Can’t talk now.

I think I’m about to be fired.

*** update****

Not fired. Not clear as to exactly what just happened, when I do figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.

Oh, and I got an interview in NY for a big monkey firm. Score.

If J left me with anything at all, it was a sense of my own limitations. And of my limits. Those two not being the same thing.

It wasn’t that at the end of two years, he chose someone else. It was that time and time again, during those years, he didn’t chose me. Repeatedly. I’d find some girl’s hair on his pillows, or hear his bandmates talking about another one back stage at some small town show. And I’d know where he’d been when he stood me up.

We never talked about it.

Because he’d covered his bases! After we’d broken up the second time and gotten back together, we were still not “together.” He loved me, he said. But he wasn’t sure if he loved me.

I went along with it. Why? Why do I do any of the foolish and vain things I do? Because I did. Because I was set on making my own mistakes. And because I loved him.

But when he came to bed on Valentine’s Day last year, smelling of her, of the girl we’d just met in the hot tub, I’d finally found my limits. I could not let my ego take one more beating. And I’d found my limitations. I could not make someone love me.

What’s interesting (funny even?) is that tonight, just thinking about it, my ego feels just as battered as it did then. The voice in my head kept me from falling asleep just now saying, “Don’t kid yourself. You’re not so tough.” as I thought about the final legacy J left me.

I can’t let my ego take one more beating. I cannot make someone love me.

And I don’t really want them to.

Mystic Michael called my desk sometime around two and asked if he could bring me some chocolate. Of course, I said.

I’ve spent all day deciding whether to actually get upset over the fact that my Valentine’s Date has cancelled on me. And while I’m not heartbroken over it, it was nice to have plans with someone who’d put some thought into it all. He does have a good excuse. Mostly. But for all his talk about taking a different approach to courting yours truly, it’s fairly amusing that he’s behaving just like all the others.

It’s just a Man Thing. What can you do?

Well, for one you can let Michael buy you chocolate and tell you how great your boots are. And for another, you can let Stella talk you into going to New York City Saturday night to get too drunk and totter around in too-tall shoes, flirting wildly like you used to do before disappointment made you forget just how great that is.

And you can decide that you will go home early tonight, mix up some strawberry margaritas (even though you no longer drink during the week), watch Ten Things I Hate About You and go to bed very tipsy.

But first, you’ll have some more chocolate. Because it’s been a double chocolate kind of day.

Fat day, fat day…

I didn’t ever really believe in the tooth fairy. But I believe, with all of my soul, in the Fat Fairy. You know, that evil little winged bitch who comes and waves her cellulite wand over you while you sleep and poof! when you wake up, it’s like magic!

Nothing fits!

Tell me you have days like this:

Days where your clothes don’t look right on you and your thighs touch in just too many places and the world would be a much better place if you could go to work in your pajamas — clothes without waistlines or shape at all. Days where the only item of clothing that fits, you’re wearing on your feet, and even your feet seemed to have put on weight over night. Where are my ankles? Just how much sodium did I ingest yesterday?!

A ring that was too loose yesterday is now snug on my finger. I let my belt out a notch. I actually fill in all the space in my bra (Ok, that’s a bonus).

And NO it is not that time of the month.

I’ve been eating better, busting my ass at the gym five times a week and this is how the Universe repays me?

Back in the day, I used to think that the Fat Fairy worked for my little sister, so that on Fat Fairy Days, I’d just throw one of my frustration tantrums and give her all my clothes. I don’t think that anymore.

Nope. I’m convinced that The Fat Fairy works for a greater evil. A dark, dark force as yet unidentified. I’m on to her, though. And one of these days, I’m bringing her evil little fairy ass down.

And I’m putting it in jeans 2 sizes too small.

This morning really kicked my ass.

And just now, I sat down to write a bitter little diatribe about all the ways I was pissed off and diappointed all before 10 AM, but even I don’t write that anymore than you want to read it.

So let’s talk about gettin’ my groove on, Latin style.

And how tonight also really kicked my ass. But in a good way.

The Adorable Instructor, as he shall henceforth be known, rocked my little gringa world. A few of my dance partners also rocked my world, but that’s another story altogether. Adorable Instructor is a silver-haired flamboyantly gay man who laughs at his own jokes and suddenly yells things like “Cease fire!” to a room full of bodies moving awkwardly to their own rhythms.

Quick, quick, slow.

“Cease fire!”

And we all stop and watch him try to find his words. Or rather, for him to slow down enough so that we may interpret them. He’s a lively one.

I had only one real salsa lesson before in my life, in a downstairs dive bar in a section of Madrid, known for prostitution. My instructor was a hooker named Chary. She wore purple vinyl that crinkled audibly when we moved.

“Adelante. Para atras…”

I learned a few really great swears from Chary as well, but those left less of an impression than the sudden discovery that my hips would move that way. And move that way they did again tonight.

Any dance lesson I learned from her has slowly been diluted by my attendance at gringo clubs, forgetfulness and the lack of trained partners. But after Adorable Instructor and his entourage of machismos get through with me, I’m going to be one hot blooded, salsa-dancing machine.

I have some DLG on the stereo, and can feel my quads are a little tight from dancing. And my face hurts from smiling. Which totally beats how I started off the day.

Vale!

I’m sitting around in my underwear eating brie.

Okay, no I’m not really. I’m swamped at work, frantic and crazed. And basically every man alive (excepting maybe Paul Gutman and Brian) will most likely end up on my Shit List at least once today. Some will remain on said Shit List on a semi-permanent basis.

Krissa, come talk me out of my breadtruck.

Saturday morning, while watching Kitten follow the sunny spot across the bed in her usual napping pattern, Harris and I agreed to grow old together.

We’ll be aloof to the neighbors in order to lend an air of mystery, to give us some appeal in our old age. We’ll keep kittens, have tea time (no biscuits – we’ll be watching our figures), and breakfast on yogurt and organic granola. He’ll write songs and I’ll write… anything but songs, and we’ll fancy one another in peace and harmony for the rest of our days. There will be rocking chairs involved at some point, I imagine. And he’ll allow me to eat ice cream right out of the carton, just so long as I share.

And all this can be mine if neither of us is married by age 35.

Trip and I formed a similar arrangement earlier this year, but I have to say, it lacks much of the appeal of the Harris Agreement. I have promised Trip only a passionless marriage and two bitter children. There would be no fancying, no rocking chairs and no kittens (as Trip is allergic).

It’s all about having the Back-Up Plan. You know, preventing the whole dying-alone-with-your-cat thing, while at the same time, leaving the present open to all sorts of romantic possibilities with whomever should happen along.

It’s not a bad deal, really, being the Back-Up Girl. While it’s not as pleasant as being someone’s One and Only, being number two on a whole lot of lists is something, right? So I’m not the girl he wakes up thinking about, but at least I am the first one that comes to mind when the object of his real affections isn’t pulling her share.

It’s like romantic bench-warming or something.

The comment:

“Fish, no, I’m not bitter. But that’s the usual reaction of vain women to criticism. I gave your blog a chance and in the past have praised you – as you know. Oddly, while you were in the throes of J pain, you seemed to write. Now you’re a steady diet of “look at me look at me” with no expression of interest in anything outside your own need for attention. It’s just boring. So yeah, I’m going to stop reading. I appreciate writers not jewish princesses.”

The response:

Okay, first thing’s first. I was raised Mormon, not Jewish.

And now that we got THAT out of the way…

Vain? I’d have to out on a limb and say yours is the reaction of one rabidly unhappy woman. Honestly, if you read here you’ll see that I debase myself more often than praise myself. Some days, I feel like hiding in my room with all the blinds pulled shut. And some days, I want to prance around singing selections from West Side Story. I do believe that is what one would call normal.

J had a way of eroding my self-confidence that made me deeply miserable. The fact that I’m not now, and that it bothers you, speaks nothing of my writing. What I have always been a steady diet of is… well, me. Me then was morose and self-conscious. Me now, is less so. Much less so.

I don’t always have something deep and meaningful to write about here. But it’s my journal and if I want to write about sitting around in my underwear eating brie, then that’s what I’m gonna do. If I want to post about loving my ass three days in a row, I will. I guarantee there will be just as many posts about hating it. And if it’s boring, don’t read it! You won’t be missed.

Look at me. Look at me.

Last night, I agreed to dinner and a movie with the RSF on the condition that we hit the gym first.

I figure it’s not exactly cheating on my gym buddy, since we’re not, you know, exclusive. It’s a big gym. I can’t be tied to one buddy.

I had just found my running zen, heart, feet, salsa rhythm all keeping the same beat, when it hit me. The Stink. Now, if there’s two people on a long row of treadmills, one of which being me, and I know I didn’t create that funky smell… Well, you get the picture. Farting Guy totally stunk me right out of the happy running zone.

I retreated to the suana.

Steamed, showered and hungry, the RSF and I opted for dinner in Harvard Square, which shall henceforth be known as Really Slippery Icy Nightmare Square. And the incident in which I fell, and lay laughing on the sidewalk, shall be known as That’s Gonna Hurt in the Morning.

And indeed it does.

I’m sporting a bruise the size of a small Baltic nation right on my ass and my wrist looks like I tried out for Ninja Amateurs Night. At least I was smart enough to ice it before bed. On several cold margaritas.

Now that’s thinkin’.

Thursday nights, I have a standing gym date with my buddy Trip (so named for being the third, as in Gilligan’s Thurston Howell III). Last night, feeling fritzed out from work, I pestered him into taking me to a movie. He was resistant, but I employed charm, pouting and when that didn’t work, I simply told him he was taking me out.

Trip: Can’t we stay in and watch one?
H: No. We’re going out. The movie is at 7:50.
Trip: What about the gym?
H: We have to be at the gym by 6:15, shower there, get out the door by 7:30 and head to the theater.
Trip: I hate showering at the gym cause I never know what’s going on with the germs on the floor.
H: It’s no worse than the germs on the machines
Trip: Blech… ick. I can never go to the gym again.
H: Yes, you can. Stop worrying
Trip: But how else will I keep my throat ulcer?
H: Hmmm… Battery acid?

(We saw Along Came Polly. The irony did not escape him.)

Basking in my spontaneity, we raced from the gym to the theater, got our tickets and headed in to the nearly empty theater. Nearly empty, meaning, J and his new girlfriend were also there. Um, what? I was beyond thrilled, sporting my Aunt Jemima meets Pipi Longstocking look. Even more thrilling was when they sat with us. Trip nailed it on the head by saying that New Girlfriend is… “boring. Buh-or-ing. I pity the foo’.”

I have very little pity left for J, so mostly, I take amusement.

I’m watching the snow fall outside my office window and certain that any plans I had for heading to New York City tomorrow for Mr. G’s terribly tempting party are disintegrating. I suppose it’s just as well. I am trying to save money, right?

Being practical is really boring.

PS
Today I have Princess Leia hair. And if I say so myself, I look adorable. So if the Universe could please line up all my exes down Mass Ave while I walk by, I’d totally appreciate it.

My day yesterday at the Monkey Firm was nothing short of chaotic. I might have strangled myself with the cord to my endlessly ringing phone, but I was feeling so darn pleasant that none of it really got to me.

Why so happy?

It could be that I spent the morning taste-testing Hershey’s new line of double chocolate products. Double chocolate Kit-Kat? Yes, please. It could have been the random Instant Message from adorable, broody Harris that declared, “I fancy you.” Or my quirky co-worker’s sudden “H, I was just thinking that I’m glad I met you. We’re made for each other.” It could also have been a product of a Higher Up, pausing mid-meeting to thank me for my work. “I appreciate the quality of what you’ve produced for us, but more than that, I appreciate how easy you are to work with.” I am pretty sure I blushed.

How great is it to be appreciated, to have your company wanted? To be fancied?

Pretty fucking great.

Sometimes, it’s just nice to know that people are thinking of you, even when they don’t have to be. For me, there are some people who will never be out of sight, out of mind. People for whom more than a passing thought goes out during the day. I don’t often tell them. But after being the object of yesterday’s love fest, I think I will make a better effort to. It certainly couldn’t hurt.

Hey,

I’ve been thinking about you. Not in any stalker-ish sort of way or anything (please ignore the glint of binoculars). I just want you to know that you’re appreciated, wanted and fancied. And I’m glad I met you.

xo,

H

I’m wearing pigtail braids.

I
am
unstoppable.

I noticed it last night sitting in the sauna at my gym.

Bowing my head to let a bead of sweat roll down my nose, I caught an eye-full. Well, hello, there. And this morning, there wasn’t a bra among the twenty that would fit quite right (if at all). Heaven has worked a mighty miracle! Heaven or the Pill. Who’s to say?

My adorable Intern Extraordinaire said I was lucky. “You’re not gaining weight, you’re gaining volume!” Fine and dandy, I say, except for the fact that I’m simply not used to having an impressive rack and wielding such power.

It’s just a good thing I’m too tired to take them out on the town.

Margarita Tuesday has become Margarita Monday.

However, my Margarita Monday was more along the lines of Tea n’ Toast Monday (rockin’ it invalid style, yo) , but all the same, I appreciated the company.

Even though company nearly drove me nuts.

“Are you sure you’re not too tired? Do you want to go to bed?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to rough you up a bit?”
“No.”
“Seriously, are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty positive I don’t want you to rough me up a bit.”
“Shut up. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m f-i-n-e fine. And if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to punch you with the arm I can lift.”

Once my okay-ness was firmly established and my favorite obscure Brendan Fraser movie in the VCR, there was once again peace and happiness in the land. Or something like that.

I was insanely late to work this morning. After waking to find that I couldn’t lift my left arm high enough to wash my hair, everything seemed to take just a little bit longer to accomplish. And on the way to work, already angering the Punctuality Gods, I cranked up my Sheryl Crow and took the long way. The really long way. I wandered around Harvard for a bit, stopping by the Winnie the Pooh door, dropping by Starbucks for some Passion tea. Letting the sparse snow flurries park on my hatless hair. It’s been so long since the weather allowed for any wandering, that I thought I’d take advantage.

Pink up my cheeks, clear up my head.

It worked nicely. I’m bruised of body but sound of spirit. Which, everything considered, is a perfectly acceptable way to be.

Mother may I?

Yes, I may.

Turns out (as I suspected) that the ER Doc was something of a quack. I’d thought as much when, even before examining me, he was positive that all signs pointed to appendicitis. You’ll remember that I don’t have an appendix. New Doctor was very kind and told me that not only is my situation not an abnormality, one third of all women are so anatomically constructed.

A buncha pricks

The biopsy went as expected. Painful beyond all reason, of course, but indicative of yet another false alarm. I’m fine. If sore as hell is fine. I swear to God, if you bump into my left breast any time soon, I’ll rip your throat out and feed it to you. Got it?

Unlike past physicians, New Doctor (who is, if nothing, very thorough) has his heart set on figuring out exactly why I have this recurring nightmare. Early blood tests showed an elevated white blood cell count. That, combined with The Lump and swollen lymph glands had him concerned. So, today, it was back to the lab. For a girl who has an unparalleled fear of needles, I have to say I was one tough cookie. Not only did I sit through several vials of blood-letting without wincing, but I watched the biopsy. WATCHED the needle go in. Me. I did.

Those in the know are now looking at their monitors in disbelief.

Unless blood tests come back with any shocking revelations, New Doctor is operating under the assumption the cause is hormonal and prescribed for a lower-dosage estrogen birth control. Know what that means, kiddies? Mmm hmm…. for the next few weeks, it’ll be Emo City ’round these parts. In other words, business as usual. *ba dum bum ching!*

Okay, okay, I know you’re bored with all this girly doctor stuff, but we’re moving on from my boobs to Janet’s now so, relax.

Tit for tat

Accidental my ass! Janet may have looked a wee bit shocked but Justin didn’t. So Brit kissed Madonna. Justin showed us all Janet’s pastie-covered breast. I for one wasn’t shocked. Should I have been? MTV may have pissed off the NFL, but we’re all talking about it this morning so, you know what they say about ends and means. As far as marketing ploys go, this is hardly a new trick. And we know MTV is an old dog.

Down boy.

The first time this happened, I didn’t tell a single soul.

Two years ago, I didn’t say a word to my girlfriends or my roommate (who also happened to moonlight as my best friend and younger sister). I didn’t tell my parents. Instead of getting it off my chest (ah, the beauty of the double entendre) and sharing my worry, I carried it by myself. And it made me a little crazy.

I lashed out when unprovoked. I slept. I cried a lot.

The doctor had told me it was perfectly alright to bring someone with me to the appointment. Someone to hold my hand. At the time, the idea seemed ludicrous. What was I going to do? Send out an Evite? Saunter home one day from work and say “Hey, Sis. I have a lump in my breast. You’re totally invited to the biopsy on Thursday morning.”

I went alone.

Now, in light of my other medical issues, my girlfriends have been tremendous at volunteering to have my babies for me (should that be necessary), but this seemed a little out of the realm of assistance. And besides, it’s old hat. Tomorrow morning, at 8 AM, I’ll have another non-surgical biopsy. I’ll be a little nervous, but mostly because I know how fucking badly it hurts to have a needle stuck into my breast. In will go the needle, out will come the fluid. I’ll get dressed and go to work.

Did I mention this is my third biopsy in as many years? I’m a pro at it. I should get corporate sponsorship or something.

The first time this happened, I didn’t tell a soul. I blogged about the experience afterward – from finding The Lump, the waiting, and the actual biopsy. My parents read the entry. Why didn’t I tell them earlier? My father told me not to try to be the hero all the time. I don’t remember what my mother said.

This time, I told one person, and I’m surprised I did that. And here I go now; I’m making it public. It speaks, I think, to the notion that I’m feeling less inclined to be the hero these days. Stoicism just makes me get drunk early on Everything Chocolate Night, sending my apologies to the hostess the next morning. And it makes me ditch Super Bowl parties in favor of hiding out in the living room in my bathrobe eating Key Lime Pie yogurt and watching The L Word.

In effect, I’ve been in full retreat.

I’ve never really been one to say, I need help. Because, frankly, I’ve never been one to admit I need anything at all. I’ll just go out and get it for myself, thank you very much. But being in full retreat is starting to be even less appealing than being in need.

Even though tomorrow’s appointment is probably nothing to be worried about, I do think that if my sister were still here, I wouldn’t hesitate at all to say, “Hey, Sis. I have a lump in my breast. You’re totally invited to the biopsy in the morning.”

You know, someone to hold my hand.

My dreams last night guest-starred Pierce Brosnan.

Ignoring the fact that yes, he’s a bit on the ancient side (too old even for this older-man-lovin’ girl), he is indisputably gorgeous. And in my dream, I was completely in love with him. And, because it was a dream, this enormous love was reciprocated.

So Pierce and I are running through an airport, very late for our flight. I’m running in stilettos because, well, practicality aside, that’s what one wears when out with Pierce. I also have a very small dog on a leash, but it disappears half-way through the dream, so let’s forget Tinkerbell or Fifi or Bubbles or whatever else people name their extraordinarily small, annoying dogs.

In the middle of the jet way, I stop our frenzied pace and say to my devastatingly handsome co-star,

Why do we have to get on a plane at all?

Turns out, we didn’t. And that’s when the dream went into Fancy Hotel Room Mode and well, ladies, Pierce Brosnan has a very nice ass.

A yawning J called me sometime around 1:30 this afternoon.

“Whatcha doing?”
“Leaving the gym with Trip. What’s up?”
“I just woke up. Big show last night. I’m starving…. Wanna get something to eat?”

Eating was the one thing I had not yet done, so I accepted. We drove around for a good half hour before our stomachs decided exactly which restuarant had the best grilled chicken salads. And somewhere on Cambridge street, I remembered why I kept him around, even after all the fooling around and the ridiculous amounts of bad behavior. He makes me laugh. So effortlessly.

At home after lunch, I surveyed my morning’s work. Floors were mopped, dying plants watered and entry mirror and keyrack FINALLY installed. That one was a bitch. Self-drilling wall-anchors? Big lie. I had to get out the drill and well, one Tim the Toolman Taylor moment after another and finally, I achieved success.

I reorganized my CDs this morning, too. Oh, and my taxes are filed, the ironing done and boots cleaned and polished. Did I mention I’ve been up since 7? Yeah, I have. And now, with two hours until I’m expected to be at a party, there’s a relish tray to prepare and my face to put on.

Amazing how far a gal can go on nervous energy.

Please Note: This post is rated TMI for Too Much Information. It includes words like, pelvic, and may not be suitable for some viewers.

Over brunch one morning, a friend and I talked careers. I mentioned that even at my most ambitious moments, I had never intended to have one. A corporate career, at any rate.

“My plan was always to stay home, write, and have fat babies.”

As soon as the sentence had come out of my mouth, an odd feeling lept up in my stomach. The little worry knot. I prodded my salmon with my fork and pushed the knot back down. I smiled. Moments like those have always made me wonder if outwardly, things change as they do on internal levels. Did my face cloud over? Moments like those make me put on a bigger smile to run interference for questions like,” What’s wrong?”

Maintain current comfort levels. Smile. Eat your salmon.

It was very good salmon.

***

Months ago, six hours in the emergency room at Saint Elizabeth’s, the Phenagran drip making me woozy, I had been clear-headed enough to know that x-rays and ultrasounds were not necessary for simple food poisoning. Not to mention the pelvic exam. I’d stared at the ceiling and waited for the stranger to finish. No sense in making eye contact. There won’t be cuddling afterward. He’d made light conversation. Shhh… don’t talk, honey. It’s better that way.

“Hmmm.”
I had continued counting ceiling tiles.
“There seems to be a bit of … an abnormality.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have any of your sexual partners complained of… resistance?”
It’s the ones that don’t get that far who complain of resistance, right? Ha! But seriously, folks…
“No… I mean, I don’t think so.”
“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Will make pregnancy a bit of a… difficulty… but we’ll worry about that when the time comes, eh?”
Phenagran in my brain.
“What?”

After his explanation, and watching the nurse change my IV, I’d gone back to sleep.

***

Over pink salmon in cream sauce, we kept chatting. I had a second helping and ignored the funny feeling in my stomach.

I had put off getting a second opinion (three scheduled and subsequently cancelled appointments). We’ll worry about that when the time comes. While, admittedly, it is a silly thing for a single girl of my age to do, I worry about it at other times. Like brunch. Or when looking at baby pictures or watching diaper commericals.

I am, in all other ways, in perfectly fine health. I do not have a disease, a disorder, a cut or a scrape. Just an abnormality and a worry knot attached to the idea that I may have been making all the wrong sorts of plans.

So, today, when my work calendar darted on to remind me of a fourth appointment, I pressed snooze instead of dismiss and dug through my purse.

Where’s my Blue Cross card?

I popped Shakira’s Donde estan los ladrones into my Discman and hit the gym with Trip. There were no three consecutive eight-minute miles last night, but still had to give myself an A for effort. And another one for having remembered all the words to the album.

At home, I got in touch with a long, hot shower, and my inner gourmet. Fed, I went to catch an hour of Benson and Stabler, but instead found that Blow was on. One bloody nose at a restaurant and I thought, “Well, this certainly isn’t going to end happily” and shut it off.

While Kitten played sneak attack (I’m wearing the battle wounds this morning), I dug out J’s old pajamas. I’m a good six inches shorter than J and so his fleece-lined pants cover my feet and drag on the floor — even when rolled twice at the waist. The comfort is both sentimental and real.

I put the pjs on and crawled into bed with some contact sheets and a Viggo-featured magazine (thanks!). The contact sheets were, for the most part, ignored. My 9 AM meeting will go less smoothly, but in the battle between work and Mr. Mortenson… well, there are very clear winners.

In an effort to reverse this funk, I spent my lunch hour in a cheery sort of way.

I started putting together a digital photo album. Though it made me miss summer hellawickedbad, it was a nice mini-break from my doldrums. And since we share this sort of thing now, here’s the beginning of my “Things I miss about Summer” list.

I miss naps with GI Joe.

I miss halter tops and weekends at the Cape.

And I miss causin’ trouble.

And I so miss my tan. How many days left of winter?

Gruff bark and no real bite, my father was always big on talk.

It was not uncommon for him to threaten to sell me to the gypsies for a three-legged pony. (It’s fairly easy to see how that threat came to fruition. As a writer, I can only imagine the upside of gypsy life, and have more than once wished he’d shown a bit of follow-through to that end. I mean, my memoirs on the bestseller list by age twenty, not to mention my little sisters would have had a field day with that three-legged pony? Brilliance.)

One of my father’s favorite (and thoroughly unconvincing) aces was, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Last night, I came home weary, still reeling. The universe had played too heavy a hand when I had nothing up my sleeve and no poker face. I’d spent all day avoiding what was bothering me and walked home in the snow, crying off my mascara. I couldn’t explain to anyone that it wasn’t something monumental. Just the feeling that my heart had been worn too thin, in a few too many spots.

At home, Chris had left a note, Never make apologies for who you are. I cried in the shower. Then I made tea, did the laundry and spent an hour on my yoga mat pretending to let the world go. The worn spots on my heart were starting to go numb.

I wandered back to my room, sitting down at the computer to do some work. My work email was full again of the usual requests and demands and… one email from my father. It had been a while since I heard from him. Post-divorce, and with unpredictable frequency, he now tends to disappear and reemerge. Disappear, reemerge.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Hi kiddo,

Dad

And right then, the burden of empathy, the precarious balance of pity and reverence, made me feel as though all my stars had finally gone out. And though I have been weeping out of my own self-pity for what seems like days, and after all these years, my father finally delivered on his threats.

He gave me something to cry about.

I came home from work last night, walked down my swept hall, through my tidy kitchen, dropping bills and my purse on the clean table. I went into my room, sat in the middle of my perfectly-made bed, and cried, for no good reason at all.

Mostly because I felt like a complete mess.

S had thought I needed honesty. And so, over a glass of wine, offered a few tidbits.

Tidbit #1
S: You know what your problem is?
H: *whimper* Fire away.
S: You’re too fucking polite, Miss Texas.
H: See, and here I was under the delusion that ‘polite’ was a good thing.
Tidbit #2
S: I’ll be honest. When I first met you, I thought you were… Well, let’s just say that I didn’t think you were as smart as you are.
H: Because of how I look?
S: It was very small minded of me, I know. But yes.

I walked home from the bar, brooding. Until Trip called.

Trip had thought I needed endorphines. He picked me up and took me to the gym, where I set the treadmill on a eight-minute mile and ran my guts out. I got some endorphines, and on the way home, some groceries. And then I went back to the house and cried. Until the RSF called.

The RSF had thought I needed down time and some THC. I don’t smoke much anymore. Especially not during the week. But as it seems to work more like Tylenol PM on steroids, I figured, it should do the trick. RSF provided some green goodness, a gift from his latest travels — Ghiradelli chocolates — and a listening ear. I went back home, full of milk chocolate and kindness, crawled into bed and cried some more.

I didn’t need honesty, endorphines or chocolate. Or maybe I did. But I still feel like a needy, mushy mess. I’d go back to bed and cry some more, if I thought it would accomplish anything. Instead, I’m going to make my bed, dry my hair and go contribute to the Gross National Product.

Mostly because I don’t know what else to do.

Whoever got to this site by searching:

phone numbers sexy old laides who like young boys in New Haven

Um, eeew???

First of all, I am not old. I don’t live in New Haven. And it’s perfectly well-documented that I have an afinity for older men.

And no, you still can’t have my phone number.

Mondays at the Monkey Firm are brutal for me.

I have to hit the ground running (as in, be in the office operating with full cognitive powers) by 7:30 AM. A full hour before the rest of the office comes straggling in. Why? Because I’m a lucky, lucky girl!

Monday nights at my house, therefore, are anything but brutal.

Typically, I come home (boots off at the front door), slide down the hardwood hallway in my tights while on the phone with my favorite Tai Restaurant. For the good half-hour I’m waiting for delivery, I finish up some work from home, have a cuddle with Kitten (who by this point is tired of me being gone on weekends) and fill the tub. I’m usually pretty thrilled to see the delivery man and tip him a little too much. Then, food in hand, I crawl into a hot bath with some chopsticks and a carton of Pad Thai. Ahhhh, heaven.

Yeah, I eat in the tub. Sure, maybe that’s weird. But hey, just add it to the list.

Last night, however, things got a little stirred up. We went out for Thai food. I know, I know. Crazy talk.

The intuitive waiter must have sensed that things were a little off for me, not being in the bath and all, and kindly spilled a rather large glass of ice water into my lap. Oddly equipped with a digital camera, my dinner companion managed to capture the moment. I was laughing so hard, that you may very well have been convinced that the puddle on the chair and my soaked jeans were a result of some rather unfortunate laughing-peeing accident. (But we all know that hasn’t happened since girls’ camp, 1991. And there is no need to bring that up.)

Soggy pants and all, I left the restaurant fairly sure the entire staff was laughing just as hard as I was (except for the poor waiter), got in the car and thanked Baby Jesus for the invention of heated seats.

My Monday kicks your Monday’s ass.

***PS***
Pictures from New Year’s Eve, courtesy of the Dollhouse. Please ignore the one where I have a double chin. And the one where I look like a rat. Thank you.