Spent gorgeous Saturday on beach with coworkers at summer outing. Some coworkers, surprisingly, are hiding v. nicely cut bodies beneath their Monkey Firm apparel. Did not mind watching the sand volleyball games one bit! Others, though, should have kept certain unflattering elements under wraps. Have now seen enough varicose veins, beer bellies and cracks (blech!) to last this gal a lifetime.

Came away from summer outing with new appreciation for yellow fin tuna, a few new tan lines and without part of my big toe. Was horrible. Have been saying that injury resulted from shark attack, but really, was just yours truly being quite clumsy among the rocks on her way from ice cold sea water to warm sandy towel. Dear god, the pain! That is indeed one way to get one on one attention from the nice looking life guard, but clearly not the best. 48 hours later and the mortal wound is still bleeding. Gross.

Am going to be celebrating another year of life on Saturday. Can’t believe how the years have crept up! Twenty five? TWENTY FIVE? Was supposed to be famous and successful and happy by twenty five. Oh, the shame. Oh well. Shall be one big party to celebrate the shame, and am looking forward to night of blatant debauchery!

In late night telephone conversation with galpal were discussing random bits when the subject of her brother came up.

E: You know, whenever I mention your name or {insert name of other friend here}, he asks, “Is that the pretty one, or the short one?”
H: HA! Really? Awww, that’s very cool. I mean, since I’m clearly not short.
E: Yes, I thought it was v. sweet and made a note to pass along the compliment.

Am not sure how yours truly got to be the pretty one, especially considering that the other gal referenced is quite attractive. But is v. nice to know that somewhere out there, when some boy hears my name, he thinks, “Ah, yes. The pretty one.”

Indeed.

A v. many thanks to Jennifer for pointing out that today is the first anniversary of the fish blog!

Who knew it’d live this long?

Oh, god damn it!

Have been hoping it would not come to this… in fact, have doing everything possible to avoid it. And yet, stupid bitch that fate is, am in quite the pickle.

I really like Indie Rock Boy.

There. Said it. Now there’s no taking it back. Sure, have always liked IRB… in am-v.-fond-of-spending-time-with-him sort of way, but

Was out for an after-lunch walk yesterday and spotted IRB on sidewalk just ahead. Went to call out, but then noticed his Attractively Shaped Female Companion. Months of flippant ‘we’re-just-buddies-that-sometimes-make-out’ thoughts flew right out the window and wretched jealous thoughts set in.

Who was this Attractively Shaped Female Companion?
And where did she get those really great plaid pants? Focus, Fish! Sorry.
Is this the girl he mentioned having a couple dates with?
Why do I care?
DO I care?
Oh god… I DO.

FUCK.

Had to investigate.

H: Hey! I saw you right after I sent you that email… on the sidewalk outside of CVS, but you were with a chick, so I decided not to interrupt.
IRB: That wasn’t a chick. That was {insert name of coworker here}. Interrupt away.

Felt somewhat relieved that ASF wasn’t romantic interest, but do NOT feel relieved that yours truly went through good hour of panicky, fiendish jealousy. This is not good. No more making out in cabs. No, indeed.

Though, last week’s Cab Capades were so v. butterflies-in-stomach good. *sigh*

To: H
From: Dad@dademail.com
RE: no subject

H,

I miss you, kid. I miss a lot of things and wish I had done better by you guys.

Love you,

Dad

To: Dad@dademail.com
From: H
RE: WHAT?

Dad,

Done better by us? Are you kidding me??
I don’t think I know anyone whose father was more involved in their childhood. Now, I know things are really hard on you right now, but you can’t seriously think you were a let-down as a father. Who put their socks in the dryer so we could put them on after sledding, when our toes were the color of raspberries? Who took us all the way down to 7-11 in that little red wagon, with us making obnoxious noises over the gravel all the way… and didn’t strangle us? Who taught me that boys are for carrying heavy things and paying for my movie? Yeah, you made us weed the garden and that sucked. Yeah, you ruined some stuff in the wash. And sometimes you yelled… But I yelled back. You think things would have been BETTER if you were the typical bread-winning father — always in the office and never home? I hardly think so. I don’t think you could have done better by us. So there.

Love,

H

H: You there?
Inner Goddess: Of course. I’m always here.
H: You’ve been awfully quiet. No nagging, no comments about my weight, no snide comments about men… I was beginning to worry.
IG: And so you should.
H: What do you mean?
IG: You know exactly what I mean. How’s the deep end, sister? Cause that’s exactly where you’ve landed yourself.
H: I… uh… What?! But I did exactly what you wanted me to — I got rid of J! I stopped pining! I got on with my life.
IG: If by getting on with your life you mean making a total lush of yourself and acting like an ass in public then yes, honey, you have. Congratulations. Instead of being one man’s fool, you’re the world’s fool. That’s quite an accomplishment.
H: You’re so wrong.
IG: Just like C was so wrong when he called you on your tarty behavior on Saturday night?
H: Exactly.
IG: Right then. If he was so wrong, why’d you get so upset? You hardly recognize yourself these days. Admit it.
H: Well, sure, I’ve put on some weight. I have been a bit careless about things, but…
IG: I’m not talking about the extra 15 lbs. Let’s get metaphorical here, shall we?
H: Actually, no, let’s not. I don’t think I want to have this conversation right now.
IG: You don’t want my help then? You see, this is why I haven’t spoken up sooner. You seem hell-bent on making some sort of statement with your Post-J Bimbo Routine. Why should I stop you?
H: I, uh…
IG: You know where to find me when you decide to be realistic about this. Okay? So, talk to you later. Oh, and really, please clean your room.

Highlight of weekend: Making out with IRB in backseat of cab. Again.

*sigh*

Remember that book?
read it
You know, the one I really liked?
read it
Well, not really liked so much as loved and worshipped?
read it
Well, it’s out on shelves now and time for you to drag yourself down to Borders or Barnes and Noble or click onto Amazon.com and pick it up.
read it
I mean it. Don’t come back here until you’ve read this book. And don’t think I won’t know if you haven’t.

THERE WILL BE A QUIZ.

read it

Weekend To Do list:

1. Fix vacuum
2. Clean house
3. Get air conditioner
4. Birthday party at local swank spot – drink only in moderation

Actual Accomplishments:

1. Fixed vacuum. (Am so v. handy)
2. Sort of cleaned house. (Please ignore sink full of dishes. Didn’t quite get there).
3. Acquired AND installed AC with help of Gal Pal. (Am becoming handier by the minute)
4. Started evening with 2 lemon drop shots and ended it making out with Gal Pal to the amusement/bemusement of other friends. Oh, the stories to be told.

H: I HATE {insert name of mean Higher Up here}!!
IRB: Makes sense. I hate anchovies.
H: Do you have nightmares about anchovies?
IRB: Not as such. I don’t remember my dreams much.
H: I remember all of my dreams. Or most of them. Last night, I dreamt I was chatting with Michael Jackson. The night we all hung out, I had a dream you and I made out on a tire swing. Nice, huh?
IRB: Actually, it was a cab. And it wasn’t a dream. Nice, huh?
H: *giggle* Yeah, it was.

—– later —–

IRB: …. my man boobs…
H: You do NOT have man boobs!!
IRB: I do too have man boobs. They’re sexy. Recognize.
H: You’re delusional. Besides, I don’t trust men with boobs bigger than my own. So, you’d better get yourself a minimizing bra.
IRB: Well, they aren’t that big. I’m working on them nonetheless.
H: I dunno, I’m not that busty. If you legitimately have man boobs, you might have me beat.
IRB: I guess we’ll have to compare them sometime…

Indeed. Something wicked this way comes… and when it does, boy howdy, will it be fun.

Am feeling much better. Details not necessary.

Have been v. productive at monkey-job today. Outbox is filling up while inbox is emptying at startling pace. Wonderful!

Am also delighted to note that the sun has decided to pay a visit, and fully intend on taking advantage of lunch hour. Do so love disgracing company property by appearing in tube top or other revealing sun wear. If confronted, will simply tell the Higher Ups that am not paid enough to afford more suitable clothing. Bastards.

Passed the weekend in sweet, sweet alcoholic haze among good friends at beachfront mini vacation spot. Am in process of sobering up amid frantic work rush. Not pretty.

Were so v. pleasantly surprised to make acquaintance with solar rays on Friday. So spent good hour or so lazying about with gal pals on nearly-deserted beach, each of us semi indecent in an attempt to be tan line free. Though yours truly escaped without sunburn, one Gal Pal was not so lucky. Am fairly certain her pain was eased with the massive amounts of fruity wine that flowed post-beach excursion.

Topped off fruity wine with several vodka tonics.

And thus began the drunken follies for this gal. The next two days procured such fond memories as reading new Harry Potter out loud (with proper Brit-like accent) in master bedroom. Where is the folly in that? The reader, and all her listeners, were without pants. Yes, indeed. Also remember showing off Brazilian wax to handful of friends on back deck and passing bites of Popsicle mouth-to-mouth to assorted friends. Must note that in passing Popsicle bites, V. Flirtatious Gal Pal is also v. good kisser. For more follies, please send email request. Cannot share everything in this forum, as have sibling readers.

Rounded weekend out nicely by getting a virus or some such malady, as have been quite ill since yesterday morning. Am fearing something more serious than virus as am having v. sharp pains in lower left abdomen and escalating fever. Fucking ovary.

Cell phone rang while at work yesterday, and was none too happy to see J’s name on caller ID. What the fuck could J want?

To tell yours truly that he is moving. To tell yours truly that he is moving to her zip code. To her neighborhood. To her street. WHAT? Found self in the middle of one horrible Humphrey Bogart moment, a la Casablanca.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

This gal does not live in a small town. No, indeed. Happen to live in a relatively large one, with suburbs a-plenty. And J has to move onto same street, less than a block away? Again, WHAT? Suffered what am certain were my v. first chest pains, strange hot-flash like sensations and overwhelming sense of anger. This is MY gin joint!! Mine! Cannot wait to run into J and New Girl on v. regular basis.

Spent yesterday evening commiserating with now-in-walking-distance B and Thin Blonde Girlfriend. Had been ages since the last time we all sat around, watching less-than Blockbuster of a movie and chatting, and was so v. glad to see them both. TBG was adorable hostess and B, well, must say that co-habitating life seems to be agreeing with him. Felt bad for suffocating them with the “10 Things I Hate About J” session, but is pretty clear that neither of them agree with J’s brilliant moving plans.

Will look into planting v. tall trees around house. Or installing a moat. Indeed, a moat would be just the thing.

Have begun to notice not-so-pleasant changes in physique over past several weeks and have done not a damn thing to stop massive onset of cellulite. Not a damn thing. Why? Am not quite certain. Must buckle down so that will still be able to buckle favorite belt. Hmm… think there may be cookies in the kitchen…

Was forced to postpone dinner with Bald Boy until next week as am swamped with pre-mini vacation errands and work-related bullshit. Which is fine, as am feeling v. mixed up about all things male related.

Have been having v. vivid dreams lately. The kind that waking up alone after makes one feel v. lonely and v. confused. Suppose that listening to depressing music directly after waking from such dreams does not help, but really, if am going to collapse completely, should do so listening to choice tunes.

Celebrated Flag Day at baseball game doing utmost to get on jumbo-tron. In true Lady Liberty fashion, entwined as many flags as possible into hair in crown like arrangement. Succeeded mainly, however, in capturing attention of old married men sitting nearby. Oh well. Had riotous time doing so.

Also managed to take in new So-They-Can’t-Act-But-Are-Cute-And-Drive-Hot-Cars movie with Gal Pal who is a self-professed fanatic of Paul Walker. Though, clearly not for his acting skills. Nor his converse sneakers. Will be writing scathing letter to costuming director post-haste. Is unconscionable to dress attractive actor in bad shoes. Who does that?

Am headed to Beach-Front vacation spot on Thursday night and could not be more relieved to be getting out of monkey job for long weekend. Is going to be v. busy week of preparation, though, and somehow, must find time to work in dinner with Bald Boy, Brazilian wax, and ingenious weight loss scheme to drop 10 pounds in three days. Oh, and laundry.

Will be v. busy girl.

H: How’s the burn victim today?
IRB: It’s the Itchy and Scratchy Show. No peeling yet though…
H: You didn’t moisturize!!
IRB: I’m a boy. I can’t.
H: That’s horseshit! I remember a certain boy coming to my desk for Lubriderm for his sunburned nose.
IRB: I did yesterday, but I’m out of lube now. I only had a hotel trial size bottle.
H: Go to CVS, young man. All this itching is so avoidable.
IRB: Maybe I’ll go to CVS, buy lube, rubbers, and a teen beat magazine. Would that make you happy?
H: *gasp!* That’s not what I meant and you know it!
IRB: I thought it was funny.
H: It was very funny. I laughed out loud. But for the sake of propriety I had to pretend to be shocked.
IRB: Soooo, would you recommend an oil or water based lubricant?
H: Water based is always better. More natural. Oil is only good if it’s flavored.
IRB: Flavored. Right. You just single-handedly destroyed my attention span for the afternoon. Kudos.
H: Who, me?? ha ha ha. I’m sorry. But technically, it’s not my fault; you asked. Oh, and citrus flavors are best. In case you wondered.
IRB: And you get your vitamin C too. Still. Can’t. Concentrate.

Dear Kristen Buckley,

I read your book. I have to admit, it was nothing like I thought it would be.

I thought it would be light, entertaining in that “20-something Girl Who Needs Help with Her Dating Life/Finances/Crazy Family” way, like all those others I can’t seem to stop acquiring. I thought it would be good.

But it wasn’t.

It was fucking awesome!

You realize, you only sent it to me 48 hours ago and I’ve been finished reading it for 12. Couldn’t put it down. Missed my bus stop twice in one day.

I have some questions, though. If I may?

1. Does Parker have curly hair? I realize this is trite, but I’ve yet to meet a straight-haired gal who can get away with dirty, but amazing looking hair.

2. Do you play a musical instrument? Is there some sort of parallel to be drawn from Parker’s talent to your own? Which leads me to:

3. How much of Parker is you? ‘Cause she’s so fucking awesome in that What in God’s Name is Going On in Your Head kinda way. And depending on that answer,

4. Girl, can we be friends? ‘Cause really, you rock.

Much fondness and fan-like adoration,

H

Went to v. first Spinning class on Monday.

When speaking of Spinning, one must clarify that is not class in which one turns about in dizzying fashion, rather spins his or her legs altogether too rapidly on stationary bike while instructor hollers in motivating fashion. While brain is still functioning, speech is not, as all physical capacities are being used to pedal the goddamn bike.

“You can do it!”
No, I’m quite certain I can’t. But since there are far too many good-looking guys in here to call it quits, I’ll die trying.
“Increase the resistance!”
(pretend to turn knob)
“I saw that!”
Damn it!

Am now suffering from not having padded seat on stationary bike. Oh dear god.

Also had v. fist experience at local driving range. Now, generally, am first person to mock golfers and spending money to chase little white balls across acres of grass. Would much rather be wandering barefoot on same grass doing no sort of chasing. But now, really, really want to go back! Sure, made quite the pathetic attempt at a golf swing, but am convinced that could do much better if given the opportunity!

Must stop current cycle of binge eating. Am headed to beachfront mini-vacation in a week and am in no position to be showing off excess bulk. Ah, well. Endless battle. Endless uphill, super duper hard battle. Not unlike Spinning.

Was downing second vodka tonic when Galpal leaned in to whisper, “J is here.”

Was aware that someone had invited J to Saturday night’s birthday festivities, but was still wholly unprepared for the event. Was advised by gal and guy pal alike to “blind with cleavage.” Chose appropriate, low cut black number, and even resurrected Wonder Bra from depths of lingerie drawer. Am not certain if was successful at distracting J from noticing that yours truly had packed on significant amount of weight in last 4 months, but did succeed in luring guy pals into tossing items such as napkin pieces into cleavage chasm. Sigh.

Was ever-so-glad that nearly every sentence out of J’s mouth started with “My girlfriend…” Great. Just great. Bite me, drummer boy.

Am also suffering from symptoms of a new crush. Blast. Am not too worried, as symptoms usually pass after have had chance to dismantle and dissect New Crush to find as many possible reasons why would be unworthy candidate. So far, though, NC’s flaws are more endearing than disqualifying. A shame, really, as am fairly certain the interest would not be returned.

A shame, indeed.

Good news!!

Have been accepted for publication! Yipeee!

Is nothing enormous… just a short story to be published in Summer of 2005 (am hoping to live that long) but am so v. excited.

*cough cough* Okay, too much excitement. Must lie down.

*cough cough*

Am *sniff* not getting sick, damn it!

Okay, am getting sick. But am fighting it. Have accused officemate of passing on cold germs, but was told that was not the case. Instead, officemate insists that yours truly acquired cold bug from biting a Near Stranger during Sunday evening’s couch capades/wrestling match. Have passed along the accusation, calling Near Stranger a disease carrying monkey, but recieved no reply to my email. Go figure.

As am feeling poverty stricken, will not be heading down to Big City for weekend as had anticipated. Instead, will most likely be sacked out on couch, stocking up an Vitamins C, E and THC in effort to chase away this cold.

Simply can’t wait for IRB lunch… can’t wait to ever so delicately hack up a lung onto the table. Am convinced that god hates me.

Spent yesterday evening engaged in a bit of manual labor with friends over pizza and wine. Ended evening by spilling beans about totally shameful one-night-stand involving mutual friend. Mistake? Nah.

Funny thing is, feel much better. It’s a strange phenomenon, really, that feel somewhat absolved of drunken error by having handful of friends to share the shame with. Don’t exactly want it to be common knowledge, but truthfully, seems so much less of a v. dirty secret now.

Have set lunch date with IRB tomorrow. And honestly, do not want to be having lunch. No, indeed. Instead, want to be right back in stinky cab, drunkenly inching closer and closer, wondering if it’s just a bad idea even though we really want to, and…

Oh god. Must get mind back on work. But god, did he smell good.

Feel like wretched, unfeeling monster.

After spending morning sunbathing in the backyard, was shower-bound when stumbled upon fuzzy-headed, not yet ready for flight baby bird. Ordinarily, would scoop up stranded orphan, plop him in a cardboard box and play mother bird for next several weeks. But now that am kitten mother, would only be placing youngster in more peril. So, left the fledgling and now am tortured by thoughts of neighbornood cats and the idea that will soon stumble upon deplumed baby bird carcass. Such guilt!

Have spent the last few days trading banter with new e-flirt partner. Is something of a self-proclaimed bad boy, sharp tongued and something of a challenge. *sigh* Sometimes, work is fun.

Am so v. v. glad that on day that am wearing wrinkled but ever-so-comfy clothes and rushing to work sans makeup and looking completely disgusting, that run into IRB outside, not fifty feet from safety. Oh dear god!

Why not yesterday? Why not yesterday when was dressed head-to-toe in v. attractive earth colors and really great accessories (the shoes were great, must say). Why not then?

FUCK!

At this exact moment, am certain IRB is knitting brows in confusion pondering the age old phenomenon of beer goggles.

Had date last night with M. Met at local, sit-on-carpet-and-share-communal-table Middle Eastern restaurant. Shared such table with v. tiny brunette and v. tiny brunette’s not-so-attractive blond male companion. At one point, nudged M.

H: You know who that is right? Who we’re sharing a table with?
M: No. Who?
H: Natalie Portman.
M: What? We’re eating next to Queen Amidala?!
H: Shh! Yes. Don’t you feel lucky?
M: (taking long look at Ms. Portman — no make up, hair in ponytail, low rise jeans showing…) I can see Natalie Portman’s panties!
H: (laughing) Yes, everyone here can.
M: Wow.

Spent yesterday evening attempting to recover from yesterday’s head-spinning, carpet-treading, what-the-hell-to-do first day in new role at monkey job. Only adding to frantic helpless feeling was knowledge that was about to be losing best and most amusing email partner. Was first day of new job for yours truly, and last day at firm for Indie Rock Boy.

Said good-byes, went home and after hot bath, popped in IRB-gifted CD and flopped onto v. comfy bed. Was pleasantly surprised to find that CD was compilation of mostly lyric-free tunes of the post-rock variety. (No, will not be renaming him Post Rock Boy.)

And for the next seventy something minutes, found self laying on bed, nearly without moving, feeling quite languid and decadent and, must say, a bit… in the mood. Intentional move on part of IRB? Am not certain. But am fairly certain that if had only embraced the Inner Whore and invited IRB in on Friday night, would not have spent rest of the night with imagination racing in such a fashion.

Can Indie Rock Boy come out and play? Sigh.

Got to work this morning and smiled to find the following email.

To: H
From: IRB
RE: So long…

Later, darlin’. Thanks for keeping me distracted on email & otherwise here at Monkey Firm.
Lunch sometime next week?

Oh, indeed. There will be lunch.