H: Why the trouble sleeping?
W: I don’t know. Perhaps my conscious gnaws away at me at night? Perhaps it’s the unrequited love I feel for you? In all honesty, I’m not sure what the problem is. I’m certainly tired enough, but when I lay down and close my eyes I just can’t seem to shut my body down until after 1 in the morning. I should probably see a specialist.
H: Or we should just requite our love.
W: You’ll get no complaints from me.
H: That’s because you’ll be bound and gagged.
W:….

Had the most wonderful night’s sleep!

Woke around 5 AM to purring Reluctant Kitten curled up, sharing same pillow. Thought, This is mighty cute. And then thought, Am done being tired. Then realized it was far too early to be up and about, so snuggled with the kitten and read for a bit. Normally, am prone to punch the snooze button for a good 45 minutes. But not today. Today was up and at ‘em before the alarm even went off. Perhaps is result of last night’s hot bath-candles-glass of wine event that rounded off a rather decent day.

Has been downhill ever since. Have wanted to gnaw the faces off several coworkers who just don’t get that my office is… MY OFFICE. Why are you standing here yammering?? Get out! I do not care about Canadian Bacon. I do not care about Kevin Bacon. In fact, I don’t care about bacon at all. I care about getting this article out the door before noon so I can go outside and catch some of this glorious sun before it’s too late.

Speaking of too late, am heading out to Museum of Science tonight to catch glimpse of Mars before the Red Planet heads away for another 208 years. Can’t wait. Am going with Work Pal and friends for free viewing and planetarium show. My Inner Nerd is all excited.

Have been talking to J again.

Which, in a list of all possible vices, isn’t so bad. Right? Because have also been going to the gym, taking vitamins, not drinking, paying bills on time and keeping my bedroom spotless. So, talking to J (being a minus) amid all those good things and the tally is still in the positive. Right? Of course, right.

Interview questions courtesy of Miss Jezebel.

1. Is it ever acceptable to “slightly stalk” an ex-boyfriend and his new flame?
Hmmm. Acceptable? Sure. I mean, I wouldn’t call you crazy for doing it, but I personally wouldn’t stalk an ex and his new girl. I don’t want to know where they are, what they’re doing or how much better she looks in low-rise jeans than I do. It’s all better left up to my imagination which has them bickering constantly; him doing drive-by’s of my house because he misses me oh-so much and her steadily gaining weight and catching some horrible skin eating disease. That’s way better than stalking.
2. McDonalds or Burger King?
Why isn’t Wendy’s an option? What about the Frosty?? Given the limited options, I would have to go with MacDonald’s. They soak their fries in sugar water, and all their menu options so cleverly begin with Mc. So they’re not flame-broiled. I’ve got one word for ya: McFlurry. Yum.
3. Really, is a first date necessary before sleeping with someone?
Nah. A first, second and perhaps third date prior to the naughty are only necessary if you want him to hang around for an extended period of time. Most men have such a short shelf-life that the investment is hardly worth it. That is, unless you actually like the guy.
4. Your apartment is burning down, are you OK with a female firefighter rescuing you?
If she can heft this gal, more power to her. I’ve got no pride when it comes to having my tush rescued from a fiery inferno.
5. How old were you when you finally got rid of the training wheels on your two-wheeler bicycle?
Six? Five? Perhaps younger. That’s a question for my mom. But, as kids, we rode bikes like it was our job. You keep your training wheels too long and you get left behind.

Okay, so… if you want to get interviewed by This Fish… you know what to do. And if you don’t know, here’s the deal: leave a comment, send an email, etc. and I’ll send you the questions. Ya dig?

Got quite sunburned spending tremendous day with V Calm Brother. Did not Kayak as hoped, but managed to fill the time with lobster, peach frozen yogurt, etc.
Saw Freaky Friday. Also HAD Freaky Friday.

J called.

Mmmm Hmmm. Yes indeed.

Happy Andrew Dan-Jumbo Day!

While am not about to start lobbying to make today a national holiday celebrating the ever-so charming, tool-belt wearing carpenter from While You Were Out, am not opposed to dedicating this fine, sunny day to such a deserving chap.

As have been right poor lately, have been taking in hours and hours of home redecorating reality TV as means of passing time til payday (15 hours to go). Must say that Andrew is my favorite part of being poor. After a quick internet search found that ADJ has his own FAN page, complete with fan mail address. Simply had no idea (though it’s completely justified) that he had such a following. Will refrain from sending him fan mail, as am not the sort to do so. But… if this gal were to send a fan letter, it might go something like this…

Dear Andrew,

H

Am certain that snooze button is going to break from this morning’s over-usage. Or go on strike for unnecessary use of force.

Hastily got ready and as was ready to walk out the door, found that keys were nowhere to be found. Until a few days ago, said keys were attached to my wallet, and therefore nearly impossible to misplace. Nearly. Am capable of losing anything. It’s a gift.

Frantically searched for keys. Dumped out purse. Combed through laundry. Even accused Kitten of having hid them as to prevent yours truly from leaving the apartment and spending energy on someone or something else. After twenty minutes, and fearing for security of monkey job, decided to give up and leave the door unlocked. Flung the door open and… jingle, jingle… fucking keys were hanging in the lock.

Should just save everyone time and effort and put out neon sign: Axe Murderers Welcome Here.

Foolish, foolish girl.

Things a Gal Can Do with $4.77 in her checking account:

Run through sprinklers
Watch hours of While You Were Out & Trading Spaces
Cook (and eat) unreasonable amount of Ramen noodles
Sit in tub
Complain about lack of pedicure
Post to website
Sleep

Things a Gal Can NOT Do with $4.77 in her checking account:

Buy Cat Food Many apologies, RK.
See S.W.A.T. Many apologies, Mr. Cool J
Eat anything BUT unreasonable amount of Ramen noodles
Sit in tub with bottle of wine
Get a pedicure
Pay web-hosting folks
Sleep well

And the lists go on. Am v. much looking forward to pay day, though, won’t be much better of a situation. Have so many stinky bills to pay.
Am also v. much looking forward to V. Calm Brother’s visitation on Thursday. Have not seen him since our misadventures in London last year and am quite excited. Am hoping VCB will find it charming that am lacking in living room furniture, especially when he figures out that affects the sleeping arrangements. V. charming indeed.

He once was lost, but now he’s found.

V. many thanks for the thoughts and prayers. Am now going to eat and sleep, as have not done so in days.

PS. Happy birthday littlest sister. You’re everything.

Dear Dad,

I got a call from home a few minutes ago. They found your note. The one you wrote before you drove to the airport and disappeared. She was crying, when she called. I know that you think teenage girls cry about everything — angry, petty fights, break-ups, fits of frustration over the unfairness of life — after four daughters, you’ve heard it all. But, do you know what it sounds like when one of them cries over a suicide note? Your suicide note? No, you don’t. Because you’re not there to hear it.

Because you’re a coward.

I have felt sorry for you my whole life. After the mysticism of the Daddy-Knows-Best years faded, you did, too. Faded, I mean. I started to see you as somehow broken. Short changed. Weaker. Weaker than me. Your child. Why did I feel like that? Because you had me believing that for some reason, your problems were more special than everyone else’s. Your life was harder. You got the raw end of the deal. You felt put-upon by your father, cheated by God and misled by religion. You’ve never had the job you wanted. Your wife doesn’t love you anymore. Your life is hard.

Because life is hard. All life. Yours. Mine. The people who hurt us. You think anyone gets off easy?

I used to think I was good with words but I’m so angry and frustrated with you that the only thing that comes to my mind right now is get over it and get on with it, Dad.

You know what? Maybe you were right when you wrote that note. Maybe you should never have come home from Vietnam. Because from where I sit now, I’m pretty sure that was the last time you did anything brave.

I love you so much it’s painful,

H

PS If you go through with this, you don’t have to worry about God cheating your children. You’ve pretty much covered that for Him.

New, and nearly always Absent Roommate comes with many perks (absence NOT being one of them). For starters, is v. mellow, v. quiet, v. clean boy. AR also cooks and came cable ready.

Past living situation came with three channels. Was not a problem, as yours truly can find much better things to do (and really, three channels has all the bad reality tv one could need). But lo, what a world has been opened to this gal! Queer Eye for a Straight Guy?! The Love Channel?? The Home and Garden Network? Even 7th Heaven is tolerable when it’s coming to the house on that beautiful cable. Well, screw 7th Heaven. Yours truly has been watching until my eyes bug out and have STILL not gotten my fill of decorating shows. Perhaps never will.

Friends may start to wonder when repeated attempts at contact are ignored. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that if am going to learn everything about turning an old bedroom into the perfect art studio, must give full attention to the TV. It’s all v. complicated. I mean, who knew plaster walls could be such a problem?

Cable. The next best thing to actually having a life.

Am sober.

FINALLY.

Spent entire weekend in foggy, THC haze doing nothing more productive than eating, sleeping and catching up on newest addition to American Pie family of films.

Am completely disgusted with self over obsene amount of weight that have put on recently. Am headed back to the gym this evening with resolution to never feel this gross ever again. It’s horrifying, really, the extent to which have let self go. Am wretched.

Soon, this Fish will be sending two v. lovely boys off to war. Oh, alright, they’re not heading out to war per se, but they are off to Cuba to play babysitter to terrorist detainees. This is as close as I will ever come to sending loved ones off to war (fingers crossed), and can’t say I like it one bit.

The lovely boys are brothers (not MY brothers, but they themselves are siblings. Get it?) — the younger, with whom have shared outrageous and entertaining flirtations, and the older, with whom have formed an actual kinship – both to be missed quite ferociously.

Spent yesterday evening frolicking with gal pals and GI Joes in few remaining hours before shipping out. Woke up this morning feeling v. tired and quite melancholy. Yes, am aware that have been highly sentimental lately (an unfortunate side effect of PMS), but am still taking this rather hard. While Cuba is a rather safe place (relative to other war-time assignments), can barely fight inclination to place anonymous and frantic phone call to their commanding officer.

H: I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.
CO: No ma’am. Those boys are headed out to Cuba.
H: But they can’t. These boys mean something to me. They must stay here.
CO: They’re just doing their duty. Where they’re needed. In Cuba.
H: But! But! What if something… happens?!
CO: Like what? It’s very safe. At worst they might get sunburns.
H: Yes! Exactly! You’ve seen how fair skinned they are! Do you want them to blister?! I really think it’s in everyone’s best interest if they stay behind.
CO: They’ll be fine.
H: Let me level with you, General.
CO: Eh, I’m actually a Sergeant.
H: Sergeant? SERGEANT? I should be addressing someone much higher up, I think. But maybe you can pass this along to someone with the proper amount of bars on his shoulder. Accidents happen in hot, sticky tropical climates where terrorists and/or iguanas and Hummers are involved. And if one of those sticky terrorist iguana accidents happens to these boys… well, it just can’t. Because I mean, who would frolic with me? Who would flirt shamelessly with me? Who would help me move? Who would know that I can’t go a single day without eating my own weight in ice-cream? Don’t you see?!!
CO: Ma’am… your tone has reached levels that only dogs can hear. Maybe you need to lie down.
H: I need for you to station these boys in a non-sticky, non-tropical, non-terrorist and iguana-infested location. Hey, I know somewhere like that. RIGHT HERE. You can leave them with the Hummers, though, because they’d be disappointed to lose the toys. But… Hey! Are you listening to me? Hello? Hello…?

Have put John Denver’s Leavin’ on a Jet Plane on repeat. And intend to leave it playing until Lovely Boys return.

Ivy Leaguers stink.

Am so v. fond of being able to walk to monkey job (weather permitting, of course), and like nothing better than to don headphones, sneakers and wander across the river. Gives one a sense of ownership to do so. And am excessively fond of owning this city. Except on trash day. Which seems to be every day lately. Seems Ivy League students produce an unreasonable quantity of foul-smelling garbage. And said Ivy Leaguers feel compelled to store it up and line the lovely brick sidewalks with it as though leaving some sort of gift for the rest of us, not-so-blessed-to-be-Ivy-League-educated schmucks.

Here is our refuse. Take it. Learn from us.

Yes, indeed. Have learned that not only did some Ivy League daddy spend way too much to send his kid off to booze away his/her education, but he raised a v. stinky child. Which has most likely escaped his attention since he is probably Ivy League educated himself, and he must therefore also produce an obscene amount of unbelievably stinky garbage. But he’s way far away in Scarsdale, or Malibu or Highland Park and therefore am not forced to deal with his stink. Thankfully. There’s really only so much Ivy League stink one gal can take.

Will simply have to hide out in office until stink is gone.

Have decided one of two things is happening. Either uterus is wrenching itself free of this body or, is getting a tattoo.

Indeed. Am more convinced it is the latter. In annoying, yet predictable act of rebellion, my uterus is getting inked. That totally explains the torturous pain and buzzing feeling in my cranium. Just hope that the results will be pleasing. Most certainly this new tattoo will say something clever like No Room in the Inn or Don’t Tread on Me. Or, perhaps a big red heart with the word Mother through the middle. That’s it. Don’t see why stupid uterus couldn’t be satisfied with trite little symbol, but noooo she had to go all out and get lettering. That shit hurts.

Oh well. Could be worse. Tattoos aren’t the end of the world. At least she’s not knocked up.

Am beyond penniless. Oh, payday where art thou?

Have learned a v. valuable lesson. Will henceforth refrain from taunting God, Mother Nature and any other Associated Forces in control of moving-day fate. Will not, in the presence of light rain, scream at sky, “Is this all you got?!” Because chances are, no, this is not all She’s got. Luckily, yours truly and an armful of table legs were the only things soaked by ensuing massive shower. God, Mother Nature and Associated Forces have one hell of a sense of humor. And vengeance.

RK took relocating surprisingly well. By 4 AM of following morning, despite horrific scene just 12 hours earlier, the young one was quite ready to explore the new abode. This gal was tiniest bit annoyed at being invited to v. early morning exploration session, but am v. glad that RK isn’t still under the bed sulking. Am hopeful that New Roommate and Reluctant Kitten will become fast friends. Or at least not frighten one another.

Am v. glad to be living across the street from pals, as spent last night in all out gory Monopoly battle. Am hoping for a rematch as did not do so well, even sporting lovely Boardwalk/Parkplace money trap.

Speaking of money trap, have I mentioned that am v. near to having exactly zero dollars? *sigh*

Am a blogging has-been.

No, really. It’s true.

Ever since severing ties with J several months ago, have been losing public appeal (not unlike Bugle Boy when they started selling their wares at JC Penney. But, I digress.) No longer have to/get to write about weepy breakdowns where am certain am going to stop breathing simply from overwhelming misery. Do not threaten folks with bodily harm in violent Miss Piggy-esque temper tantrums (hiiii-yah!). Do not go days without eating (in fact, find that do not go several fifteen minute periods without eating, but again, not the point). And no longer have brutal internal arguments with the Inner Goddess, because, I fear, even she has lost interest in yours truly.

Have become quite dull. Even Passionless, perhaps.

No, really. It’s true.

And that’s just fine.

Am feeling sane and well-adjusted and busy. Most story lines are like that, though, right? It’s that part of the book where Jane is living with her cousin clergyman and those descriptions of the countryside take pages and pages and you think, My GOD, Bronte, get ON with it. It’s that part in the movie where you can get up, get that free popcorn refill AND go to the bathroom and not miss much. Seven Years in Tibet? Is this in real time? You could get up and leave now, if you like, and will send the usher for you when the good stuff starts up again. But then, you’re apt to might miss minor adventures (white water rafting accidents) and steamy, sweaty summer affairs (Though, have left that out as it involves nothing more than sex and makes yours truly look cheap and tawdry. Besides, have been informed that going on and on about a five-minute orgasm is in poor taste). Your choice.

At any rate, do apologize for not keeping your attention. Am not too worried, though, as all plots seem to follow the same pattern — rising action, falling action, resolution, climax. And denouement is in there somewhere, right? Yes, indeed, right after the climax, am fairly sure. Am simply going to have to sit here and wait for that. Denouement. It’s French. Even just saying it is slightly amusing. De-noue-ment. Thrilling. Though, it’s nothing like a good climax, is it?

But then again, what is?

Got fed up with Gimpy Shoe and have come to work without it. Silly Fish. Am already feeling effects of separation anxiety from well-padded support. In own defense, must say that Gimpy Shoe was rather cumbersome and did nothing to alleviate pain from bruising. But injured toes are indeed missing the big blue shoe.

T minus 2 days until The Great Move of 2003. Have packed v. little, but am certain that will be able to get enough ready for guy pals to schlep heavier boxes to new residence. In meantime, Reluctant Kitten seems rather fond of pouncing at yours truly from cardboard box obstacle course. But am fairly certain will not be fond of actual moving day and am wondering just how am going to get claw-bearing creature into cat carrier on said day. Will not be pretty.

Much like intense Cheeto craving that am having right now. What gives with all the cravings? This must be what pregnancy is like. KitKats and Cheetos. And swollen feet. *Gasp* That’s it! Must be pregnant!

Indeed not.

Am ravenously hungry. Must have a KitKat.

That is all.

***update***

KitKat secured. All is well.

Spent weekend with pals in pursuit of death in the form of extreme sporting.

Yours truly didn’t make it past the white water portion of the event though. And after a short stint in a backwoods hospital, am sporting stylish, blue post-op walking cast (affectionately known by camping pals as The Gimpy Shoe).

Have spent entire weekend joking with friends about the whole near-death experience, but if am being honest, will admit that the relatively short time that this gal was pinned between the rocks and raft, taking rapids on bare skin, was more terrified than have ever been.

Was tossed from fully-loaded raft at the top of the Class Five (that’s a big ass rapid, kiddies) called the Crib, and then trapped beneath same raft and sucked down a waterfall. No light. No air. Just darkness and rocks pounding and scraping the right side of my body. When emerged from under the raft, took in a breath before being shot through second portion of the rapid. Had the presence of mind to get feet-first for second bit, but felt shoes getting literally sucked off my feet. Don’t really remember much after that until swimming (with a great deal of pain) to waiting rescue boat. Fellow rafters were v. kind, assisting in holding ice packs on various wounds until could get shipped off to local ER.

Am bruised and beaten up and wicked tired of the Gimpy Shoe, but all in all, pretty lucky. And tired. V. tired. Remainder of weekend was jam packed with vitamin THC, Aleve and s’mores. Ah, the healing.

Am sitting in monkey office, sporting soaked pants and shoes, wringing out purse and wondering what kind of cruel joke God is playing. Am in lucky possession of corner office and from all eight windows in said office can see that not a single drop of rain is still falling. Perfect.

Am quite ecstatic about this evening’s lease signing. Not that am giddy to be locked into year-long lease, but am simply happy to have somewhere to live. Somewhere, must add, with great ammenities such as great neighbors and massage-giving roommate. Yee!

Must admit that am nervous about how the Great Move of 2003 is going to affect Reluctant Kitten. RK seems to be conforming to ways of normal kitten as of late and would hate for her to revert to hiding under bed behavior as a result of being uprooted. Am fairly certain that will end up sending RK to expensive kitten psychologist once she hits those rebellious teen years and starts experimenting heavily with tuna and catnip.

Am finding it v. difficult to get anything accomplished. Instead of working, am obsessively checking over and over for the one thing that am needing to make the day complete. And it’s nowhere to be found.

What has happened to Shevaun Pennington and the Marine?!

Simply can NOT continue on with the work week until am rightly informed as to the outcome of this scandal. CNN has been something of a let down in this regard. Five days, CNN. It’s been FIVE days since that unfortunate-looking child has returned home and spilled the beans. Am waiting for the beans!

Heard from J yesterday. Is funny how abstract he seems now. Like getting an email from a phantom or annoying spammer.

J: I have wanted to chat with you, but I wasn’t sure how to. You seemed happy to see me that night at {insert name of bar here} but I could sense something was, off. Also when I mentioned that I was moving on to your street, your email response was less than welcoming. I understand why, but it makes me feel like a real piece of crap. I know what happened between us and I know that it wasn’t how either of us wanted us to end up. I also know things can never be the same between us, but I feel like I have hurt, or even wronged you.

H: Honestly, I don’t know how else you expected me to react to the news that you were moving to my street! I mean, of all the places in this city to live, and you pick the one place I’d most certainly have to run into you and New Girlfriend on a regular basis?! You didn’t think that would be at all strange or difficult for me? If I seemed unwelcoming it’s because it was rather selfish of you to do that on purpose.

Captain of the USS Clueless, that one. Even with all hands on deck, is interminably out to sea.

Indeed.

Had great superb birthday weekend!

Interrupted house party/ going away event Friday night at 1:40 AM to announce anniversary of exact time at which yours truly entered the world. Received twenty-five birthday spankings and downed another rum and coke concoction.

Spent Saturday lounging about with friends and then getting dolled up for night on the town. Several hours of club music, lasers and a snug corset later, crawled into bed to sleep off chemical haze. Strangely enough, am STILL in bit of a haze.

Got wonderful birthday present in the form of phone call from prospective new landlord. Yay! Am moving at first of the month in to new apartment with guypal. Quelle excitement!

Attended work-related function last night at wharf-side locale. Drank, danced, broke ever-so-strict diet by indulging in loads of chocolate covered strawberries and even smoked v. first cigar.

H: Oh God. How lady-like do I look right about now? Mini skirt and a cigar. Lovely.
Coworker E: What? Are you kidding me? It’s so sexy!
H: Sexy? A cigar?!
CE: Do you know how many guys are looking at you?
H: Just you, buddy. The rest of them are probably thinking, ‘her mother would be so proud.’

Have to say that highlight of evening (aside from enormous, chocolate covered strawberries) had to be getting picture taken with man in a lobster suit. Yes, indeed. Nothing more exciting than photogenic giant crustaceans.

Have meeting with prospective landlord this evening and am crossing fingers (to the point of being unable to use them for any other purpose) that will get desired apartment. Washer/dryer, dishwasher, the loveliest new kitchen ever, and brand new floors. Oh, fate, now is really not the time to be a bitch to yours truly.
Am armed with references, credit report and checkbook, hoping that this will be settled v. soon. Am quite excited to be moving in with GuyPal, Athletic Trainer/ Roommate-to-be. Is v. nice, mellow guy who happens to give one hell of a massage. Honey, I’m home!
Desired apartment also happens to be directly across the street from house full of gal and guy pals. How can a gal live with so many distractions? Or rather, how has she gone this long without them?