns me a bit. But on the upside (there’s always an upside), my family might get to be on 60 Minutes or Dateline or something. And getting them all in the same room would be pretty fucking miraculous. Right?

And maybe I could get some posthumous fame out of the deal as well.

Tonsils no more, 2004.

bender
n 1: an occasion for heavy drinking

I was already in my pajamas when he called.

Sure, it was only 7:30 or so, but the kind of day I had, plus the whole, it feels like I swallowed fire for a carnival sideshow sore throat thing I’ve got going on, I was ready to relax.

Wanna go out tonight?

I was inclined, and hoping for a movie. But it was not to be. We (me and three boys, yet again) ended up on a bender at a pool hall on a Tuesday night.

Now I’m at home, back in my pajamas, suffering from carnival throat and a mild hangover trying to decide which of the ridiculous and amazing stories to tell. It was that kinda night.

But that will have to be later. Right now, my brain feels just a mite too big for my skull. It’s gonna be that kinda day.

***One conversation of note:***

RSF: H, you should consider becoming a lesbian.
H: Oh, I have! I’m signing the papers next week.
RSF: Excellent. Let’s just hope you have better taste in women than you do in men.

It’s 1:45 AM on a Tuesday (okay, bridging Wednesday) and I’m just getting home.

Hello, bed. You look so inviting!

We’ll talk about this tomorrow.

“What do we do when we fall off the horse?”
(silence)
“We get back on!”
“I’m sorry, Maury. I’m not a gymnast.”

Not five minutes after declaring my intentions to Paul, that I was taking a hiatus from the Man Scene, the following exchange took place in my office.

Coworker Paul: I have a question for you. A personal one.
H: (here we go again) No, I’m not dating anyone and no, I don’t want to meet your rich friend.
CP: He’s not like the last one! This one has a personality. And a Range Rover.
H: Paul, seriously. I thought I banished you from my office.
CP: That was yesterday. You don’t trust me, do you?
H: Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anybody.
CP: My wife thinks he’s nice. He was over on Saturday for the game (insert really long story here) Next time we have a party, I’ll call you…
H: *sigh*
CP: He’s Greek. Tall. Dresses well.
H: (Greek? Yum!) Dresses well? Even by your standards? Wow.
CP: He just broke off his engagement…
H: Paul!!
CP: Three months ago! But because she was a nag! You can be a bitch, but not a nag.
H: Eh, true.
CP: Wait, how old are you?
H: Twenty-five. Better question, hold old is he?
CP: 31.
H: If I were to agree to meet him, that would be an acceptable age.
CP: Wait. You’re only 25? How are you so young and so…?
H: Spinsterly? It’s a gift.
CP: Shut up. Okay, next party, I’m calling you. But that means you have to give me your phone number.
H: We’ll see. Now, get out of here. I’m busy.

Oh, sigh. I’d say something about Coworker Paul always trying to set me up with his silly, plastic, affluent friends. Like he has a problem with me being single… but then again I have a problem with me being single. Not a big one. Well, not any bigger than making a pretty pink page to talk about it all the time.

We’ll have a good giggle over this one day. But right now, I really need that drink, the CD and some cough drops.

I’m not sure whether to tell you that you rock the camel’s ass, or host an intervention. But I think I’d rather be an enabler in this case. My site stats love you. And so do I.

On a completely un-related note:

If I survive today at work, someone should totally buy me a drink. Or the Joss Stone CD. Or maybe just some cough drops.

A real post coming later. I promise.

It’s not just Cinderella Steve. It’s the epidemic he represents.

You do realize that you come here, I tell the same story with roughly the same ending, and I still act shocked and dismayed. Why? I mean, nothing changes!

Well, I can’t say that nothing changes, because there are a few variances: The date on the calendar, the time on the clock. The length of my skirt and the amount of peroxide in my hair. His name. How long it takes him to say, “Oh, the things I would do to you…”. The brand of beer on his breath at the time he says it. The excuses he makes.

I find myself giving credit to Cinderella Steve for even apologizing! It certainly saved me time getting all worked up delivering the You Insulting Little Prick speech.

It all just makes me so tired. Tired of being naive and disappointed. Of constantly choosing between bristling at attention or clinging to false compliments. Of deciding not to trust them anymore. And doing it anyway. Tired of thinking it’s going to be different this time. But being pretty sure it won’t.

Basically, just tired of being me.

Because this is MY fairy tale….

Cinderella Steve has a girlfriend. Isn’t that just precious? Don’t worry, it gets better. He was out that night looking to cheat.

How handy that I was there, no?

Word travels fast in magical kingdoms, and before he could say oh fuck, I had the little bastard on the phone. Cornered.

He denied it.

Only to call back fifteen minutes ago to apologize. Yes, he has a girlfriend. Yes, he’s horribly sorry because (get this) I’m just so amazing and attractive that… well, you get the picture.

Cinderella Steve actually thanked me for being so “easy.”

“Do you mean, thank you for being a whore? Or do you mean, thank you for being so understanding?”
“I meant, thank you for being understanding.”
“You shouldn’t have lied when I called you on it.”
“I know.”
“Fine then. Take care of yourself.”

What is it with me?

Do I emit some sort of magnetic field that disables men and makes them forget significant factors like… they’re already seeing someone? And it takes them several hours (during which they’ve attempted to go down my throat and up my skirt) to remember??

Let this be clear: I am no man’s other woman. And what’s more, I’m done with this. Done. You stupid lying bastards. My fairy tales do not end in “happily ever after.” They end in, “what the fuck.”

I totally hope he caught my cold.

or, J’s house party

It had been almost a year since I spent any time with the old gang.

gang n. Informal. A group of people who associate regularly on a social basis: The whole gang from the office went to a clambake. And in this case, J’s friends, roommates (and respective girlfriends) who, for a substantial amount of time, were my confidantes, co-conspirators and Trivial Pursuit team partners.

Arriving late to the party (with the Original Big City Galpal in tow), was like walking into a big hug, what with all the “my god, it’s so great to see you“s and the “girl, I’ve missed you“s. I mean, any entrance you make that erupts in a handful of people telling you how great you look is pretty phenomenal.

After all the build-up (I can’t wait for you to meet Tricia!) and though I saw her among the other guests, I was never introduced to J’s new girlfriend. Hmmm. Riddle me that. Maybe it was the quarter keg that J had already consumed. Who knows.

I couldn’t have been less concerned.

Sometime after midnight, the second living room turned into a dance floor. J’s ex-roommate W and I tore it up. W and I had always been very fond of each other. He spent hours teaching me the finer points to Grand Theft Auto IV: Vice City, and probably just as many consoling me when J was on his not-so-best behavior. Between he and B, they seemed to make up for the zillion ways in which I felt completely under-appreciated by their roommate. In short, I adore him.

At last night’s party, after his girlfriend had departed and the drink had made him especially candid, W made my night. Though I am not quite sure how she interpreted his candor, she must have found it amusing, because it was Big City Galpal who decided that today’s post should be titled as it is. W was in hilarious form and I had a tremendous night dancing and being silly.

W: H, being around you makes me horny.
H: HA! Rarrr. Thanks!
W: (to GalPal) Isn’t she sexy?
GP: I’ve always thought so.
W: Um, H… your tummy is showing.
H: Yeah, I know. It’s gotten a bit bigger since you saw me last.
W: I think it’s beeeee-yutiful.
H: W, I think you’re beautiful.

We promised to email and have drinks soon, hugged and kissed good-bye. It’s never going to be like old times, but after seeing J drunk and disorderly at his party, I am ever-so-glad that’s the case.

So, once upon a time…

We met at a party. He came as the guest of his roommate and when he walked in all tall dark and handsome, I amped up the flirt. We left the party together, headed to a dance club. Things heated up. But somewhere between the coat check and the street, we got separated in the mass exodus of club goers. He had disappeared without a trace. I was perplexed.

I mean, even Cinderella was kind enough to leave behind a shoe. Couldn’t he have at least spared his phone number? I waited the appropriate number of days before asking about him. He never tried to contact me.

And then last night, at a different club in a different part of town, over a year later, there he was. Cinderella Steve. We moved in different circles for most of the night, watching out of corners of eyes, doing the Bar and Lounge Mating Dance. He not-so casually bumped into me and next thing you know, we were shooting Kamikazes.

You know, the stuff fairy tales are made of.

Several shots later, his hand resting on my elbow, he brought up our first meeting.

H: Mmm hmm… you mean when you disappeared?
CS: I did?
H: Yes. I asked your roommate about you. He said you weren’t interested.
CS: WHAT?! He told me to back off because HE liked you!
H: Yeah, I sorta figured he did, but…
CS: Wait, you asked about me?
H: Yes. I mean, I wondered what happened.
CS: I didn’t know you cared at all.
H: I did. Back then.
CS: But now?

He leaned in before I could answer.

CS: I want to kiss you. Really badly.
H: That’d be pretty bold.
CS: Are you playing games with me? God, you smell really good.
H: No. No games. Let’s go to the dance floor.

And we did.

So, twice upon a time, Cinderella Steve and I steamed up a crowded dance floor. Only this time, he left with my phone number.

And he called.

I walked to work today.

My eyes kept tearing from the wind and the tears froze right to my little eyelashes. And the best part of it all is that the heat is broken at our office.

Tonight is drink, dance and be merry, complete with out of town guests, provactive behavior and… curly hair. All I need is a pair of really great shoes and I’ll be a new woman for the night. It is pay day…
J is throwing a party tomorrow night. I said I’d go. The party is basically a coming out event to announce he and New Girl as an official couple. It’ll be a scream. Funny thing is, I actually can’t wait to meet this girl. He’s so crazy about her.

I don’t feel much like me today. Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s this not-sleeping thing. Maybe it’s that I have a whole bunch of thoughts in my head, and can’t focus enough to write them. Last night, I came home, and took some Godiva ice cream and my cell phone into the tub. I sat in the steamy water, eating some really rich chocolate, and made a phone call.

G: Wow, my horoscope didn’t predict this.
H: (laughing) Hi. Where are you?
G: Baltimore. You know, saving the world. How you doin’?
H: Cold. And tired. I wish you were here to take a nap with me.
G: Here I fantasize about getting a booty call from you for YEARS and now, when I’m a zillion miles away…
H: HA! And if you knew I was callin’ you from the tub…
G: Sweet Lord.
H: Besides, I’d wouldn’t be using you for your body so much as your body HEAT.
G: Hmm… you do have the coldest fingers known to man.
H: Remember how I used to stick them in your arm pits? You loved that.
G: (laughing) You’re such a weird girl. (long silence) I miss you being weird.
H: I miss you, too. Sounds busy there. Maybe I should let you get back to saving the world, Governor?
G: (chuckle) Remember how you said you wanted to marry me so you could wear little white gloves and have tea time with ladies with big hair?
H: Hell yes. One of the few good things about being a politician’s wife, right?
G: There are at least ten women in gloves and big hair in this room right now. You’d be in heaven.
H: Call one of them Buffy for me, will you?
G: Will do. Be good. Love you.
H: Love you, too.

Hot bath, cold ice cream and an old flame. I suspect that there’s no greater therapy. Well, sex might be nice, but it’s really too cold to shave my legs.

You should have warned us it gets so cold here
And the night can freeze before you set a fire
And our flames go unnoticed, diminished
Faded just as soon as they are fired

I crawled into bed at a decent hour, determined to defeat this latest bout of brutal insomnia. In bed, tucked under two layers of down comforters, head buried in the half dozen pillows, I encountered two obstacles. Neither of which were insomnia related.

Kitten

At first, it was such a happy, cozy scene, her snuggled against my chest, occasionally leaning back to lick me on the eyebrow (I’m assuming by how often she does this that either it’s a sign of affection or that she’s not satisfied with my own eyebrow grooming efforts). And then, in her own kitten fashion, 1 AM hit and it was play time.

Pounce!
Cut it out. Must sleep.
Pounce harder!
Kitten! If you make me move from this warm spot… I swear!

Now, Kitten (isn’t she damn cute?) responds to one command. One. And she does it without fail (okay, for the most part). This is how it works: I say “kiss!” and she jumps up on the bed, in instantaneous purr mode, and puts her head down. And I kiss her little forehead. Simple enough. So, between pounces, I pulled my face out from under the pillows, gave the command, a kiss and settled her back into purr and cuddle mode. Success!

Obstacle two was not met with as much success.

The cold

I could not get warm. The Kitten Furnace did its job, but come on, she’s not that big. My feet were freezing. I’m starting to believe that getting married, just to have someone to warm your cold feet against, is as good of a reason as any (better than some I’ve heard, anyway). Someone legally obligated to keep your feet warm, to make the other half of the bed and to give you a reason to stay in bed on cold mornings.

Insert seductive tiger growl here

H: Would you think I was crazy if…
R: I already think you’re crazy.

He makes a move to put Tea Kettle of Happiness on the wrong burner.

H: For the love of God! Put it on the right burner!!
R: (laughing hysterically) You just turned into the devil from Legend! I swear, your eyes were glowing!
H: Can we pretend that didn’t happen?
R: Hell no! That was sweet. Here, does this make you feel better? (places Tea Kettle on correct burner)
H: *sigh* yes, yes it does.

Roommate leaves the room, and I stealthily move to the stove where I turn the Kettle to face the right direction.

Oh yeah, I’ve got issues.

I may have to divorce Roommate.

I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but either we seek immediate therapy or it’s over.

It’s no secret that I’m… well, nutty about some things. Like the closet. It’s a neurotic, aesthetic thing. I get that.

And I try not to push off my “everything has its place” fanaticism on Roommate, because generally, Roommate (being the very tidy kid that he is) is very good with noticing where there is an existing H System. (He follows the color-coded sponge rule very well.)

But we have come to an impasse. Our first. An irreconcilable difference.

My beautiful kettle, provider of tea-time happiness, sits on the back, right burner. It just DOES. That’s where it belongs.

Well, now Roommate, who used to make his coffee in the nice little coffee maker that I bought him, has found a new, ghetto way to get his morning jolt. And it involves using the Tea Kettle of Happiness.

Today marks morning five that I have come out of my room to find my world turned upside down, Kettle on the front LEFT burner. WHAT? Is he crazy?? Front, left burner?? No, no, no. Everyone knows that’s not where it GOES.

Tea Time is ruined.

And I can’t just say, “Hey, Roommate, could you put the Tea Kettle of Happiness back on the correct burner?” Because, dude, that just makes me look crazy.

We were high school sweethearts.

You know, in the way that only exists today in very small towns. (High school sweethearts, in that sense, seem to have gone out of style.)

I wore his letter jacket; we passed notes, left trinkets in each other’s lockers. I used to turn all the house phones off so my parents wouldn’t wake up when he got home from practice and called to say good night. We had a song.

We met when I was 14. He was a year older. And being the daughter of an over-protective father, I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. House rules. But at 15 ½, the law was bent and we had our first date. Both sets of parents agreed that it wasn’t in our best interest to form any serious ties. So, there were rules. So many rules. And we kept them all. I remember that he couldn’t take me to the winter formal one year. I had to go with another boy.

His mother died when I was 16. And not suddenly. Because of treatments and surgeries and transplants, her death (of a rare blood cancer) dragged out. It held everyone hostage, in a way. It pulled at some strings, tightened others. I remember when they crowned him Homecoming King, his mother standing by him on the windy football field, one arm linked through his, and the other holding down her strawberry-blond wig. And I remember sitting at her funeral, not too many months later, watching him carry her casket away. And I remember thinking that I hoped I never loved anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him cry.

I went away to college when I was 17. We wrote. But over the moths, we wrote less and less frequently and eventually went the way of all high school sweethearts (at least those who leave their small towns). And there I was at 17, in possession of years of letters signed, Always, Chris, and absolutely certain I didn’t want to love anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him leave.

He married when I was twenty-something. I don’t even remember the year. Because, of course, by then, I was completely recovered. Because at 17, we don’t know anything about our own resilience. And at twenty-five, I rarely think about him, except as an entry in my dating resume.

I do keep all of his love letters, though. Mostly because I’ve never gotten another.

They seem to have gone out of style.

We started out as four that night — three guys and me, drinking, dancing, playing, “Would you go home with…” and hypothetically setting each other up with the club’s troglodytes.

It’s not a very nice game, really.

I was throwing back the vodka tonics, begging them to take me onto the dance floor. They did. And then suddenly, we were two. I remember being confused when I was handed my wallet and the other two left. But we kept dancing. I was being flirtatious. A kiss here and there. I wasn’t being coy. Just having fun and not altogether sure I wanted to head in any particular direction. He was the smooth-talking kind, clearly, having already smooth-talked his friends into leaving the bar before I knew what was going on.

I didn’t want to be talked into anything.

“You’re a line a minute, you know.”
“Why do you say that? You’ve been blowing me off since the 4th of July. And I like you! That’s not a line.”
“You don’t know me. How do you know you like me?” Again, I wasn’t being coy. Defensive, for whatever reason — but not coy.
“Well, A, you’re sexy as hell. B, you’re a good dancer…”
“You’d better be able to go all the way to Z.” I laughed.
“C, you snort when you laugh.”
“And that’s likeable?!”
”Yes. It means you’re low maintenance — not too prissy. D, you’re really considerate of your roommate. I like that.”
“Hmmm, alright. You can have that one.”
“E, you can quote Zoolander. F, great kisser. G, you’re amazingly soft.”
“Is that a euphemism for fat?”
“You’re insane. Are you going to argue with me all the way back to your place?”
“You think that’s where you’re going?”

By the time he made it all the way to Z, that’s exactly where we were. I put a movie on; we didn’t watch it. I don’t think I have to tell you to curb your imagination as to what happened. I’m a good girl.

And I’m a cagey girl.

Because when he came by the next afternoon, he got something of a cold shoulder. I knew I was doing it… but defense systems were engaged and I couldn’t help it. See, the worst part is, had you seen this guy’s face, you might have believed he meant that list. Maybe even down to the letter. And I? Well, I remember having to stop myself from calling him by another man’s name.

Seriously, I should come with some sort of warning stapled to my face. (I’ll leave it to you to work out the exact wording.)

The girls came bearing dessert and Jose Cuervo.

I made tacos, strawberry margaritas and ice cream sundaes. We played tipsy Scrabble. (Though, I gave up after round 5, when thanks to the Cuervo, all of the letters became as difficult to place as Q.) We watched Law and Order SVU.

And we curled my hair.

It’s the greatest temptation. There’s not a Barbie-ownin’ girlfriend out there who hasn’t, at one point, wanted to make this stick straight mop into a mass of curls. So my girl came armed with a new ceramic curling iron, and an iron will to make me look less Stephen King’s Carrie, and more Carrie Bradshaw, Season II. She was a success. Even Roommate did a double take.

The new “do” debuts Friday night at Soho.

I know, I know. I had you at Cuervo and lost you at curling iron. And I know that Friday night’s hook-up story is much more interesting, but I haven’t quite figured out which gory details to omit, yet. But if you show up on Friday night, the likelihood that I’ll be blitzed enough to tell the whole, uncensored tale, is very high.

As for tonight, I’m staying in, ruminating, chowing on some homemade chicken fried rice, and about to settle into a hot bath. Bills are paid, the Q1-04 budget squared away, and I intend to start of my new year (which incidentally gets underway tomorrow) residue free.

At 5:30 AM, we discover he is allergic to cats.

At 5:42 AM, I send him home.

***edit***

1:34 PM

The REAL issue is not whether I can find a suitable curse word for the events that transpired but rather, what the hell was I doing bringing him back to my apartment in the FIRST place?!

I’m going to go shower now and find something to kill this hangover. And when I emerge, I hope to have the answer to that.

Oh, hi 2004. Were you supposed to be different? My bad.

Or, how I spent the last twenty-four hours

BosNyp

I brought Ayn Rand along because it’s a long trip and Atlas Shrugged is a long, long read. I fell asleep after 20 pages. When I woke up, face smooshed against the glass, the train was dark. I blinked a couple of times to focus and when I did, I caught the reflection of HeMan, several rows up, staring at my reflection in the glass. (Okay, so maybe more Prince Adam than HeMan, but decidedly quite nordic, blond and brawny. SO VERY Flash Gordon). I did the polite thing, and looked away. You know, to give him a chance to do the same? He didn’t. After a while, it started to make me nervous. And fidgety. Stop. Looking. At. Me. He didn’t, so I looked back as if to ask, “What do you want?” He smiled. After the train ride we exchanged Happy New Years and I ducked into the subway.

NYC for NYE

“It’s so good to see you! I have M&Ms. Peanut and plain. I know who I’m dealing with!”
If you know Ari, you probably understand that all of that came in one breath in the middle of a very big hug. I had some M&Ms (it would have been rude not to!), we got ready and then headed to the party, tottering in too high, too narrow heels, and amusing some fellas on the street with our,
“Sweet Jesus, how does Jessica Simpson do this ALL the time?”
“Too dumb to feel.”
“Ah. Say no more.”
Times Square area, or the festive recreation of 1949 War-torn Europe, was quite the experience. Every intersection down Broadway was another border (complete with half a dozen snarky cops). Us and our Evite passports. Well, really, more like, Us and our Evite passports and powers of flirtation. (Some of New York’s finest really are some of New York’s finest. Yowza.)

As for the party, a few items:
- Sam, wicked sorry for monopolizing your date. And those are some mad sneak attack camera skillz.
- Dahlia, girl, what a pleasure!
- Doug, there’s an unopened bottle of vodka hiding somewhere in your apartment. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
- Anyone who saw me open the bottle of champagne and hit myself in the face with the cork, yeah, it left a bruise, okay?

I know that by the time we left the party, I told someone I was pleasantly tipsy. LIAR. I was rocked. The original Big City GalPal mixes a strong drink! We three gals made it a few blocks (thank you for holding my hand, Ari) for post-party drinks, and I was really in a state. Shoes, booze and tongue all working against one another in a bizarre fashion. I was talking faster than my brain would keep up. And I’m fairly certain I told a story I have never told anyone since I left Dallas. Let’s keep that one under wraps, okay?
Home around what, 4:30? Awake around 2 PM and back at Penn Station at 4 PM. And happily, no hangover in between.

NypBos

Well, that’s where I am writing this. So, let’s talk New Year’s Resolutions. This year’s theme is, Live Deliberately, and my goals are two-fold.

Debt No More, 2004
On June 1st, I intend to be finished with Visa and their interest rate rape. I should be living within my means. Ten thousand dollars in raises in one year and I have debt? That’s ridiculous.

Do something well
I play the piano. I play the guitar (I do a mean version of Smelly Cat). I paint. All only marginally well. You know, party-trick talents. So, starting in two weeks, I’m taking of of my marginally practiced talents to school. Latin Ballroom classes.

Last year’s resolution was to drink more water. Which I totally accomplished. Let’s hope this year is as… successful.

Dear Everyone I Talked To Last Night in my Intoxicated State,

I do not think I have ever run my mouth like that in my life. My sincerest apologies for being that drunk girl. I do come with an off button, I swear.

Love,

H

(I wrote a whole post about New Year’s Eve on the train home this evening. But, I’m tired. Bone tired. So I’ll get to that tomorrow. Love and hugs and stuff.)