I returned to the office after my lunch break, stopping at the hall closet to leave my coat.

“Aha!” Miriam said, pointing a long finger at me from the doorway of the accounting office. “Who vas zat?”

“Who was what?” I unwound my scarf and draped it over a hanger.

“I saw zhu!” Miriam said. She was being playful.

I replied in Spanish — something about her being half crazy — and then asked what the hell she was talking about.

Miriam put on a little skit. She tossed her hair flirtatiously and perched on one leg as she kissed an imaginary someone (a tall someone) on the cheek.

“Zhu know. At zee library.”

“Oh! You mean Stuart. My friend’s husband.”

She dropped playful as the look on her face became suddenly very stern. Hands flew to hips. Eyebrows knitted.

“Heazzer. No.”

I laughed from the deepest part of my belly.

“Miriam! I was giving him something to take to his wife! We’re not having an affair!”

She stood there, mothering me with her posture.

“Besides? I was gone ELEVEN minutes.”

“Zat ees all it takes!” she said and spinning on her heel, disappeared into the office.

I relayed the story to Krissa and Stuart tonight at some point during our date at Dylan’s Candy Bar. The three of pushing plastic spoons through gooey sundaes sharing a gossip, ice cream and a few laughs. Krissa, of course remained unthreatened by my rendezvous with her beloved. When we parted an hour or so later (after ravaging the bulk candy bins), our heads were buzzing from sugar highs. It then occurred to me, that if I were going to get into any kind of trouble with Stuart, it was much more likely to have something to do with lockjaw and an Everlasting Gobstopper contest. And those things last WAY more than eleven minutes.

The elevator in my apartment building is broken. Again. This is hardly news – it happens so often that ‘news’ would be if the tired old lift were actually functioning. The management simply replaces one handmade “Out of Service” sign with another and we, used to being elevator orphans, trudge up the back stairs without too much complaint. Except on laundry day.

On Tuesday night, my head felt crowded. I’d spent the day on the phone and email having heart-rending ‘Putting Down the Dog’ conversations with my mother and baby sister. I wasn’t dealing with it; I was dealing consolation, pushing it like a street drug. I left the office later than usual, needing to stay busy — to keep my mind on something practical and concrete — not entirely ready to face anything emotional. So I did my laundry.

I stripped the bed, sorted lights from darks, gathered detergents, bleach and softener and made half a dozen trips to the Laundromat on Second Avenue. The first few times I pushed up the four flights of stairs with my Downy smelling armload, I felt invigorated. I had a goal. I was achieving. I was not dwelling. But by the sixth and final trip, I was exhausted. Thoroughly.

The curtain rod was draped in damp denim (I refrain from using dryers whenever possible), sweaters lay drying on every available flat surface and the bed, a plane of slate blue, lay naked and beckoning. I stood in the doorway to my bedroom, staring, feeling the heaviness of the day pulling at my shoulders. It was late, and the clean linens resting folded on the club chair needed to be pressed. I switched off the light and undressed where I stood. Then I wrapped myself in a down comforter and crawled onto my sheetless bed.

The world stopped being busy, and there I was, all dealt out of consolation, finally dealing. I cried. Hard. Full of guilt and remorse and missing. I cried until I was done, then turned the pillow to the cold side and went to sleep.

My heart was a little bit broken. Again. It happens every once in a while, but I take it as a sign the tired old thing is actually still functioning. One day is replaced by another and I, growing more and more accustomed to love and loss, carry on about things without too much self pity. Except, of course, on laundry day.

If there were such a thing as a This Fish Needs a Bicycle t-shirt would you buy one?

Designs are in the works (for both bike and fish t’s) and I have every faith that they’re going to be hellawickedcool. I’ll post them as soon as they’re ready. But for now, I’d just like to gague interest. You know, so as not cart before the horse. Or the bike before the fish. Whatever.

Takers?

(As far as price, I’m thinking in the $12-$15 range. Details to come.)

(And, um whether to your pleasure or dismay… they will not be pink. Unless you wash them with red socks or something. But I leave that up to you.)

Update: Okay, Okay! There will be PINK shirts available. Ordering info coming up soon.

I launched my first successful marketing campaign in the summer of 1992. I was thirteen years old.

Mindy Coleman’s dog had puppies, and I wanted one desperately. Unfortunately, no canine had lasted more than a year in our home. They chewed irreplaceable books, peed, barked, bit. And having been put through the rigmarole of three dog disasters, my parents had decreed No More Dogs.

I was certain my dog would be different. You had only to see this pink-bellied, squeaky, cotton ball of a puppy and be overcome with the desire to scoop her up, take her home and sleep with her on your pillow. (You’d probably also want to tether her to the end of a red, patent leather leash and parade her around, but you’d have get over that. She really hates the leash and will probably just sit on the sidewalk and yelp.)

I was determined to overcome. For every “no, you can’t” I heard from my parents, there grew in me a stubborn seed of “oh, yes I sure can.” It was from this seed that the Puppies R Nice campaign sprang to life and assaulted my parents with such puppy-loving ferocity that I am surprised we didn’t bring home the whole litter.

I did the dishes without being asked. I cleaned patio furniture. I dusted (god, do I hate to dust). And at the scene of every good deed, I left a note featuring my slogan: Puppies R Nice. There were inserts in the National Geographic, “puppies r nice” whispered in the ears of parents when we kissed good night. I was relentless. Just inside of two weeks, my mother presented me with a contract, outlining my responsibilities as a pet owner, and a fluffy white puppy came home to sleep on my pillow. (You probably already guessed how the leash thing worked out. We only tried that once.)

Last night, my mother called to tell me that my puppy, now an aging arthritic dog, is dying. She cried when she told me the vet recommended ‘putting her down.’ As is my way with my mother, I pragmatically explained that this was the kindest thing to do for a sick, blind pet.

“Poor thing,” I said.
“Who? Me or the dog?”
“Both.”

I hung up and cried.

They’re at the vet right now. I’m doing everything I can not to picture the scene. And I’m trying to maintain that magnanimous feeling we had on the phone last night — that killing my dog is the kind thing to do. But mostly, I’m feeling really, really sorry.

She was my first campaign and subsequently, my first breach of contract (I didn’t exactly keep up my end of the bargain). And she was also the first thing that I loved so much it hurt.

A quick glance around my apartment will give you a good idea of how the weekend went.

Three novels abandoned in various states of read decorate the ottoman, the living room desk and my bedside table, pointing to my ADD Friday night in. One pair of pink satin shoes (now sadly blackened from a detour in the dirty snow bank) start the trail of discarded clothing between the front door and my bed, breadcrumbs to my Saturday night out a la Stephanie Klein. There’s an overturned wine glass on the crimson table runner, balanced nicely with an opened bottle of Tums and an empty Gatorade jug, evidence of my Sunday recovery. Scarf, pink coat and iPod tentacles dangle from where they were thrown over the club chair after Tribe brunch in Brooklyn (and before nap number two). A handful of wadded napkins from my crying spell while watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition with Ari over spaghetti and meat sauce.

Yeah, I bawled over a god damned house makeover show. But seriously, show me pictures of an 11-day-old baby who needs a heart transplant – when I’m hungover and by nature overly sensitive? It could have been that ridiculously redundant Discovery Channel motorcycle show and I’d have needed a moment.

I know as well as anyone how terribly pedestrian it is to recap your weekend in stories that begin, “I was so drunk I…” But I think it’s fairly safe to say I have never had to have a cab driver count my money and I have never missed the bed and landed on the floor hard enough to surely dent concrete (but at the same time fail to wake The Snorer who has been particularly heinous lately). It was, overall, the kind of weekend that leaves a mark.

I called in sick this morning and spent the day doing things that made me feel more like myself. I read, I napped. The really good fiction I picked up at Barnes and Noble this weekend is good in the way that rich, foreign desserts are good. Or time spent with my mother is good. It’s best appreciated in small doses.

When I’d had enough (of the book and of being alone), I went across the street to the grocery store where I wandered up and down the aisles to see if anything struck my fancy. Baker’s chocolate, mini marshmallows. In the dairy cooler, a man stocking the yogurt serenaded me with whatever Lionel Richie song was playing over the PA. I grinned and dropped an obscene amount of milk into my cart. I don’t drink milk, but there was a plan involved.

Tonight, Shiv came over bearing Peppermint Schnapps. We drank spiked cocoa (at the last moment, mini marshmallows seemed overkill), moving on to the expensive wine that had been meant for a dinner with Joe. Then we ended our reign as The Last Two Reasonable People to Have Seen Garden State.

And here’s where I take a tangent…

It seems that The Bloggies, like the New York Times article, has unleashed the demon blog critics. Like last time, it’s all been fairly ridiculous. I do not belong on the list with my competitors. I slept with the Bloggie Committee. I have a big nose. I am self-serving. And I am dull.

I do not belong on the list. As far as that goes, it might have something to do with the fact that this is a personal blog. The only personal blog on that list. So yeah, maybe I don’t! But, I didn’t nominate myself, so maybe what it amounts to is not everyone has the same tastes. Can we agree on that? Fine. Moving on.

I slept with the Bloggie committee. Nope. I’d have totally written about it if I did.

I have a big nose. It’s true. I do. Point conceded.

I am self-serving. Again, this is a personal blog. What else can I do but shrug and point out that this particular tidbit came from an ad-supported site. I’m totally convinced that they must donate all their ad revenue to blind deaf orphans. You know, otherwise that would be sorta… hypocritical, right?

I am dull. I’m going to go ahead and suggest that “dull” is rather subjective. This not one of those blogs in which I oh-so-cleverly snarks about other people’s lives without offering up anything of my own — except, of course, wherein The Five Funniest Things I do While Drunk and/or High passes for disclosure. It’s a personal blog, full of disclosure. It’s going to be self-serving and really self-involved and maybe even dull. And I’m so totally cool with that.

Anyway, I was saying that Shiv and I watched Garden State, which was as impressive as I was led to believe. And in it, someone who is not Zack Braff — after the Peppermint Schnapps and the red wine, I can’t be expected to remember anyone that is not Zach Braff — says,

“You know, I’m okay with being unimpressive. I sleep better.”

While not exactly my sentiments, it speaks to the point that, whether you be critic or comrade, I’m not doing this to impress you. That’d be too much pressure. So unlike the last time these self-appointed critics reared their ugly heads, I can actually see the ridiculous for what it is. And I don’t feel overly inclined to take much of it to heart. I still care, but not nearly as much. And I sleep better.

Me, myself

The firm I work for does not recognize Mental Health Days. Nor would calling in “don’t feel like it” fly. But lord, was I tempted to give it a shot this morning.

Heather: Yeah, I’m not going to be in today.
Director of Ops: Oh? Why not?
Heather: Don’t feel like it.
DOO: …

I imagine that after that silence, there’d be some hemming, hawing, shuffling of papers and then ultimately something involving a cardboard box and me updating my resume.

There really ought to be some Don’t Feel Like It days built into the standard work calendar every year. Ten vacation days, three personal days, five sick days and eleven Don’t Feel Like It days. You know, specifically designated for mornings like this one, when the sound of my alarm clock nearly had me in tears. With nothing to look forward to, nothing to compel me out of that triplicate layer of down comforters, there was no reason, so far as I could see, to get out of bed and shove my feet in shoes that pinch my toes. I pounded the snooze button with ferocity and after 54 minutes of denial, reluctantly gave in.

It could be lack of sleep, or this heavy, depressing feeling that winter is never going to end, but beyond basic life functions, I’m not up to doing much. I just don’t feel like it. Unless that “it” is frozen and comes with chocolate fudge and whipped cream. Cause, I’d be all over that.

& iPod

This morning, as is her kooky habit, Gracie forwarded me our horoscope. Let it be known, I put no stock in those things. I usually glance through them, pick out the parts I like (“I KNEW it was true love!”) and discard the rest as wacky, stargazing hogwash. Today, it was hogwash as usual (blah blah finances blah), particularly, the final two lines:

One note of caution: be careful about talking yourself into buying something extravagant that you’ve been considering. You may regret a big purchase now.

As if I needed further proof that these things are complete bullshit. Nobody, but nobody talks about my iPod that way.

This is true love.

My job can be pretty mundane.

Crazy talk, I know. But sometimes, being a corporate monkey can be really, really ridiculously dull. How I manage to stay extremely busy and simultaneously bored beyond all reason is one of the many intriguing secrets of corporate monkeyhood and is best left unexplored.

To keep my brain alive (as well as sharpen my already keen multitasking skills), I have found loads of pleasant ways to distract myself from the monotony of my copy-paste, shuffle-step-ball-change routine.

For instance, obsessively checking the FedEx tracking site for the location of my eagerly awaited iPod. My heart gave a little flutter when, just now, I read: On FedEx vehicle for delivery. After Shanghai (am I the only one who thought these things came from California?), Anchorage, Memphis and finally an unbearable seven minutes just sitting “at local FedEx facility,” it’s so close I can almost hear it!

Imagine how tired you are of hearing about the iPod of dreams; waiting for it is even more obnoxious!

So now that it’s on a truck and there’s nothing left to do (short of running out to the street in search of that FedEx vehicle), I’m back to my previously instituted methods of distraction: reading blogs, emailing the PWSWM and planning Sarah B’s future wedding. I get to be the flower girl. And wear moon boots. To date, no groom has been selected, but we’re all squared away on the color scheme. Come to think of it, there may not be many more details to iron out. You know, besides the groom thing.

I am so going to kiss the FedEx guy when he gets here.

*Gasp!*

The finalists have just been announced for the 2005 Bloggies.

This Fish is up for Weblog of the Year!

Now, it would be useless to even try to be coy about this — I’m giddy as can be! So all I’m gonna say is: Catch the giddy. Go vote!

(And Stephanie is up for ‘Best Writing’. I’m just sayin’.)

When I came into my apartment just now, shaking packed snow out of the cuffs of my too-long jeans, I wished that, despite the cold, my errands had kept me out a little longer.

From his cozy spot on my plush, camel-colored sofa, Sir Hal yawned and squinted at me with an unmistakable, “Do not disturb.” I chose to ignore him. I kissed the top of his tuxedo-black head with my cold, mocha-flavored lips and then abandoned him in favor of swapping icy jeans for the yoga pants hanging on the back of the bathroom door. From the bathroom skylight, afternoon sun was pouring in through the rounded portals that had melted through the several-inch thick snow. I was glad to see the sun; it was reason I’d wanted to invent more errands or prolong the distance between mine this afternoon.

I’d woken up with this morning with two very distinct cravings. Strangely enough (and very much out of character) I wasn’t hungry. My appetite, instead, called for rich coffee and really good fiction. The Barnes & Noble gift card on the desk in my living room would satisfy both, and so I slid out of bed feeling decidedly less poor than my $20.07 bank balance would have suggested. Oh, the price one pays for iPod celebrations.

It was after 11:00 when I finally stepped into the shower. I stood for a long time in the stream of water, looking up at the pyramid-shaped recess in my ceiling, watching steam melt circles into the ice outside. By the time I was washed up, dried off and wiping the moisture off the mirror with the sleeve of my robe, the bathroom was lit up by midday sun.

Sunlight. It’s what I have been missing most on these frigid winter mornings. There’s something so very unmotivating about getting ready for work when the world is still dark.

When I first moved into this apartment, the idea of a skylight in the bathroom made me uncomfortable (a fear of voyeurism only compounded when a lover announced he’d like to watch me shower from above). I went to the roof that very afternoon to see for myself if this was possible. It was not. And from then on, I was very much in love with Peeping-Tom-Proof bathroom skylight.

In the summer, I took my time getting ready in the warm, natural light, a small but necessary pick-me-up to start my work day. But what with daylight hours drastically shortened — hardly existent at all, it seems — I stare up at the skylight in the morning, see nothing but night, and dread the idea of being awake. I’d almost forgotten how much I appreciated — and missed — my exotic bathroom feature at all until this morning, when through the crystal snow, cold, bright light streamed in, bouncing off white ceramic fixtures, and seducing me into an afternoon excursion.

Now that I’m back home, watching the sun fade from my living room windows and the bathroom glow recede down the hall, it’s even more seductive. I’m going to put on a dry pair of jeans, forget my really good fiction, and take in the last remaining minutes of afternoon sun. I’ll create a new errand or simply buy another cup of coffee and go watch the ice on the East River. Because tomorrow, when my alarm propels me to wake, and I’m getting ready for work under the darkness of my winter skylight, I’ll be sorry to have wasted today.

Yesterday was Thursday — the day I had penciled on my calendar as Getting Over It Day.

I figured that while initially it had been a flippant comment made in an angry post, it wasn’t such a bad idea to put a statute of limitations on my moping. Mope with real intent and then just stop. A week should be sufficient. The relationship didn’t last very long, nor was it overly involved. We didn’t say, have a song or anything. (Though, we did agree we’d always have Team America — which speaks to the relative sentimentality of the whole affair, I think.) Still, it had been a good thing and it was going to be missed.

So, I spent the week missing it. I watched pouty movies, I read chick lit and I overindulged in my favorite comfort foods. Godiva ice cream, anything with melty cheese, noodles. Chocolate.

Come Thursday, I felt disgusting. I knew I’d succeeded in Getting Over It when I didn’t want to eat any of those things anymore. I wanted a Gala apple, my yoga mat and never to see another caramel-filled Hershey’s kiss as long as I lived. My favorite jeans are the ones I can put on without unzipping. And at the rate I’ve been going, I was either going to have to promote a larger pair to “favorite” or I’d have to start using the zipper. Unthinkable.

Come Thursday, I was healed. And it wasn’t just that the urges to binge-eat had subsided, so had the heavy discontent that was driving those urges. It may sound silly, but after a steady history of bad relationship behavior, this last week of dedicated moping was a step into the light. It was the absolute best thing I could have done for myself.

In one of our many daily emails, I told Biscuit that my week was up and that I was, strangely enough, very over it.

“Congratulations!” He replied. “Have you done anything to celebrate?”

I had not. And when I thought about it, what better way to end a pity party once and for all, than by celebrating? So, I did. It arrives sometime next week.

“I’ve hit a milestone,“ she said. “And I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry.”

My mother had, after long last, found herself in possession of one very empty nest. We decided on celebrating. Actually, we decided on cele-shopping and cele-dining, in honor of The Finally Empty Nest and my 26.5. Yesterday was my half birthday, which, although never noted in the past, had suddenly become a reason to buy things.

We tromped around Bloomingdale’s sniffing perfumes until our noses went numb and then headed straight up the escalators to buy me a pink coat. Okay, maybe that wasn’t our actual destination, but as soon as the pink tweedy goodness was tucked safely inside the Big Brown Bag, it seemed like a fair enough raison d’etre, never mind an excellent raison du shopping.

I think my mother bought something, too, but the gloriousness that was my new, rosy pink outerwear rendered me unaware. All consuming. Not unlike my love for Topher Grace.

My mother’s every-other-month business trips are her chance to see that, for at least one meal, I am well fed. And when cele-dining, really well fed. We slid our way on icy sidwalks from Bloomingdale’s down 58th Street to Felida, where I was temporarily separated from The Pink Coat and ushered upstairs to dinner. We celebrated empty nests and half birthdays with things like pear ravioli and veal tenderloin. Mom had the veal. It makes me feel like I’m eating a pet. Several courses and fifteen hours later, and I’m still stuffed to the gills. Hee. Gills. Get it? Anyway…

I’m hoping we get to celebrate 26.75 in the same manner. You know, just in time for spring shoes.

I drink 10 glasses of water every day. I know for certain, because I keep a little tally on a post-it note by my keyboard. I count servings of fruits and vegetables in the same manner. This makes me feel good about myself — like I’ve achieved some small, yet ultimately important success. Flail and fail with other challenges as I may, I will be properly hydrated, and that’s worth something!

I know it doesn’t sound like much, and if I’m ever biographied, adherence to the Food Guide Pyramid is certainly not going to be cataloged with any of my lifetime successes. But since lifetime success are so few and far between, I’m going to be happy with the “tada!” feeling I get when I finish my broccoli.

We all know it’s all about the little things anyway, right? Funny how it seems sorta pathetic in print, though.

For an afternoon outing with Biscuit, we had decided to meet at Union Square’s Virgin Records. I arrived a few minutes early. Waiting led to browsing, and browsing led to buying, and I left the store with my very own copy of Down with Love. I know very well that my $10 movie selection fits right in there on the List of Things to do When Feeling Broken Hearted along side binge-eating and impulsive make-over decisions. After a weekend filled with the consolation of good friends and carbohydrate therapy, one can only sigh and say, “How appropriate.”

I am, coincidentally, looking for a good colorist in Manhattan. Personal recommendations would be greatly appreciated.

While still firmly entrenched in the anger stage, I’m hoping to schedule in some acceptance in the not-too-distant future. Sure, I was self-contained and comfortable — with no expectations of meeting, becoming involved and then summarily uninvolved with anyone, but that is what happened nonetheless. And as absolutely infuriating as it all is, I’m simply going to have to move past it and onto (or rather, back to) self-contained and comfortable. I’ll pencil it for Thursday.

As a matter of insult and injury, his Christmas gift is still sitting here on my computer desk (though he knows about the gift, a series of rather…distracting events kept it from actually exchanging hands). It’s of no use to me, too expensive to simply throw away and too individualized to give to someone else. What to do, what to do. Perhaps on Thursday (Get Over It Day), I’ll pack it up and send it off to its rightful owner. It’s the appropriate thing to do, I suppose, and one fewer memento to dust.

I am never quite sure of the order in one is supposed to run the emotional gamut, as it pertains to dealing with loss. I’m pretty sure there’s a “denial” in there (not really my style) and ultimately despair (which I’m begging that we skip altogether), but as I’ve spent the last day being angered — nay, enraged — at the Universe for my latest loss, I’m hoping it’s a sign that I’m almost finished with the whole process.

I woke up this morning with the theme song to Degrassi Junior High weighing my head down against my new, maybe too expensive sheets (See, I bought them in that typical New Man, New Bed spree that mystically makes a girl need — I mean, really need — 600 thread count sheets). Anyway, the opening line from the Degrassi theme was playing in my head

Wake up in the morning, feelin’ sad and lonely…

and suddenly, on top of sad and lonely, I was feeling mad — fiercely angry at the Universe (not at Joe, mind you) — that I even had to be feeling sad and lonely. Why? What purpose does this serve? Being taunted with bits of bliss, only to be let down seems cruel. Seems? It is cruel and it makes me mad. Why can’t I just be left contented, unmoved and unburdened by the loss that comes with failed expectations (even in usually large doses, boredom can surely be no worse than the cruelty that is disappointment) and skip a situation that the result of which would cause a girl to need to know the stupid stages of loss?

I’m angry. I know I said that. But I want to make it clear that I find this whole thing unnecessary and maddening.

I was doing fine. And short of the fulfillment of the cop-in-uniform fantasy, what did I get for my troubles? Sheets I can’t afford and an $85 bottle of wine we never got around to drinking. I’d go ahead and pour myself a glass or two now, you know, to dull the pain. But I make a really shoddy angry drunk. Something about the wobbly chin is unconvincing.

It was really quite painless. We ripped off the band-aid over the phone. He was busy and unable (unwilling?) to give time to a relationship and ultimately I, in true Little Mermaid fashion, wanted more. So, we called it off. It was the smart thing to do. We laughed and made overtures to hang out again sometime and when I hung up the phone, I felt rather okay about the whole thing. Fun while it lasted. Better now than later. That sort of thing.

Well, perhaps I am not as okay as I thought. Just now, a client called to express his displeasure at some mundane, not-my-responsibility minutia. I hung up the phone, went into the bathroom and cried. There’s a knobby lump in my throat and I want a hug, warm blankets, and a box of tissues. And maybe some Godiva vanilla ice cream with chocolate caramel hearts.

I didn’t expect such a comparatively minor romantic disappointment to be this… well, disappointing. Sarah pointed out that at least I now know there are ‘nice, honest, straightforward men out there. Maybe the next one will be ready.’

Maybe. Too bad I really liked this one.

Right now, I am so frustrated I can barely blink. I am hanging on to my sanity by the thin thread that is my weekend plans. I’m telling you right now that if the Universe (or any of its inhabitants) fucks with the following in any way, there will be untold suffering. Yes, I will cut you.

On Saturday evening, all of our old pals from Boston will be coming to celebrate C’s birthday. This is very much needed. Not only do I miss them all terribly, but I’m in great need of that thing that happens inside you the moment you walk into a bar and get Normed. You know, like in Cheers. Norm! (Only, in my case, it’ll probably be Heather!) All I know is I need some of that familiarity and ease, and a couple of lemon drop shots.

On Sunday afternoon, Biscuit and I are going to indulge in rich hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows and wander around the Frick being in love with Fragonard and El Greco and Bellini. This is also very much needed — the chocolate, the art, and some quality time with my platonic husband.

And on Monday afternoon, Sarah and I are going to do things we will not blog about.

Until then, I will continue staring at my computer screen, not blinking, and begging the Universe to please, for fuck’s sake, refrain from interfering with my happiness. At least for the weekend.

It used to be that each time I passed Loud Larry’s office, I would learn something new about the world. One day it was a lesson on tolerance as Loud Larry screamed, ‘He’s homosexual. And there’s nothing wrong with that!” into his cell phone. Another time it was, “Even rich people get cancer.” Damn. There goes my prevent-an-early-death investment plan.

Sometimes, I think Loud Larry must be God himself. Oh, the things he knows!

These days, because of an office shuffle, I sit very, very close to Larry. I don’t have to take sporadic trips to the fax machine to garner wisdom (and snag a peak at a really bad hairpiece) anymore; all I gotta do is show up to work. Although, lately, Larry’s got fewer sage sayings and much, much more complaining to do.

“I couldn’t sit! I was in agony!”

And that was the beginning of Loud Larry’s tale of penile discomfort. One botched surgery and Larry was an unhappy fellow. I’ll omit the details.

One afternoon as Kate and I were sitting in Central Park, nursing scalding hot chocolate, a handful of people took the bench next to us. They began talking. VERY loudly. Reminded of Loud Larry, I started to tell Kate about the office Wiseman. I spoke in low tones, telling her about his phone rants and ridiculous sayings, and was soon overpowered by our new neighbors.

“Well, Larry said…”

I stopped talking and stared at Kate as the voice continued. It spoke of Larry, providing details about his girlfriend (who I hear about all the time. Did you guys know she works on BROADWAY? Oh yes. She’s very important) and Larry’s Rabbi (who is often the object of Larry’s rants on penile troubles).

Kate and I eventually gathered our wits and wandered off wondering if the louds just flock together. I can’t imagine what their cocktail parities are like. They’re probably held in soundproof vaults –

This just in! Loud Larry says, “Who will ever know the truth?”

A wiser man there has never been.

I sat in the sound booth at NPR last night, staring past a serious-looking microphone, with equally serious-looking headphones cupped to my ears and an almost familiar voice on the other end said,

“Well, I’m not sure she’s the right person. She doesn’t sound at all like a 13 year old boy.”

Oh the relief!

From Washington D.C. came the questions, and in my booth in New York, I supplied what I hoped were sufficient answers. Overall, I thought it had gone well. You know, minus the nervous giggling and the having to re-read because of a strange new inability to pronounce syllables separately from one another.

I read excerpts from This Fish and answered questions about my relationship with Ben – how we first came in contact, when we met. Connecticut. It was a bit surreal.

Ben and I are worlds away from the kind of relationship we had a year, even six months ago. That we dated, that we were… involved isn’t so far removed that it’s unbelievable; it’s simply in the past. Left behind. And I can most honestly say I would not have it any other way. I don’t mourn the passing of our old iteration. Because there were a lot of not good times. But even now, there are also very few days (maybe three in a month) that we aren’t in contact of some sort. That anything good came of us is a brilliant miracle and a testament to friendship. And to change. And never was this all more clear to me than last night, sitting in the sound booth, reviewing my past.

Leaving the studio, I stepped onto the street, prayed for heavy editing (had I said too much?) and lifted my ringing cell phone.

“Heeeeey! How did it go?”
“I was so nervous, Joe.”
“Nah, I bet it was awesome. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I’m just ducking into the subway…”
“Alright, sweetie. I’ll try to call you later from work.”

I paused at the ‘sweetie,” a bit surprised at him for saying it — and at myself for liking the sound of it.

Times, they are a-changin’.

The other evening, as I was going about my vitamin-floss-brush routine, I happened to glance at the back of my bathroom door. Hanging on either of the two shiny silver hooks were my white terrycloth bathrobe and my oversized bath towel. Despite the fact that they always hang there, I was suddenly struck with the thought, “Hey, that’s mine.”

I looked around the bathroom, mentally cataloguing. Hand lotion. Mine. Toothbrush. Mine. Then I followed this notion throughout the rest of the apartment. Tea kettle. Mine. Floor lamp. Mine. Computer, comforters, cat. Mine, mine, mine.

While I’ve never been unhappy living alone (the privacy and freedom it affords me are immeasurable comforts), I’d never quite taken a moment out to appreciate that it means I am one hundred percent uncompromised in the ownership of my space. It’s a very grown-up, powerful sort of feeling that I can’t help bask in. At the same time, I’m not sure it doesn’t have its downsides.

Remember that thing called sharing? A while back, Joe disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. I pushed misplaced furniture back into its spots, up-righted a fallen vase of flowers, and when I heard the shower stop, I grabbed a fresh towel from the linen closet.

“Here,” I said through the bathroom door. “A fresh towel.”
“Ah, that’s okay. I just grabbed one off the rack.”
“Um… “
“Is that wrong? I haven’t used it yet… I can put it back.”

I had to laugh at myself.

“No, Joe. It really doesn’t matter.”

I threw the towel back in the closet and replayed the scene, hoping my voice didn’t belie the Obsessive Compulsive, Might Not Share Well with Others undertone.

I’ve gotten very comfortable being the master of my own universe. Everything in its place – the place I have assigned it. I’ve gotten too comfortable, happily married to my bachelor(ette)hood. And while I’m still far – VERY VERY FAR — from having any discussions about making room in closets (a single toothbrush resides in the medicine cabinet as the only evidence of his presence), I’m secretly wondering if I’m going to have a hard time sharing that color-coded, arranged-by-sleeve-length den of organization.

Yeah, I probably will. But whether it’s for the current romantic interest, or someone in the future, hard time or not, it’ll probably be worth makin’ space. You know, for something else that’s mine.

And one last thing. I hope you got a delivery yesterday. I didn’t sign the card but I got to thinking that maybe once you found out who sent them, you’d be disappointed, so I’m fessing up.

Mom

Being loved really rocks my face off.

Someone sent me flowers. No name on the card.

I fucking HATE secrets. But I really love flowers, so I guess it’s okay.

“Hmmm, I think I might want one of these.”

“You could get a fake one.”

“Fake, schmake. I want someone to suffer for it.”

I hate the sound of my own voice.

It’s foreign and irritating and… oh-so-very awkward. Don’t play me back the voicemail I left you – it’s going make me cringe and twitch and I won’t hear a damn thing except that I sound like a thirteen year old boy. I absolutely cannot bear the thought that people have to listen to that thirty second ‘Hi, It’s Heather. I’m not near my phone right now, please leave a message.”

Why are you people still friends with me after you hear that?!

But because life is just one Get Over Yourself experience after the next (that’s the sole reason bikini swimsuits were invented after all), I’ve been asked to be part of an international public radio documentary.

That’s right. My voice. On the radio.

Tomorrow evening, I’m going to go into a recording studio, giggle nervously (thank the baby jesus you won’t be able to see me biting my lower lip and peeling frantically at my fingernail polish) as I stumble all over my not-fit-for-the-airwaves voice and talk about… dating. Another thing I’m just awesome at.

I have no doubt it will be nothing but wonderful. And if not? Well, the good thing with radio is, there are no hotlinks. Which cuts way down on the hate mail.

I decided to take advantage of last night’s unseasonably mild weather and walk home. I should do that more often. My brain has been zoo lately. Maybe not a zoo. Maybe a mall parking lot at Christmas. Or the post office on tax day. Whatever. You get the idea: mass confusion.

And not that my forty-four block walk improved my state of mind any, but the air felt nice and the sky was purple. It was pleasant. Yoga was also pleasant. I made it a whole forty-eight minutes before I got completely ADD, tumbled out of side plank position and decided to spend the rest of the evening sitting around in my underwear eating cheese. If I owned a television, I’d have sat around in my underwear, eating cheese and watching reruns of The Patty Duke Show. Those wacky identical cousins!

I haven’t been feeling much like myself lately. I miss my friends, but groups of people over say, five or six make me uncharacteristically anxious and so instead I spend far too much time laying on my bed listening to last year’s depressing albums and thinking thoughts like, “Man, I really don’t feel like myself.”

(Funny how much that feels like girls’ camp.)

I turn my phone on silent so I won’t have to answer. I think my mother assumes this is special to her calls and thus I am plagued with mopey-sounding messages about how she just wants to hear my cheery voice and, am I avoiding her? How much do those voicemails make me want to call her back? It’s like American Express calling with a special offer. Oh God, don’t care. At least American Express tries to entice you by being peppy.

Speaking of peppy, maybe I should resolve to drink more coffee. I mean, if that doesn’t work, I’m seriously thinking of taking a year off to go in search of my identical cousin. There’s oodles of pep in having one of those.