Once I stepped into my office yesterday morning, I did not step out again until after 7pm. I didn’t make tea; I didn’t go to the bathroom. Nose to the grindstone for ten hours. Production days are like that. So when I sealed the Fed-Ex box, slapped the label on and gathered my things, I decided to take myself to a movie.

It must be noted that I have never, previous to last night, been to a movie by myself.

It’s not that I’m unable to go anywhere alone. On the contrary. I shop alone. In January I’ll be taking a Latin Ballroom class… alone. It’s simply never occurred to me that there doesn’t need to be a social aspect to movie-going. That, and, well, who’s gonna look over at me and roll their eyes, and pat my arm, when I cry?

(Here’s a tangent, if you’ll allow: I cried at Sixth Sense. Almost the entire movie. Not sobbing or anything ridiculous, mind you, but I was pretty upset for that traumatized little kid. I have an overactive Empathy Gland or something. Someone is scared? I must cry for them. Really happy? In love? Oh, the joy! I must cry happy tears. This is why, if we’ve just met, it’s best to stick to comedies or anything with Julia Roberts or The Rock. No chance of being moved there. Okay, tangent over.)

On the way to the theater, J called. I was half-tempted to say, “See this movie with me!” But I didn’t. I’ve all but cut the J-cord completely, and well, why revert? So, instead, I guided him through his current crisis — curtain buying — and went into the theater alone. I watched Big Fish, sitting between two women (their dates on either side) who cried at exactly the same times I did. I could see, in my peripheral vision, their hands go to their eyes, almost in unison. Synchronized crying. Unbelievable. I didn’t know there were others. We really should form some sort of club.

A few notes on the movie:

1. Jessica Lange was luminous. Absolutely radiant.
2. Someone should really have warned me about the spiders.
3. The line, “To your father there were only ever two women: your mother and everyone else.” sparked some synchronized crying like never was seen before. It was so touching. I mean, I’d feel lucky to get into someone’s top ten list, let alone render the rest of the female population a faceless throng of skirts. No wonder she was so radiant.

It’s a bit gray out today, and if I continue along with that sentiment, well, I just may cry myself into a snotty heap on my office floor. Instead, I will clean my desk and take a lunchtime walk by the river and think about less moving things like, what to make for dinner.

I have company coming.

Dear Diary,

Last night I had a dream about Justin Timberlake. I just know this means we’re meant to be.

Love,

H

PS Only in real life I hope he’s not that skinny and pasty. Or I might have second thoughts.

H: What would you say if I bailed on lunch?
LD: Well, after you bailing on the movie, I’d say you were being cagey. But that’s okay. I can deal with cagey.
H: Ha! Oh, come on. I don’t get cagey until after being the recipient of overt romantic gestures.
LD: Note to self: Put overt romantic gestures on hold.
H: Glad we got that out of the way!
LD: So, where’s the fire this time?
H: Oooh… watch your tone, mister. — Insert explanation of uglifying rash here — It’s all over my face! I can’t go out.
LD: Please. You know I don’t care about that. I’m much more of an ass man.
H: Believe me, it’s there, too.
LD: If this weren’t the Behave Like a Gentleman phase, I’d have something to say to that.

{secret} If I were being honest, which is sorta the theme for days of late, I would admit that I was being cagey. The cagey-ness just happened to be shrouded in really well-timed excuses. {/secret}

Jesus, I hate dating.

I’m ugly!!!

So, we all remember Ari’s adventures in medical care… and the resulting rash. Well, turns out, when future docs ask me if I’m allergic to anything, I get to say,

YES! An entire family of antibiotic!

Oh god. I’m so ugly. And itchy. Nevermind not really breathing that great. It’s the ugly I’m having a hard time dealing with.

The mark of a good make-up used to be that it would almost hide my freckles (wretched things). But what do you do when you make the Ten Lepers look like a Noxema commercial?

Whimper.

I had a dream I got expelled from high school for leaving early, and that my mother was in a half-way house overrun with scorpion-spider things that had tiny little faces like aliens.

Oh yeah, and Michael Bolton was my boyfriend. WAY worse than scorpion spiders with alien faces.

Somebody really should label NyQuil better. Active Ingredient: Shrooms.

When a girlfriend called and said, “I’m feelin’ really low,” I tossed my movie plans out. Movies can wait. Boys can wait.

Pizza was ordered, a trip to the corner store produced a pint of Chubby Hubby and some soda. The kettle was put on to boil. There was no need for a video rental, though. Saturday night has Law and Order back-to-back. And when she came to the door, we hugged and she said, “Thanks. He and I are just not getting along.”

Thanks? Are you kidding? This is why God invented girlfriends.

We didn’t talk about her relationship problem for the simple fact that I’m friends with her boyfriend, too. Oh, sure, we did to some extent. The light stuff. Shake my head at the ways he blunders through their relationship; call him a jackass, but nothing that could cause tension between any of the three of us in the future.

She and Kitten have a rapport (the only other person on the planet that Kitten isn’t terrified of, actually), so at commercial breaks, we had a big cuddle and talked a bit about the Pakistani. I mentioned a few of his more adorable qualities and that he’s not daunted by the fact that I plan to marry Terry Tate, Office Linebacker.

She wasn’t the least bit interested. She wanted to talk about Resident Sports Fanatic.

E: Would you EVER consider dating RSF?
H: I dunno. What makes you ask that??
E: ‘Cause it seems like he wants some of dat.
H: {insert riotous laughter here}
E: I’m serious!
H: Honey, all those silly boys do for a minute.
E: Well no, I think he really likes you — your looks and your personality. You’re someone I’d bring home to meet Mom.
H: He was being nice! I didn’t have Christmas plans. Anyway, it surprises me that you’d ask.
E: Do YOU think he likes you?
H: Okay, fine. Yeah. But I try to pretend I don’t know. I thought I was the only one who sensed…
E: I sense it! So, would you date him?
H: Oh, I don’t know. I don’t exactly know what to do with men anymore.
E: Well, not date then, but… hang out with him?
H: We DO hang out. You must mean, make out with him.
E: No! Hold on… so she staged the rape?

Clearly, Law and Order had resumed. We watched three more hours of who dunnits and then girl time was over. It would have been a sleep-over (I put fresh linens on and everything), but the Fever from Hell picked back up and I was all burning eyes and sniffly nose by midnight. We hugged goodbye at the door and she got her last word in.

E: I think you should hang out with him. And I didn’t say make out!
H: Don’t push it.
E: He’s a really nice guy. Really decent.
H: Go home.
E: Alright! I’m just sayin’! Gotta watch out for my girl. Now, you watch until I get to the car. I don’t wanna get murdered.
H: You got it.

This is why God invented girlfriends. Somebody’s gotta do the watchin’ out.

the proof is in the fire
get touched before it moves away

Today is a good day.

The sun is out, my bedroom windows spilling afternoon light onto the stripped bed. I’m doing laundry. The Dixie Chicks are on in the kitchen, along with a kettle for tea. My fever is down.

I’ve read and reread last night’s delirious entry, tempted to delete it, lest we all really start to worry about my state of mind. But I’m going to leave it.

I’ve realized that nighttime is a funny thing. Apprehensions, like shadows, seem to loom larger when the sun sets. And then shadows melt together and pool into darkness and you can really almost get lost in it, if you’re not careful. But I’m starting to appreciate that for what it is — downtime for defense systems. Like a few glasses of wine, nighttime can produce honest moments, real conversations (with yourself and others) and a bit of mania. It all keeps us human.

Nighttime is hard for me. I’ve been having too many dreams lately, which, when I wake up, keep me from wanting to go back to sleep. There’s one that’s on the repeat cycle. My father sending his children letters explaining his suicide. I hate that one. I wake up wondering if I should call him, to make sure it was just a nightmare. Sometimes I call, and we chat. Sometimes, it’s too late to talk. There are also dreams about events of no consequence, names that mean nothing, faces you can’t place, but that keep you up just the same, in the loneliest of the twenty-four hours.

Anyway, I have decided it’s time to focus and decompress (working under the assumption that the two can be done at the same time). I figure that right now, I need several things. One being to see my family. Another being to stop being so focused on myself. And another to set a goal. I need something to work on, to get up in the morning for, if you will. This coasting along business has gone on long enough. And when I straighten out how to go all about this, I’ll let you know.

But in the meantime… well, it is what it is, my friends. Kettle’s whistling, and I’ve got a movie date to get ready for.

It’s two a.m. and you’re awake.

You were lying there, sleeping, your bare arm across your cheek, a bare leg crooked over the body pillow. You always sleep this way – one foot out of the goose down.

And then, just like that, you’re awake.

You don’t know what woke you. You don’t know what you’d been dreaming. You only know that your heart feels like it doesn’t fit in your chest quite right. It feels… too big. It hurts. And that if there was someone sleeping next to you, you’d shake their shoulder, wake them. Please stay awake with me for a minute, you’d say.

You might not need to wake them at all; you might just hold onto them until your heart went back to being its normal fist-sized dimensions.

But there isn’t, so you don’t. Instead, your mind races. There on the bedside table, next to all those white candles –should you light them?—is your cell phone. Who do you call? Your sister in California. But it’s already past midnight on the West Coast. You need friends in Hawaii. Or is it the same time there? You really should figure out time zones. Europe! It’s morning in Europe. But you don’t know anyone there anymore.

You get dressed and go outside onto the front porch. You would smoke, but your hands were shaking and you put your last cigarette in your mouth backwards. And you lit it. So you can’t smoke. It’s cold and you don’t know what to do with your hands. You sit on them. That keeps them from shaking.

The night feels so enormous that it could swallow you. And you almost wish it would.

You feel like crying. You look up as a car drives down your street, only to find that it dead-ends. The cold air hits the back of your neck where the hood of your sweatshirt has slipped, and you realize you’re sweating. You put your hand to your wet hair, and then to your face, your burning eyes.

So this is delirium.

You go inside, headed toward the medicine cabinet. Something for this fever. There’s vicodin in there. From when you had strep throat. The stuff you didn’t even touch during those weird drug months. You swallow a long, white pill. Then you sit cross-legged in the middle of the big kitchen, feeling a little disoriented. A little lost.

And
so
very
small.

And you let your eyes tear. But mid-cry, you have to laugh. Crying’s like your favorite sport these days. Only it makes you feel unproductive. And crazy.

So you sit at your computer. And you write. More productive. More crazy? They’ll forgive you for being crazy, you think. Isn’t everyone a bit crazy? You decide to write until your thoughts are semi-lucid, until the vicodin is working. After that, you don’t know what you will do. Make tea? Write a letter you won’t send? Whatever it is, you do know that you will not get back in bed. In bed, it feels too lonely and your heart, too big.

Please stay awake with me for a minute?

I am not allowed to watch A Dating Story, A Wedding Story or A Baby Story.

In fact, could I have TLC removed from my cable package, please? That’d be great.

***Addendum***

No Lifetime Movies either.

I should be at work.
I should be actually at my desk, doing productive things.

I’m still in my pajamas.
And I intend to stay in my pajamas.
(Mostly because nothing else fits after two days of holiday feasting.)

I can’t believe I survived The Great Eat of 2003. Two generations of Sicilian women and one Jewish gourmet descended on the kitchen and didn’t let up. There was the antipasto (I ate boars meat sausage. Yes indeed I did), then lasagna, then salad and bread, then lemon chicken, then fruit. Then came the canoli and cheesecake and coffee. I was honestly in a lot of pain by the time the dessert rolled around.

At one point, as Chris was trying to force feed me pastries, I looked to his mother for help.

“I can’t! I’ll be sick! Jackie, tell him!”
She took a long look at my pained face, back at Chris with the canoli (all the way from the best pastry shop in New York City, I was told) and shook her head.
“You have to eat the canoli.”

And I did.

Christmas was really nice. Warm people, warm food, really warm, cozy spot on the couch where I curled up and fell asleep between meal courses. We said grace. We lit Hanukkah candles. We told stories. (I was ever so grateful when Chris said, “Hey guys, remember the time H flooded the apartment building?”) And when my sister called from California, we sang “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” My end sounded a bit froggy, as I had managed to pick up a pretty decent a cold.

But it’s like Krissa said, “Maybe when you said, All I want for Christmas is you, Santa heard FLU. All I want for Christmas is the flu.”

Maybe it’s time for the big guy to retire.

From the office, I went to the florist at Brattle Square. I handed the gruff man my fifty dollars and said, “Something bright and elegant. It’s for the hostess.” I wasn’t sure he heard me, the way he turned away so quickly. I didn’t watch him work; I was lost in orchids and others flowers whose names I have yet to discover. And when the man came back, he handed me a hastily wrapped bouquet that was, for lack of a better word, breathtaking.

“You didn’t think I was listening to you, did ya?”
“You must have been. These are perfect.”
“I always listen.” He said and winked. “You have a happy holiday, honey.”

On the bus, the 2 ½ foot bundle attracted a lot of attention — they practically needed their own seat. The man next to me smiled when he got up to leave.

“Somebody really loves you,” he said, gesturing to the flowers.
“I hope so,” I laughed. “But these aren’t for me.”

At home, I removed the shelves from the refrigerator to accommodate the flowers (I didn’t want to risk them wilting). I shed the workday wear, dropping articles of clothing all the way from my bedroom to the bathroom (roommate was at work, this was perfectly safe), where I washed my face and got ready for a really great Christmas Eve nap. I was back in my room, decked out in the softest pink pajamas known to man, when I heard the door. Up I got, gathering my strewn clothing on the way and when I opened the door (arms laden with tights, mini skirt and bulky sweater) I was surprised to see a flower delivery man. I smiled. This man must have the best job, I thought. Look at me, grinning like a fool and all he has to say is, “I have a delivery for H.”

“That’s me!” I said.

A girl who likes to savor surprises might have ventured a guess as to the sender before tearing open the card. Clearly, that girl is not me. And maybe I already knew who sent them. Written on the card, almost a poem, the fitting message read:

No Swiss Army Knife
But nonetheless
Happy Holidays

And I smiled. Sometimes, you don’t need a Swiss Army Knife. Sometimes, all you need is to be heard.

Merry Christmas.

And thank you for listening.

you know when you’ve found it
there’s something i’ve learned
’cause you feel it when they take it away

This Christmas will not find me pajama clad, drinking my father’s cocoa, one of seven around the ceramic tiled dining room table. It will not find yet another tiny Swiss Army knife in my stocking. There will be no stocking. My sister and I will not sing, “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” And I won’t lie under the tree squinting at the lights, blurry miniature stars of Bethlehem, until I fall asleep.

I will call four states and five cities and say “Merry Christmas. I love you” to the ones I used to play “zap tag” with, our feet in slippered pajamas in Grandma’s den on Christmas Eve. I will wake up and wish, in a sort of vacant way, that we were all piling into the car to see our traditional Christmas Day movie. And I will wish I could be there for our rather untraditional Mexican Food Christmas dinner.

I may cry.

But most likely not, as I’m still all about pretending that I understand this is all just part of divorce. That we’re transitioning.

I will spend the holiday with the boys across the street, in the home of a renowned gourmet cook, eating, drinking, laughing. Being part of someone else’s tradition.

I do know that there will be more Christmases and mended fences and other opportunities to make new traditions, while holding tight to the old ones. That I am blessed. That distance and separation do not diminish love.

And this is my comfort and joy.

I remember december
and I wanna hear what you have to say about me

Inadvertently, I ended my musical fast this afternoon when my boss gave me an early Christmas gift. A Damien Rice CD.

I hadn’t really heard much of him, except what she’d told me. I don’t listen to the radio. And I don’t watch music videos; for some reason, they make me uncomfortable. Maybe if I thought about it, I could tell you why. And if I wanted to think about it, I could probably place where I had heard this voice before. And why it feels so haunting, like a blurry dream, or a déjà vu, or a smell on the street that makes you feel displaced and lonely.

If I wanted to think about it, I could probably tell you why beautiful music, in general, moves me so strongly. How it fills me up and hollows me out, all in one contradictory pulse of valves and heartbeat. Maybe I will take the time to think about this. And while I’m thinking, I’ll tell you a little more about me.

Early in life, a series of ear infections robbed me of my hearing. It was, thankfully (and obviously), treatable.

Most of my friends know this, though not in any detail.

My mother doesn’t really talk about those times; she will simply say they were very difficult. A firefighter, my father had to leave Forrest Service because it required him to be away too often. He took a job as a butcher’s apprentice. The construction of their first home was not finished on schedule, and soon one summer, their options became as limited as their income.

We lived in a tent.

I can only imagine most of this, because I was too young to remember anything with any sort of clarity. My earliest memories are only white and cold. A white pinafore embroidered with a turtle, the doctor’s office in a white brick building, his cold hands, his white clothes, and the cold metal of instruments and exam tables.

And then I remember Grieg. It’s my first memory of music, listening to The Hall of the Mountain King. Sitting on my parents’ California King, Saturday morning sunlight on the comforter and begging my mother to get up and move the needle of the record player back. I wanted to hear the drums again.

After several years of speech therapy, a now-slight lisp — which I hesitate to point out for fear you’ll listen for it — and spider-webbed scars on my eardrums are really the only reminders of that part of my life. And even if I fail to draw any clear parallel between being caught breathless by a contemporary artist like Damien Rice, and my first real sensation of music from a thundering classical suite, I’m willing to bet there is one.

Music moves me and touches me in the same way people tend to do. And often at the same time. The people and the music get stuck in your head so you will remember.

And I remember.

I’ve worked enough rooms at enough parties to be able to tell you who will end up talking to whom.

And so I was not surprised when after the acceptable amount of time, we ended up elbow to elbow, him talking just loudly enough so I’d hear his conversation. Did I want to join in? He was unquestionably one of the better looking men at the party. I could venture to guess he’s probably one of the better looking men at most parties.

I’d seen him come in. You don’t miss entrances like his. Mmmm. Italian, I thought.

From that point, our crowd maneuvering became as strategic as his two-day stubble (oh-so-very sexy) and Kenneth Coles or my little black dress and toussled hair. So, maneuvering done, there we were, elbow to elbow and I felt his attention shift. He asked if he could refill my wine, and I looked at him thinking, Our children would have the finest heads of hair ever. EVER. when it suddenly occurred to me that

this is the way I always work a room. And this is the way I always ended up with the most vain, selfish, ridiculously self absorbed man breaking my heart. And I am surprised every single time!

So I thanked, but no-thanked him, and made my way across the room to chat with a very nice Pakistani who introduced me to his fiancee. And then his brother. With whom I’m having lunch on Tuesday.

We’re going out for Italian.

No, just kidding. About the Italian food bit. But I do have to ask:

Is it fair to accept a date with someone when you know very well that you are in perhaps the most unglued state you have ever been? Poor unsuspecting victim. I mean, I could spontaneously burst into tears at any moment. It really doesn’t take much. Pass the water? Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can do this…

Welcome to the breakdown lane.

I am so completely at odds with myself right now that if I could crawl out of my own skin and donate it to Goodwill, I would.

And this place, this forum, this blog is of so little comfort these days that calling it a farce would be putting it mildly. It’s a soft-shoe routine and it infuriates me. I infuriate me. I haven’t written anything ‘true’ in too long. I’ve watered it all down, made it fit for human consumption and censored myself in a place that was built for exactly the opposite purpose.

Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?

And why?

Site stats!

I know who reads this: 500 more people a day than when I started it. And of those 500, I’m pretty sure there are at least a few of you who don’t want to know the whole truth. Nor do I want you to! You see, little by little, as my anonymity has faded (for better or worse) and good friends, family, not-so-good friends, love interests and coworkers have started reading, I, in turn, started tidying things up. If I put it all out there, told you exactly what I was thinking, I can only imagine the backlash!

There’d be some who would want take pity, take credit, or take me to therapy.

Please don’t be tempted.

I mean, what if I told you who I wrote those letters to? The answer would just throw you ALL for a loop. And on a completely separate note, what if I told you that everything you’re saying about me at parties is true? I mean, would you be comfortable with the truth if the truth was,

Yes, I had an affair with the Fireman. I did. And I’m actually very sorry for being selfish and for hurting people’s feelings, but it’s just a little too late for that, isn’t it?

I’m disappointed with myself. I’m dissatisfied. And I’m uncomfortable.

What if I told you I stopped listening to music that had any meaning? That I want to turn every single CD I own into a fucking coaster? To stop watching anything but bad reality TV. To stop buying good books. All just so I can avoid feeling.

Because I feel wrong all the time.

What if I told you that today at work they gave me another raise and a bonus and that only makes me want to go home and cry in the shower?

I feel ungrateful. I feel ungraceful. And I feel lost.

My instinct makes me want to run home to my family. But I can’t. Because they aren’t there anymore. I want to be surrounded by my friends. I want to be left alone. I want J to not be the only person who calls my cell phone. I want to not want what I cannot have. I want all the answers right now.

And I want to stop waking up every single morning, terrified that this is all there is.

What if I told you that?

Don’t be so quick to walk away
Dance with me
I wanna rock your body
Please stay
Dance with me

I was rockin it to Justin Timberlake on the way to work this morning, ever so slightly hungover and I was thinking, Mmmm. Justin. And then I thought, You know, I don’t really want Justin. Too skinny, too…young. Besides, who wants to deal with his entourage??

I just want to dance with Justin.

It was that way with J’s roommate, B. You all remember B. We used to flirt, cajole and top it off with an amusing amount of silly innuendo — all the while being very aware that’s all there was to it.

But when you got us on the dance floor…

Fewer dance partners have been so in sync (obvious Justin Timberlake reference not intentional) or so totally uninhibited. For the very reason that dance floor antics were just that, there was no reason to be inhibited. Except for J, who, not nearly as good of a dancer as B, had a jealous streak a mile wide. Come to think of it, it was more a “Hey! You’re not paying attention to me!” streak a mile wide. I remember him actually prying B’s fingers off my hipbone with the hand that wasn’t gripping his Sapphire and tonic. Pathetic.

B called about ten minutes ago from somewhere in Florida where he’s hiding out these days, and announced he’ll be in town next week. When will I see you? I asked. Tuesday, he said. I’m in town for two whole weeks. Can we go dancing? I think we should. Nice.

Even better than Justin Timberlake.

No entourage to deal with.

Eddie: You’re coming out with us tonight.
H: No. I look like trash. Home is where I belong tonight.
Eddie: Here. (ties ribbon around my neck) All prettied up. Come on.

{enter Joel}

Joel: You look like Daisy Duke with that thing on.
H: You hear that? Joel says I look like Daisy Duke. I can’t go.
Eddie: Yes, you can. And it’s not the ribbon that makes her look like Daisy Duke. Yee-haw!
H: Eddie, you’re a sexual harrassment lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Eddie: But you’re coming, aren’t you?
H: Yeah. Yeah, I am.

She is beautiful in the way that most women will never be. Effortless. She’s the kind of beauty you’d love to hate, if it weren’t for the fact that she is also tremendously good spirited.

We met when we were fourteen. We passed notes in the halls each day for nearly three years. And I kept every single one. They live at my mother’s house in a box marked “fragile.” We skinny-dipped in her pool. We caught her parents skinny-dipping in her pool. We got our first speeding tickets together.

Check that. Mine was a warning.

She was a gymnast, a diver and “Class Flirt.” She taught me how to do a front handspring, a back pike and be cavalier. She was the beauty; I was the brains. And we were envious of each other.

We continued on that way through college. We shared a room; we shared a closet. I cooked, she cleaned and we split the grocery bill. Our best talks took place in the bathroom where I would sit in the tub, the curtain drawn, and she’d sit on the bathmat or the toilet seat painting her toenails. She would brush my hair while we watched Must See TV. We’d leave Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and notes in each other’s backpacks that said things like,

“You know why we’re friends? Because we both hate the same people.”
“I love your guts out.”
“If you don’t wash my blue Old Navy tank top by tomorrow, bad things will happen.”

I kept those notes, too.

In ten years, we fought three times.

When she married, I was told to “wear whatever makes you feel pretty. I’m assuming it will be black.” I flew across the country, stood in her receiving line wearing black satin, and cried when I sent her, and her new best friend, off on their honeymoon.

Dear Boo,

Fezzer

Whenever my friend, Eddie, meets a new girl, he sucks in his stomach. Why is it that I’ve never quite figured out how to suck in my thighs?

I was living in Spain for two months, finishing up my theseis, when Chris left me. For my sister.

Isn’t that a great story?

The man next to me in the elevator this morning reeked of the same trendy cologne and I giggled and grabbed my friend’s arm. Have I ever told you about the Surfer? I had not. So over cut-rate Au Bon Pain pastries, I told her the story I’m telling you now. Only, here I started with the punchline. You know, to get the drama over with.

We met at a hot spring — the kind you hike into in the dead of night, armed with flashlights and skimpy bathing suits. Or less. Moonlight is relatively gentle on flawed bodies. Both recently out of rather serious relationships (Mine, 3 years. His, nine months), we had one of those instant attractions. I have since realized that attractions of that nature are not only the most dynamic, but also the most precarious.

We had a whirlwind romance — the kind you fall into at the least convenient time, armed with… nothing. I was to be leaving the country soon for a short bit to tie up some loose ends and learn how to argue in my third language so I could defend my thesis. But for a month or so, we missed classes napping on the lawn in front of the campus library, stayed out all night to watch a meteor shower, and played connect-the-dots on each other’s sunkissed shoulders by the pool on lazy afternoons. He took me to see the same movie three times because I loved it. He bought me the soundtrack and we danced to it in the rain, his car doors open and the stereo turned all the way up. We waltzed in the rain. Sufer and ballroom dancer. I remember my Clinique TenderHeart lipstick stained his collar. Ah, the irony.

Late in May, he took me to the airport. He handed me his Abercrombie baseball cap and told me to wear it and remember not to fall for any sweet-talking Spanish men. And three weeks later, wrote to say he’d been spending a lot of time with my sister and, yadda yadda. I cried over chocolate and churros with the only other American in the plaza that morning — a history teacher from Saint Louis. Then I mended my wounded ego with Arturo, a political activist for Spain’s Communist party I met at the Rastro. Arturo turned out to be something of a stalker. But that’s a story for another day.

Chris is married now. And not to my sister.

The end.

Dear H,

There are times when words fail to convey depth of feelings, and last evening provides a prime example. The evening was delightful, memorable, and emotional – for me, obviously, for my wife, expectedly, and for all of those who spoke with me as events of the evening began to be completed. Thanks to you for making this happen. It was better than I had hoped, and much less frightful than I had feared!

Warm Regards,

The Retiree

These things are true:

I have never liked asking for permission.
I have never really learned to ask for help.
I’m not argumentative, though I hate being wrong.
I don’t feel entitled to anything, generally, unless I have worked very hard for it. And then I will never understand, no matter how many ways you explain it, why I was not successful.
My pride gets hurt more easily than my feelings (though both much more easily than I will let on).

This little inventory got me to thinking. Ah, the depth of thought one gets when on over-the-counter medication. Why am I wired the way I am wired? How much of it needs to be reworked and how much of it do I just accept as being human frailty?

I don’t know.

I do know that my parents worked very hard to raise independent daughters. Growing up, my mother had two sayings – two very big lessons that she wanted me to learn.

There is a difference between need and want. We will give you everything you need.
When I was five, she bought me tap shoes. When I was seven, a piano. And when I was eight, she strapped half my body weight on my shoulders and took me on my first backpacking trip. She taught me to waltz, cha-cha and jitterbug by light of a campfire. She was my soccer coach, my Brownie Scout leader. I was given theater lessons, art supplies and a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. When I was twenty-three, she bought me a computer so that I could write a novel. To my mother, these were necessities.
Want it? Work for it.
She did not buy me the jean jacket I wanted in the 5th grade, an expensive prom dress or spring break trips. She did not pay for my college education. If these things were important to me, I would work for them. And I did.

My father, in turn, wanted me to learn self reliance, self respect and self acceptance. When I was 16, I did not get a car. Instead, my father gave me a set of keys to the family car (The Beast) and a series of lessons. Change a tire in freeway traffic, flush a radiator, and splice a ruptured hose. He taught me to work hard. “Don’t do a half-assed job, Kiddo”. He taught me to respect nature. He let me be a dreamer. He taught me justice, pride and independence. He told me I could do absolutely anything. And he tried to teach me not to be afraid of failure. Dear Dad, haven’t quite got that one. Can we go over it one more time?

I suppose the point of all this is that I had some damn fine nurturing during my growing up years, but I didn’t quite learn everything I was supposed to. I’m just awfully glad that there’s still time to sort out what I dislike about myself. That this isn’t a one-shot deal. That as long as I am reasonable enough to see my weaknesses, there’s still time to fix them.

And that maybe I should lay off the cold meds.

The Retirement Party, it turns out, will have to go down as one of the more touching experiences I have ever had with coworkers.

The details worked out perfectly. The meal was gorgeous, the head table filled with surprise guests and the wine was exactly right. But had they held the event in a barn with sack lunches, it honestly wouldn’t have taken away from the sentiment one bit.

I cried twice.

(Never mind that lately I cry at the least provocation, but it was all very moving.)

Did I mention that also while cracked out on DayQuil this morning, I shut my hand in the door and fell down my front steps?

Yeah. I did. There goes my second career as a hand model.

I need a new song in my head!!!!

My officemate and I used to play a game. It was called

Guess Which Really Annoying Song is in My Head and Then I’ll Sing it for You.

But, wonderful officemate quit a few months ago and today, I have the entire soundtrack to Gigi stuck in my head and no one to torture with it.

Gigi??

I mean, come on! I know it could be worse. I could be stuck with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers or The Music Man. But still, I woke up so sick that I’m screaming for a mercy killing, I have a million things to do for the Retirement part from Hell tonight and I can’t get “Thank heaven for little girls….” out of my DayQuil-filled head long enough to complete even the simplest tasks.

Fucking Gigi.

“without them what would little boys do…..”