I start in three weeks.

Know what makes me nervous about this interview in New York?

That they might actually offer me the job.

Roommate is counting on it and has already put in his request that a Swedish bikini model sublet my room (on the condition that she cooks topless).

My mother is counting on it and has already dedicated a portion of her tax return to bring my Smart Assed Sibling for a visit to the Big Apple this spring.

My Galpal, Em, is counting on it and has demanded that I give her something of mine before I leave (she will choose what that thing is). Oh, and that she gets to ride in the moving truck.

Em and I spent all day together shopping, eating, and talking about New York what-ifs. Only for her, it wasn’t so much a what-if, as a done deal.

Em: When I drove from your house last night, I got sadder and sadder.
H: Awwww. Emmm! I’m not going anywhere!!!!
Em: For real, I’M SO GAY
H: They might not hire me. But you’re right… you are so gay.
Em: Shut up.
H: You.
Em: I’m gonna miss you.

Watch me blow the interview. That’d sure teach ‘em.

Today, no one came into my office to bother me.

The sign on the door says, Do not Disturb. Usually, my work boyfriends totally ignore that sign. I feel rather lonely. And that’s totally worse than being constantly interrupted.

Man, I miss those silly kids.

I did it!
I did it!
I did it!

Three articles, one award submission, three qualification packages and two interview preps. DONE.

Now I gotta work on my resume. And pick up my suit. ‘Cause, yeah, I have an interview on Monday.

Who’s been up since 3AM working? ME!

I’ve got caffeine surging through my veins and I DON’T DRINK CAFFEINE.

I feel like a wind-up monkey.

If I were ever going to have an affair — you know, hypothetically speaking — I’d start by picking a remote location. Say, a dusty tent somewhere in New Mexico, or a chintzy, art deco motel in some Florida tourist trap. Or maybe an inn in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. The kind with views of the water.

I’d probably put just as much thought into choosing my lover. I’d be quite selective, I think. Perhaps I’d pick someone with a sense of adventure. The sort who’d pick me up by the belt loops of my jeans and toss me onto a king-size bed just before binding my wrists with his leather belt (not too tightly, of course). Or, maybe I’d go for the sentimental sort who’d feed me caramel pecan cheesecake in bed the next morning. Then maybe months later, I’d write about it and imagine eating the caramel pecan cheesecake off of that lover.

If I were going into details, I’d think it would be wise to keep the room temperature elevated. You know, if I chose to conduct my affair in the winter. All that heat, and the sweat… if it got too cold in the room, I just might need to keep active for much of the night in order to compensate. And there’d be no sense in wearing a lover out too quickly.

I’d probably take loads of white candles — the kind that smell like warm vanilla. I’d take massage oil. Even if I didn’t end up using it. After all, talking about using it could be fairly hot on its own, I bet. And I’d take lingerie that I wouldn’t wear for more than a few minutes. And a pair of jeans that flatter my backside. And a return ticket home, that I would try not to think about for at least 20 hours.

I’d laugh while my lover pranced naked in front of the open curtains. I’d eat too much for dessert — most of mine, some of his. Maybe frozen pears in ice cream. I’d lounge about, drinking cocktails and listening to big band music. And I’d try to sleep even though I’d be wide awake feeling his breath on the back of my neck and pretending it doesn’t make me want to wake him up doing scandalous things.

And after it was all said and done, I imagine the smallest little thing would probably remind me of that affair. Something hanging in my closet. The taste of pears. The smell of sweat and the faint taste of cigarettes on someone’s breath.

And I’d probably never really lose the temptation, every time I’m on a New York City-bound train, to get off at the quaint little depot in Old Saybrook, Connecticut.

You know, hypothetically speaking.

Yesterday was overwhelming.

In fact, for the first time since coming to the Monkey Firm, I felt like a complete failure, due to no fault of my own. While I’m used to having a whole lotta balls in the air at one time (I am quite the multi-tasker), yesterday turned into some sort of sick, sadistic juggling act. Everyone had a ball to throw my way.

If the following scene makes any sense, I offer it as an example. It is in no way exaggerated. Three people in my office and one on the phone.

Paul: I saved those drawings to the file.
H: Which file? Cheshire?
Paul: CIMIT.
H: Okay, okay. Listen, CIMIT is due Friday. Cheshire is due TOMORROW. Can ya work with me here?
Paul: I haven’t started on them…
H: I’m going to banish you again!

In walks President

President: H, I know you’re busy but {your Boss} was working on a few things…
H: (already handing him the files) These two are for your review. I finished them up last night. They go Fed-Ex to California. You have two hours. The third can go out tomorrow night, right? It’s not done.
President: Now, I know things will be tough without {Boss} around, but your progress here will be determined, in part, by how much you can produce. Oh, and I need this duplicated. One copy to {large bio-tech firm}…

Phone rings

H: This is H…
Higher Up: Hi, yeah, um {Boss} was handling the Business Week article. What are we doing about that?
H: don’t. cry. Um, Okay. Bill, I have a 4:00 free. If it doesn’t bother you to have to debrief me on the strategy, I’ll fit it in somehow. Your office at 4?
Higher Up: Fine.

In walks Chairman

Chairman: (exchanging plesantries with the others crowding my office) Those boards ready for the MGH interview on Thursday?

Three minutes later, I was in the ladies’ room, hiding in a bathroom stall.

I got nothing done yesterday and my desk is piled with half-completed tasks. They’re waiting for me right now. I dreamt about work all night. My body aches and my eyes are burning from working at this fucking computer until way past midnight last night trying to write some bullshit article about the biggest hotel in the world, and screaming inside my head, “Who the FUCK cares?”

Who the fuck cares? I do. And therein lies the problem.

Ahh!

I submitted my resume to a Company Confidential listing. I just got an email from the head honcho at one of the more respected monkey firms in New York City.

They want to interview me this week.

**PS**

If you tried to comment earlier, and it said you were blocked… My bad, kids. I sorta screwed things up. I blame the tequila.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“A job?”

We double over laughing as the confused waitress wanders away.

“Oooh! Wait! How about some dignity?”
“Look next to the salt.”

It carries on this way for a good part of the evening, the twelve of us around a long table filled with cheap Mexican food and booze. The Fireds are animated. They’ve been drinking since 3pm. I feel a little out of place until I’ve had a drink, and then we’re hugging and laughing and trash-talking.

It gets somber for a second. My boss wipes strawberry daquiri from her mouth and says, “It’s really going to suck for you there isn’t it?”

“Yes!” I say. “It’s all about me! Forget that you got laid off. I’m the one who’s really suffering!”

“I’m not kidding. What about the Business Week thing?”

“I know. I’m not going to say I didn’t think about that. But what really concerns me is who’s going to hold my purse when I go shopping at lunch.”

Work Boyfriend leans across the table, mock-drunk. “Still me!” he slurs. “Only, in my bathrobe. Are you drunk? NO! But it’s only 9AM, there’s still time!”

Plenty of time, they all chime in. And then they make up new professions. New ambitions. Work Boyfriend will drive an ice cream truck. That way, he and I are sure never to lose touch. Gay Boyfriend will model thong underwear. And my boss?

“I want to be a sex therapist.”

Cheers to that, someone says. We go back to our drinks. I lean my head into Gay Boyfriend and stay that way for a while. He knows how sorry I am; there’s no point in saying it. And I’m terrible at sincere, heart-felt moments.

We’re friends, he says. We’ll always be friends, stupid monkey job or no.

I hug him and get up to leave. Good, I say. But you do realize I’m totally going to have to find someone else to sexually harass.

And what I really mean to say is, “It’s going to be so lonely without you.”

You know how I was feeling “Uh-oh” about today? It had nothing to do with visit to New Doctor.

I have just outlived my what, fifth? round of surprise lay-offs in three years here at the Monkey Firm. Among the 15% that got the axe today were:

Work Boyfriends 1 and 2
Gay Boyfriend
My Boss

I’m going to stop there. I feel all dizzy and my fingers are numb.

Dude, why do they keep me?

I woke up this morning and before my eyes had even adjusted to the gray morning light, I felt the feeling. I sometimes wish that I didn’t get those premonitions. That I could just get blind-sided by the universe more often, and not have to know it’s coming. To have to wait for it.

I didn’t take my time getting ready. If the Universe was going to be in my face, I was going to be ready to fight. Maybe I’d even strike first. You know, put my toes to the line and let ‘er have it. Strike fast and hard, like Dad taught me. How many fathers teach their daughters to fight? Probably the same kind that teach them to use guns. And change radiator hoses.

Toes to the line. Strike first.

I left the computer in sleep mode. No time for blogging. In the shower, my stomach flipped. My hair had been falling out too easily, no matter how gently I worked the conditioner through. Roommate had noticed and even brought it up last night.

“Your hair’s been falling out a lot.”
“Side effect of the new wonder pill.”
“Or stress. Seriously, you okay?”
“Hella wicked fine.”

There’s liquid Ivory Soap in the shower. I don’t use the froo-froo stuff anymore. Too many smells too early in the morning. I move the suds down my shoulders and… is that a…

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I make the call to New Doctor as soon as I get out of the shower. His office is open at 7:30. I call at 7:15 and am not surprised that his nurse answers. She says to come in. So I miss my 8 AM and go in.

Toes to the line. Strike first.

Turns out, it’s not. New Doctor takes more blood (we do this every other week), gives me antibiotic for swollen glands and tells me to take it easy. I laugh. Don’t worry about the hair, he tells me. Your body’s just responding to the change in hormones. Duh, I think. I can read the insert. Doesn’t mean I like it.

At 9:04 AM, I’m already tired of fighting with the Universe. So, I make a cup of tea, take time to blog (cyber therapy) and decide to take it easy at work today. Unmaking my stress. J’s email is the first in my inbox when I open my Outlook.

Hey Sister Sledge,

Just thinking about you. How you doin’?

Hella wicked fine.

I lay in bed this morning, half buried under the folds of down comforters, watching morning slowly become afternoon. I read every word of Rolling Stone and bargained with myself that in another fifteen minutes, I’d get up in earnest.

Finally, the RSF called and badgered me out of bed.

“We’re going to the gym in 45 minutes. I’ll be on your porch and I am immune to your whining.”

He, however, was not immune to my powers of negotiation. A trip to the gym became a trip to the grocery store for red meat, Girl Scout cookie ice cream and curly fries.

That’s what’s called going to the gym, Sunday style.

There he is. On my caller ID.

Flip open.

“Hi you!”
Enthusiasm. Not cagey. See? I can do this.
“Hi. Yeah, so that was me calling at 1:30 this morning. I sure hope I didn’t wake you up.”
“No, I didn’t even hear it ring. Were you drunk-dialing?”
“Uh… yes. I was in rare form last night, I apologize.”
“Nothin’ doin! Getting drunk-dialed lets a gal know she’s still got it. You know, whatever it is.”
“Ha! So, what’s going on tonight? You busy?”
Zero to cagey in five… four… three… two….
“Yeah. Sorta. Grocery shopping, then hanging out with the boys.”
“Oh. Um, well, maybe I’ll run into you at Stop n Shop.”
“Maybe. Hey, I’m gonna run, okay?”
“Sure, so I’ll talk to you later in the week?”
“Yep.”

Flip closed.

Yep? Do I mean yep? Sure I do. Or maybe. I should go to the grocery store. Maybe they sell I Can’t Believe it’s not Borderline Personality Disorder. You know, in the dairy aisle next to the cans of spray cheese.

I’ve flipped open my phone three, maybe four times now, to return the missed call, only to flip it closed again.

Some days, this is what I readily admit to as being stubborn. Some days it is cagey. But right now, it’s simple indecision.

Stubborn was yesterday when his last email said, “Give me a buzz” and I thought, no, YOU give ME a buzz. I didn’t buzz. And, well, neither did he.

Flip open. Flip closed.

Stubborn was when I kept my phone on the table of that diviest of dive bars last night, drinking tequila sunrises and thinking, give me a buzz. I didn’t buzz. And neither did he.

Until 1:24 AM.

Flip open.

If I were being cagey (which I’m not!), it might be because I don’t know what I’m doing. And in such a case it’s easier to do nothing at all. Right? Of course right.

Flip closed.

But since I’m just being indecisive, I might just not know what to say when I do call him back.

Hi. Yeah, no. Just really busy. Went out with friends last night.
Hi. Were you drunk-dialing me at 1:24 in the morning?
Hi, sorry I’m so short-bus about all this. Still wanna get together?

Whatever. Something like that. I’ll just wing it.

Flip open.

“Hi,” I say to his voicemail. “It’s me. I, um…” Gah! This is going very well. Perhaps I should stick with cagey and stubborn. “Give me a buzz.”

Flip closed.

One message from the Fireman saying he is indeed coming to town next month and that we must plan a Big Night Out. Mmm hmmm. I’ll be planning alright. {insert seductive tiger growl here}

Two scoops of ice-cream at lunch. Yeah, yeah. I’ll go to the gym later.

Three emails from my Valentine, taking time out of doing scientisty things to make plans and tell me I’d look hot in his lab coat. I ::heart:: my Valentine.

Four hours spent on Overstock.com looking at things I would buy if I were not so dilligently paying off my credit cards. Do I need a black beaded Prada tank top? No. But do I want it? Hells yes. Good thing I left my credit card at home in the freezer. And yes, it’s actually IN the freezer.

Five attempts (all thwarted by actual assignments) to sneak out of the office for the rest of the day on an “off-site meeting.” Will someone please add “tanning salon” to the roster as an official meeting? I’m tired of fighting this battle.

If

you live in a climate that is currently sunny and at LEAST 80 degrees, and somewhat in proximity of a beach…

Then

could you please invite me to come visit for a few days?

And could you please call it a “family emergency”?

Thank you in advance.

I can’t do it again today.

I can’t eat my healthy breakfast, make my bed and put on uncomfortable shoes and go back to that place.

I can’t meet another impossible deadline, take one more Jeckyl-and-Hyde moment from my boss’s boss and not get paid enough to do it.

I
give
up.

After producing what normally would have been three or four weeks’ work in five days, my department was using yesterday to re-group. It was a fine enough day, the first, we thought, in which we could take a second to breathe. By 3PM El Presidente was yelling (red-in-the-face yelling) at me over something way beyond my control. And by 5PM (the issue having been resolved), I surrendered. Walked out the door.

And I’m sitting here this morning, wet-haired, in my big, soft white robe thinking, “I can’t do it again today.”

I do believe this is what they call an unconditional surrender.

For someone who loathes the gym, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time there. Why suddenly decide to brave the guidos, stalker personal trainers and all-around stink fest that is my local Bally Total Fitness? I’ll tell you why. The men in my life.

And here they are, in no particular order, the masculine motivating factors for going back to the gym:

My Gym Buddy

If my persistence gets Trip to the gym on a semi-regular basis, and he passes his PT Test for the Sheriff’s office this spring, I cash out. That’s right. I nag him to go to the gym and he PAYS me. In case you missed that, I’m getting paid to nag. Now, not being a nagger by nature (in fact, being a very poor nagger even with practice), this isn’t quite as easy as it sounds. But, seeing as Trip and I will probably be forced into a back-up marriage at some point within the next 10 years, it’s beneficial that I learn how to badger him early on. And get a couple hundred bucks while I’m at it.

My Brother

The challenge has been set. When he graduates from the police academy in June, my brother and I are going on one of our Wilderness Adventures. In college (when I was, shall we say, not so squishy as I am now), our Wilderness Adventures meant anything from strapping on snowshoes and a 60-pound pack in the dead of winter, to Colorado white water runs. I’m through with the whole, sacrifice my body on a Class Five river run (remember that?), so the specific challenge is still up for debate. I chose desert. He chose mountain. Sweet lord, let it be desert. I don’t care how many hours I bust it at the gym, I’m not going to have the sort of stamina I did back in the day. And I have some pride to save here. You know, seeing as this was my idea and all. Ahem.

My Doctor

I’m now convinced that he’s not out to prevent future non-cancerous breast tissue, but rather construct a race of ravenously hungry, water-retaining she-beasts. And I’m having none of it! Okay, the new rack was one thing (I can skip the bra and still have cleavage. Who’s complaining??), but I swear to god, if I wake up just one more morning feeling like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I’m gonna have a melt down.

And last, but not least,

The Man

You know, as in THE Man. I have yet to set a date for my interview with the NY Monkey Firm (don’t worry, they’re in no hurry) because I can’t quite shimmy into my best suit. It’s either shell out another $400 for a new one, or get thee to Bally. I don’t even remember being such a cute size six, but I clearly was once, and I went suit shopping. Silly girl.

(Oooh, and according to my source — good morning, source! — we may have a mainland siting of the Cute Fireman next month. Huzzah! I won’t officially add him to the list as that would just be… silly. Mmm hmmm.)

Friday night’s trip to Bizarreville was courtesy of my boss, who for some time, has been trying to get me to meet her upstairs neighbor, Kevin. Kevin the, 30-something, scruffy faced, SUV-driving, software engineer with loads of money, upstairs neighbor. And previous to Friday night’s weirdness, I had been thinking that he seemed just about right.

WRONG!

Boss: So, what did you think of Kevin?
H: Well, truthfully, I felt a bit… mauled.
B: Aw, I’m sorry. He’s so cute though, right?
H: Cute?! He bit me on my stomach! After just meeting me!
B: Yeeeeah, he called the next day to apologize for being so drunk and silly…
H: I seemed to have missed that apology.
B: Oh, come on! You guys seemed to get on so well!
H: I get on well with LOTS of people. That usually not a reason suspect they’ll lift my shirt and bite me on the bare stomach!

Turns out, Kevin the upstairs neighbor is more like, Kevin the, 30-something, condescending, not-good at kissing, too aggressive when drunk, upstairs neighbor.

Singledom may get lonely, but one thing’s for certain. The world will never be that cold and dark.

Thank god for back-up boyfriends. And cats.

I’m not perfect.

I know, shocker. And after you regain your composure, I’ll tell you which imperfection I’m currently obsessed with. But first, you must promise you’ll love me anyway. Go on, promise. Thank you. Here we go then:

I have one love handle.

Being of the curvier variety, I try to keep a fairly well-defined waistline. It’s the key difference between hourglass and obelisk. But last year, as I became more sluggish in the long, way-too long winter months, I found myself sporting a love handle. Those in the know can vouch for its existence…and the lack of an accompanying one on the other side. Of small relief, I have to say it is a small lovehandle. I mean, it doesn’t overlap my belt or poke out of my shirts. But it is there, nonetheless, taunting me with its asymmetry.

But I ask you, why is it there?! Is it a tumor? An alien child? Does it exist for the sake of harmony, to balance out the cute little appendix scars on my right side? Do I need uglying up? I mean, come on!

I suppose a possible solution would be to grow one on the other side in order to create symmetry — which, as we all know is the key to aesthetics. But that kind of “aesthetic” would not be aesthetic at all. And would certainly rule out any co-ed, clothing optional activities. Will the Ab-doer save me? Or am I destined to live out my life as a lopsided individual?

I know many people lead perfectly normal lives with lopsided bodies. I have had many roommates with one foot bigger than the other or one breast bigger than the other. I have two matching feet and two matching breasts…. so I suppose I deserve this:

The love handle of shame.

CBS is once again busy handing out apologies, and I’d like to get in on that action.

I’d like my apology to be issued on an white linen 4×6 card, embossed with the CBS logo and signed by the following:

At least one member of the current Survivor cast
David Letterman
Marg Helgenberger (or suitable CSI replacement)
Paul from As the World Turns (I don’t care what his real name is and I don’t want to know, so if he could just sign it “Paul,” previous to rubbing it on his manly chest, that would be fine.)

I haven’t decided what to be offended over yet, but while everyone is getting apologies, I don’t want to be left out.

First this whole Janet fiasco… I’d have gotten on board with that woman suing on behalf of the American public, but instead of being offended, I was slightly turned on. And I’m sure that would have come out in court and ruined everything. And now, the Native America Cultural Center is upset about OutKast’s Jell-o green Indian motif outfits during the Hey Ya! performance. And while I thought Lime Jell-o would be the first to throw a fit, it seems the NACC is really in a tizzy.

Perhaps I’d better pre-empt the NACCs wrath by issuing my own apology regarding those occasions I wore turquoise jewelry during my prairie skirt phase. I’m sorry. Really. But come on, it did seem cool at the time.

I guess none of us should be surprised when there’s some big Ophthalmologic uprising over the fact that CBS doesn’t use an anatomically correct model of the eye for its logo.

I have heartburn.

You know, the actual literal “I can’t lay down or the lava will erode my tonsils” kind of heart burn.

I’ve become accustomed to sitting up nights bothered by the metaphorical kind, sobbing myself into a snotty little heap in front of my Dell. But this… this is new. And it’s driving me fucking crazy.

And Tums? HA! Forget about it. That shit ain’t cutting it.

This is totally what it must be like to get old.

When he emailed me Friday afternoon and asked if I would be his valentine, I said yes. (Actually, I said YES!!! Why mask my enthusiasm?)

I spent my Valentine’s Day recovering from Friday night’s experience with reckless abandon and about three too many mojitos. It’s all sort of patchy, but I had to applaud myself when I woke up Saturday morning in my own bed. Alone. Because really, from the way the previous night had been going, it was quite a feat of mind over mojo.

I cat napped all afternoon, finally putting in a couple of hours of work when the constant nightmares about my current deadline wouldn’t let me ignore it any longer. I ordered Thai food and tried to decide which short black skirt to go out in. I settled on jeans. Afterall, it was my valentine’s day, and who was I trying to impress? My Valentiness already love me.

Thge four of us hung in for a few hours and then made our way to a local college bar (read: Frat Daddy Infestation) where I sat looking out at the crowd thinking, “THIS is what’s out there? No wonder I don’t go trolling.” The one good thing about a room full of over-confident, preppy boys is that you start to feel really satisfied about being single.

I mean, it’s a little hard to feel sorry for yourself when you’re too busy feeling sorry for several dozen jokers with upturned collars on their Izods. Freaks.

He grabbed my ponytail and pulled, his kiss starting at my collarbone and working its way up. He got to my lips, and I asked for a phonebook and called a cab.

Why?

Because, this is how it always seems to start, and I’m a little tired of how it ends up.

Though, it is nice to have your hair pulled every now and again.

Phil Seibert

Visionary, mentor and greatest rascal ever to have graced the Monkey Firm.

Gone, but certainly not forgotten. Happy hour will never be the same.

Always with fondness,

H

ps

we are having oreos and milk in your honor. right now. in the lobby. it’s not like you to be late.