Seeing those pictures of an old, tired, sad Saddam Hussein on CNN just makes me feel bad.

This is yet more proof that I’d make a terrible world leader. I’d probably get someone to run him a hot bath and then send him home after he promised to be nice. And I’d totally believe him. Not only would I totally believe him, but I’d be heartbroken when, even after a nice hot bath and a promise to be nice, he turned out to be a really bad, bad man.

“What?” I’d say. “How did this happen?” And if you care for my feelings at all, you’ll pretend that there’s no way I could have seen it coming.

I just want to buy the world a Coke.

Is that so wrong?

It wasn’t even morning anymore when I dragged myself out of bed. Which, unless accompanying a brutal hangover is totally out of character. But for some reason, I just didn’t feel like rising and shining.

I’m bone tired.

Another party tonight (two, actually), the Retirment Party from Hell on Monday and there’s a desperate need to clean my bedroom, do the dishes, go grocery shopping, return some red stilettos and do laundry.

I’m showered and fed and contemplating crawling back under my down comforters.

I think this requires an intervention.

There’s beer spilled down the back of my dress, and the red rose in my hair is beyond wilted. And it’s made of silk.

Bare shoulders and the fact that I can swing, fox trot and charleston got me passed from older male coworker to older male coworker all night long. And I didn’t mind one bit. This girl simply can’t get enough twirling.

VKHU: Is this what you wore to New York?
H: No… it wasn’t that sort of party. Why?
VKHU: You look hot.
H: Jay, will you come home with me and live on my coffee table?

After we shut down the reception hall, the younger set hit the dance club and it was time to shake it like a polaroid. My boss got trashed and announced I should be dating the Accountant who, of course, happened to be sitting right there. God, was she drunk.

But then I thought, I think we did that once. And in fact we did. We saw Miss Congeniatlity and both fell asleep. We shared his sweatshirt on the way out to the car, like a Double Stuffed Oreo. But it seems so long ago it possibly could never have happened at all.

After the club, when our feet were burning from dancing, and I smelled of someone else’s beer, we piled into the Accountant’s car and he took us all home. As it often does with those who’ve had too much to drink and spent too much time together, the conversation turned to sex.

“God, it’s been too long,” said Gay Boyfriend.
“Three and a half months,” my boss said.
“July 26th,” I said. “I think that beats your three and a half months.”
“But I live with my boyfriend!”

And she won that game by a long shot. Poor thing.

By way of information: I didn’t wear the stilettos. Turns out, they just weren’t me. Maybe in black, but I’m just not a red shoe kinda gal. And I also played the sober hand all night. Turns out, drinking can impair your judgment. Who knew? And really, I need all the help I can get.

Red stilettos.

I just bought four-inch red stilettos.

I can’t be held responsible. A beautiful gay man talked me into it.

My work boyfriend stopped by, snatched me up for lunch of crab cakes and heart-to-heart and then off we went for accessories for our holiday party garb. He chastised my dependence on black footwear and here I am, in possession of a pair of four-inch red stilettos and the promise that we’re headed out on the town tonight.

Where we will undoubtedly hit on the same men.

Yesterday, Roommate found out he’d landed quite the dreamy job as head athletic trainer. I’m so proud. And quite relieved that he will no longer be traveling on weekends and I don’t have to sleep alone in the house. But this is about him, right? So, last night, I picked up some cheap champagne, made some quick invites and filled up my kitchen with friends for a spur-o-the-moment toast to the Roommate.

And even though I myself didn’t have anything to drink, I woke up feeling dehydrated and head-achey. I looked at the party dress hanging on the back of my door and my mind went through all the little excuses I could come up with to miss the company party. If only I didn’t have to Vanna White the whole affair. I’d say it was MC-ing, but really, it’s not about what I have to say. It’s about prancing around in a little dress, smiling and getting everyone to pose for See-How-Much-I-Love-My-Coworker pictures. Which is fine.

My dress is killer and lord knows I do love prancing. And parties.

And lasagna.

Yeah, you heard me. I’ve been under a self-induced lasagna craving for nearly 24 hours and if that sucker doesn’t let up, the minute that party dress hits the floor tonight, it’s go time. I’m starving.

I saw it in the window one morning and stopped walking.

I was not shopping for furniture at the time, especially not bedroom furniture. It wasn’t in the budget—not in the plan at all. But there it was, this chair. This intriguing, modern chair with curved blond wood and a mossy green wedged seat.

“Nifty,” I thought, and continued on to work.

But then there it was the next day. And the next. It couldn’t help being there in the window of that designer furniture store, and I couldn’t help but see it as I came and went from the office each day. Sometimes at lunch, I’d stop at the glass pane with a friend and ask, “What do you think about that chair?” But I never went in. I didn’t want to sit in it, to want to take it home, nor to see how much it cost. The price tags on furniture can be heart-stopping, and designer furniture often requires you promise your first-born child in return.

“It’s probably terribly uncomfortable and impractical,” I told myself

Curiosity, however, got the best of me one afternoon. I went in to the designer furniture store. I touched the curved blond wood and sat on the ergonomically correct, mossy green seat. And in a moment of Goldilocks serendipity, I found that it was indeed a very comfortable chair. I wanted it. I wanted to take it home and see it next to my bed, in the corner where the light is good for reading. I’d have to move things around, of course, but why not! For a chair like that, I could move furniture.

Though certainly not a product of a charmed life, I’d never wanted anything and not been able to have it. Not anything I really wanted badly enough. If it was of any great import, I’d work as hard as it took to get it. This chair, I thought, should be no exception.

So I saved.

Yes, a chair of that price was a silly investment and certainly impractical for someone in my position. But suddenly, I liked the idea of being a bit impractical and even began to feel quite comfortable with this newfound whimsy of mine.

“Look at me being whimsical,” I wanted to shout.

Perhaps I even started to see the price as being more of an attraction than a deterrent. It was a motivation. Thus, saving for the cost of the chair didn’t take an extraordinary amount of time. I’m awfully good at focusing my energy. Eye on the prize – that sort of thing. So one morning a month or so later, with my nest egg and a bit of hope, I went to see about the chair.

And it was not there.

I stood there for a moment, stunned. Why hadn’t noticed it was no longer in the window? How long had it been gone? Suddenly, I was desirous to slink away, to hide my nest egg, my vain offering, to hope no one had actually seen me being whimsical. And I left the store, glad that the shopkeeper didn’t know I’d gone so far as to rearrange furniture.

I thought about whatever living room it might be sitting in. It’s not helpful to indulge in such thoughts. But I did. And the nest egg seemed pithy then, and likely to be squandered on many smaller, trite items of fancy. But I tucked it away.

Then I walked back home to move my bed back into the corner where the light is good for reading.

I’m wearin’ the city streets on my shoes
My heart on my sleeve
Got a million reasons to come home to you
And no way to leave

By the time I realized that the Amtrak website was broken, it had sucked away the last three hundred dollars from my debit card. No cash. No ticket. I’d stopped taking my credit card to New York – better to be without than to have someone steal it at a bar on 14th Street and spend $8K on expensive watches on 5th Avenue. There are some lessons I learn the first time.

With one battery bar left on my cell phone, I called J.

J: Sister Sledge! What are you doing? You still in New York?
H: Yes. That’s why I’m calling. I need your help.
J: Anything.

I explained the situation. He tried the website, getting the same results.

H: Okay, can we try a bus?
J: Bus? No way. We know what happened the last time you took a bus. I’ll get you on a flight if I have to.
H: Can’t afford that. I’ll take a bus. I just want to come home, J.
J: I have a platinum card here that says differently. But let me call you back.

I hung up the phone and had a five-minute pity party. I’d have sent invitations, but it was very last minute. You understand.

J: Okay. Here’s your confirmation number. Your train is at 3:30.
H: You’re my hero! You need a gold star.
J: I’m putting one of my cheek now. Hey, you okay? It’s not like you to need rescuing. I’d make a joke about pigs flying or hell freezing, but doesn’t seem like the time.
H: No. Yes. Just wobbly and hung over. I’ll be fine.
J: I don’t believe you, but I’m not gonna push it. I’ll see you tomorrow night to go over the press kit and I’ll bring something very high in chocolate.
H: You’re the best. Thanks again for rescuing me.
J: Girl, thanks for lettin’ me.

I remember being very sick as a little girl, and my father sitting on the bed next to me, rubbing my back. And I remember crying and saying, “It’s just not fair.”

“Kiddo,” he said. “Life isn’t fair.”

I really think someone should have fixed that by now.

I’ve been at the office since well before 7AM straightening out details for the Retirement Party from Hell.

I think the caterer is a little bit (read: a whole lot) frustrated with me. I suppose I can’t really blame her. I mean, I will admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in regards to flower arrangements, wine, etc. I did authorize an open bar though, since the latest request is that I actually be in attendance at this thing. Which means partying on a work night with 50 people over the age of 50, in a dress and heels. An open bar was the only consolation. Wait til they get the bill!

As snarky as I’ve been about this party, I’m actually very nervous about messing it up. You know, the kind of nervous that has your stomach all twisted up because you know how much it means to someone that it goes well? My own parties are a breeze compared to this. All I have to do is keep glasses filled and Rocco from leaving dirty toothpaste messages on my bathroom mirror. And when party-goers drag their tired asses home after daybreak (and chocolate chip waffles), I know I’ve done a bang-up job.

But this?

Have I chosen the right wine? Are the invitations printed on sustainable, acid-free paper? Did the courtesy invites arrive in the appropriate window of time? Has parking been arranged for all the guests? Do the guests with hearing problems have a seat at the head table? {insert exploding head here} I think I have personally exceeded the bandwidth for Emily Post Online daily for the last month.

That’s what the Chairman calls me now, by the way. Emily Post. Good to know I’ve made a name for myself in this industry. Emily Frickin’ Post.

Better than Leona Helmsley, though, right?

As seemed to already have Karma nipping at my tush, decided to play it honest with Higher Up in charge of current deadline. Just so happened to be Very Kind member of inner circle and so one, did not fear any vengeful wrath and two, would have hated lying to him. And, as it turned out, the truth got me far better results.

VKHU: If we send the revised scope by Wednesday… H, can I get you the changes tomorrow afternoon?
H: I’m sorry, but I really can only stay until noon tomorrow. My train is at 3.
VKHU: Why? Where are you off to?
H: New York.
VKHU: New York?
H: Yeah… for a party.
VKHU: Oh, well… (long dramatic, are-you-going-to-get-mad pause) The big question is… what are you going to wear?

Praise be! It was about time they made a gay man a Higher Up!

And he is so very right. What am I going to wear? Shirking laundry duty for extended periods of time does seem to make that an issue. As does work, train travel, weather, comfort and such. Am tempted to wear pjs and sneakers for the train. If only I could do that Wonderwoman thing and change with lightning speed and minimal baggage. And have a gold lasso.

Man, that would be something.

The Evil Ones have, at the last minute, decided to visit our Las Vegas office. Ordinarily, that shouldn’t mean much.

But say you had, over a month ago, requested two days off this week. And you go on your merry way, making plans under the assumption that all was as scheduled. But then, say the Evil Ones go to Vegas and tell you (not ask you — that would be too much!) that you are to remain in the office as the department can’t be vacant.

Thus, I’m presented with several options.

A) Go postal. I have a rubber-band gun under my desk. I’m a nasty shot, too.
B) Stay. Sit at my desk for two days and fume, taking breaks only to go to the annex across the street to throw darts at blown-up pictures of the Evil Ones.
C) Come to work tomorrow, as planned. But sometime in the afternoon develop a terrible, hacking cough and fever (I think I feel a tickle in my throat already) and book it to the train station.
D) Take Friday’s paycheck and go to Puerto Rico for a week.

Am inclined to go with C and fantasize about D. But then again, it would be really sweet to pull out that rubber-band gun

*** update ***

Dear Karma,

So, I totally get your job in the Universe and everything. I really do. But aren’t you supposed to wait until I tell actually tell the lie to make me sick? Puking in the ladies’ room at work is so undignified.

Regards,

H

I am a womanish girl
I’ve got big hips
I’m a little insecure
I tell you things straight most of the time
Then again, it’s only most of the time

Lying in the tub, my hair fanned out in the water around me, one leg over the edge of the tub and the other propped up on the faucet, I start taking inventory. The long, pink tipped toes of my right foot still show damage from this summer’s rafting accident (one will never quite be straight), the calloused pads of my feet from wearing heels on the walk to work. I prop myself up on my elbows, sink my feet into the water and think about buying a beauty stone. A girl should have soft feet.

I fixate on my stomach, a curved dome, the silver glint of my navel ring obscured under the water, the three small appendix scars on my white skin. I pinch an inch and shrug, lying back down in the water. Then I lift and re-examine my legs – my calves, the curve of my thigh. I notice they, too are thicker than they used to be. And I remember the way they looked just last year at this time, my stomach taught and my hip bones jutting out just a bit.

I was thin. I miss that a little. But it was all I thought about. And I don’t miss that one bit. My acceptance of myself was measured on the bathroom scale, counted in calories and washed down with ephedrine/caffeine cocktails. It was something of an obsession.

I sit up, watching the slight fold of my stomach and step out of the tub. Reaching for a towel, I have to smile. There’s no scale in my bathroom anymore.

I don’t miss it.

(lyrics by leah siegel)

Being loved is:

Waking up to find that Resident Sports Fanatic has shoveled your driveway, sidewalk, and front porch.

And he won’t take credit for it.

I suppose I could have braved the weather and trudged through the fifteen inches of snow to get out of the house today, but there were just too many reasons to stay in.

Manicure, pedicure, facial, two hour bath and spending the day lounging about in yoga pants were only made better by the TV Gods showing Dirty Dancing this afternoon.

I did shovel sidewalks with Roommate and also managed to start a small but v. terrifying grease fire in the kitchen (took at least an hour for my hands to stop shaking). But aside from that, I have to say, it’s been a v. nearly perfect snowed-in day.

You should come over. I’ll make brownies.

I’m drunk.

Went out with work friends… somewhow, whiskey was involved. I’ve never even had whiskey before. But when one of your ex-boyfriends is at the table, and there’s only three of you, and one is making jokes about someone’s lack o’ cleavage… and that someone is you….

You tend to avoid making any sort of eye contact.

Thank god for Indie Rock Boy, who saved the day in one form or another several times.

Sarah B was right on when she said, now is the time i should, “get in pink pjs, snuggle with kitten, get in bed, listen to nice snuggly music, and enjoy your whiskey sleep!”

And off I go to do just that.

Love and hugs and stuff.

Holy cow!

I got nominated for a blog award!! Best Female Authored Blog. Vote here!

We can still be friends if you don’t vote for me, but it’ll be tough.

This morning, one of the Monkey Firm’s Vice Presidents stopped me in the hallway and pulled me into a conference room.

VP: Are you okay? You look like you’re about to cry.
H: I dunno. I might.
VP: I’m a little worried that if things don’t change soon, you’ll leave.
H: I don’t know if I can keep it up. That woman is a roadblock, Chris. I can’t get anything done. I’m just so frustrated all the time. I used to be so good at my job!
VP: I know. I had hoped that this new management move would open up opportunities that I think you really deserved. When you told me what was going on, I listend, but I didn’t get it until this morning when I had a meeting with her myself. And I just want you to know I talked to {insert name of Director of Ops here} about your situation.
H: What?! But…
VP: Listen, you might not want to rock the boat, but I don’t want you to leave. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re about to.

Two hours later, Very Kind Higher Up called and asked me to stop by his office.

VKHU: I wanted to talk to you, H. I noticed you haven’t really been yourself for the last while.
H: I’m sorry – I’m just a little bit tired. Don’t worry, though, I’m staying tonight to get those layouts done. If I get them plotted now…
VKHU: Hold on! This has never been an issue of your work ethic! You have to know how much I appreciate everything, and I know we’re treading on thin ice with you. I just have to ask you to be patient while things change and settle after this flux. It will get better, I promise.

After leaving work, J came to my office to pick up the press kit. Without meaning to be, I was very curt with him.

J: I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I have to tell ya, this person you are being right now is not you. You’ve always been this presence to me. A… light. I dunno, maybe I can’t articulate it very well. And I know that I never let you know just how really amazing you are…but I felt like you glowed in a way, like you had this light inside that made everything else better. And right now, it’s missing. I’m not saying you’ve lost it, but it’s missing. This workaholic thing – what are you doing? You’re a free spirit, not some office schmoe. It’s closing you off.

So I heard wait, wait, and get the hell out! Honestly, I don’t know what to do. But I do know one thing for certain.

I want my light back.

I didn’t even know I’d lost it. But I want it back.

I love today.

I woke up in such a good mood, despite less than 3 1/2 hours sleep. Insomnia, it turns out, is not such a bad thing when one spends those sleepless hours talking to the incomparable Sarah B. I’m fairly convinced that they don’t make ‘em cooler than that girl. When she sends me a picture of myself with a lemon wedge in front of my teeth and tells me I’m photogenic, I wanna call her a liar, but dude, some lies are totally acceptable.

So, up I got early, had time for a leisurely bath, and dressed in a rediscovered pair of asstastic pants. Did my hair AND make-up while shakin’ it to Justin Timberlake. And it was all in excitement that tonight was date night with Stella. By the way, I think everyone should have a galpal named Stella, if only to stand across the street and yell, “Stella!” Works better in the rain, too.

Turns out, Stella’s work is sending her to Calgary this afternoon. Bummer. But as here is no way these pants are going to waste, consider this an invitation. Meet me downtown at 7.

Did I tell you I’m quitting my job? Yes, that makes me giddy, too. It’s not in the immediate future, though. The plan is to save up a few month’s salary and then bail, hopefully with my sanity in tact. I actually decided two days ago, dropping the bomb on my dinner companion Monday night. “I’m quitting my job” came out of my mouth before even checking with my brain, but that didn’t make it any less true. Where to go from here? Well, that’s the next big adventure, now isn’t it?

I’ve had the strangest night.

J called me at work today to ask if I would do a press kit for the band. By Friday. You know, the Friday that is in less than two days?

Anyway, after a trip to Brazilian wax hell, I decided to torture myself even further by spending the evening at band practice, taking photos with the boys. I had forgotten how much fun they were. And I had also forgotten how hearing My Song makes me feel. In short, it made me feel like taking J’s drumsticks and…well, you get the picture. What was I thinking with that kid? I played such the fool. I mean, okay, let’s level. I’m tough, smart, well educated and, in the right lighting, fairly foxy (did I leave anything out?). And I let THAT guy make me feel like a big fat nothing?! Live and learn, my friends.

Anyway, the highlight of the evening was J’s confession that he is falling for some girl and that he’s scared shitless. In what was probably one of the more honest conversations I’ve had in a long time, he actually asked me if he deserved to have it blow up in his face.

J: Do you think I’ve made up for how bad I was to you?
H: Well…
J: That means no.
H: No, that means that I don’t think you can do anything to change what happened. Are you going to treat her better?
J: Yes. Absolutely.
H: Then you’ll have made up for it.
J: You don’t think after what I did to you, that….
H: Are you asking me if I wish bad things for you? That’s horrible. If anyone should, yeah, it should be me and I don’t. So I don’t think Karma does either.
J: I’m a bit scared.
H: Yeah, well, love is scary. None of us has been lucky in love or we would be married. Right? Maybe this is your chance to do it right.
J: I really screwed up with you. And I really do love you. You know that, right?
H: Yeah, but maybe you should have said it once in a while.
J: Ouch. That hurts.
H: Tell me about it.

In all honesty, I wish him well. But in a passive sort of way. I don’t think about him anymore. Six months of complete and total separation cured me of that. Now, even when we’re in the same room, it’s almost an effort to listen to what he says and not beg him to get a Ritalin prescription. And I’m not hung up on how he hurt me. What I am, is convinced it won’t be like that ever again. I’m none too shabby and I deserve someone who is not only going to really dig me, but have the cajones to say it, too.

Recognize.

I was standing in the kitchen last night, staring into the refrigerator searching for inspiration, when Roommate wandered out of his room. We exchanged what-are-you-doing-ups (it was after 1 AM), and he headed for the living room with a beer and an exciting looking book called, “Management Strategies.”

He returned thirty seconds later carrying something different entirely.

R: I’m not really sure… but I don’t think this is my size.

He handed me my bra. Oh sweet Jesus. Anyone who knows Roommate is aware of his fascination with the female chest and I’m pretty sure that leaving lingerie in the living room broke a cardinal law of co-ed roommates. Buggers.

Seriously, though, half-way through watching The Simple Life with my galpal, I realized I was totally uncomfortable. So I removed the offending bra, Flashdance Style and forgot all about it. Turns out, it wasn’t the bra making me uncomfortable, though. It was Paris Hilton.

Okay, so I made peace with the snow on the way to work. There’s something so very precious about crossing the footbridge in the morning sun and seeing Harvard covered in a dusting of snow. Sorta sweet — a puritanical gingerbread village.

Last night, I went on a mission to find my old Polaroid camera for a friend. Digging through boxes in the hall closet, I got sidetracked here and there by photo albums, trinkets and handfuls of useless mementos. I clearly have a problem throwing things away. I got completely waylaid, though, when I stumbled across a black binder that held the majority of my college writing. My first novel, a few scattered poems, my assigned journal for my Writing to Young Adults class. The professor for that class was a really amazing woman. She had an Anne Bancroft way about her — beautiful but tough. And she left notes in the margins of my journal that when I re-read them last night, made me smile.

I took the notebook into the bathroom and filled the tub. I set the journal on the bathmat and soaked in the tub, leaning out over the edge, reading. I read so long that the water cooled and had to be refilled…twice. When I finally managed to detach myself from the bath, I made tea and climbed in bed to finish reading. The lights went off by midnight, and back on again twenty minutes later. I’m fairly certain I saw the hour of three before I dozed off.

The year I kept that journal was pivotal. Growing up, I had an aversion to shows of emotion. I never felt comfortable crying in front of other people, accepting compliments, giving praise — that sort of thing. I was a bit on the cold side, plastic, though never intentionally. Theories abound as to why.

But somewhere in that year, I lost the fear of expression, my nonchalant topcoat, and reading my old journal, I can remember it happening. And thank heavens it did. While still not totally comfortable with vulnerability, I am glad to have learned to be open.

And though I’m certain there’s something to lose in being too exposed, there’s so much to gain from being real.

I just looked out my window and there is SNOW on the ground. And falling from the sky. Snow. Is there someone I can call about this?? It must be stopped immediately. I’m not ready for winter!

No, no, no, no, NO. No snow. My vote was sunshine. Not snow.

Though, on second glance, it is kinda pretty. Wanna come outside with me and twirl? My roommate suddenly got too manly for twirling.

Someone has a Tickle Me Elmo doll here in the office. I can’t see them. But oh, can I hear them.

Here I am, this close to taking a trip to Crazy City and someone starts in with that giggling freak of a toy.

H: If we can get a fixed rate instead of breaking down the billable…
Elmo: hee hee hee… heee heeeeee….heee!!
H: (jumps off balcony)

Whatever happened to nice, quiet toys like the Rubix Cube or yo-yos?

H: If we can get a fixed rate instead of breaking down the billable…
Yo-yo: …..

See? See how nice that is?

You’ve got to get up every morning
With a smile in your face
And show the world all the love in your heart
The people gonna treat you better
You’re gonna find, yes you will
That you’re beatiful as you feel

A bit o’ Carole King, a good breakfast, the right shoes and I’m in suprisingly good spirits for my 7:00 meeting. Deadline at 2 PM today. Check on me then. If I still have a pulse, we’ll go out and celebrate.*

* Celebration may involve tea and fuzzy slippers.

I’m wide awake.

I’ve been laying in bed, just daring sleep to take me on. It’s so late. I need to sleep. But I’ve been thinking thoughts that make me anxious, and wishing my phone would ring at this indecent hour. It doesn’t, though, and it’s lonely, being awake at 1 AM on a school night, feeling like I have heartburn and wishing someone would tell me a bedtime story.

Or something.