I may have to divorce Roommate.

I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but either we seek immediate therapy or it’s over.

It’s no secret that I’m… well, nutty about some things. Like the closet. It’s a neurotic, aesthetic thing. I get that.

And I try not to push off my “everything has its place” fanaticism on Roommate, because generally, Roommate (being the very tidy kid that he is) is very good with noticing where there is an existing H System. (He follows the color-coded sponge rule very well.)

But we have come to an impasse. Our first. An irreconcilable difference.

My beautiful kettle, provider of tea-time happiness, sits on the back, right burner. It just DOES. That’s where it belongs.

Well, now Roommate, who used to make his coffee in the nice little coffee maker that I bought him, has found a new, ghetto way to get his morning jolt. And it involves using the Tea Kettle of Happiness.

Today marks morning five that I have come out of my room to find my world turned upside down, Kettle on the front LEFT burner. WHAT? Is he crazy?? Front, left burner?? No, no, no. Everyone knows that’s not where it GOES.

Tea Time is ruined.

And I can’t just say, “Hey, Roommate, could you put the Tea Kettle of Happiness back on the correct burner?” Because, dude, that just makes me look crazy.

We were high school sweethearts.

You know, in the way that only exists today in very small towns. (High school sweethearts, in that sense, seem to have gone out of style.)

I wore his letter jacket; we passed notes, left trinkets in each other’s lockers. I used to turn all the house phones off so my parents wouldn’t wake up when he got home from practice and called to say good night. We had a song.

We met when I was 14. He was a year older. And being the daughter of an over-protective father, I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. House rules. But at 15 ½, the law was bent and we had our first date. Both sets of parents agreed that it wasn’t in our best interest to form any serious ties. So, there were rules. So many rules. And we kept them all. I remember that he couldn’t take me to the winter formal one year. I had to go with another boy.

His mother died when I was 16. And not suddenly. Because of treatments and surgeries and transplants, her death (of a rare blood cancer) dragged out. It held everyone hostage, in a way. It pulled at some strings, tightened others. I remember when they crowned him Homecoming King, his mother standing by him on the windy football field, one arm linked through his, and the other holding down her strawberry-blond wig. And I remember sitting at her funeral, not too many months later, watching him carry her casket away. And I remember thinking that I hoped I never loved anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him cry.

I went away to college when I was 17. We wrote. But over the moths, we wrote less and less frequently and eventually went the way of all high school sweethearts (at least those who leave their small towns). And there I was at 17, in possession of years of letters signed, Always, Chris, and absolutely certain I didn’t want to love anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him leave.

He married when I was twenty-something. I don’t even remember the year. Because, of course, by then, I was completely recovered. Because at 17, we don’t know anything about our own resilience. And at twenty-five, I rarely think about him, except as an entry in my dating resume.

I do keep all of his love letters, though. Mostly because I’ve never gotten another.

They seem to have gone out of style.

We started out as four that night — three guys and me, drinking, dancing, playing, “Would you go home with…” and hypothetically setting each other up with the club’s troglodytes.

It’s not a very nice game, really.

I was throwing back the vodka tonics, begging them to take me onto the dance floor. They did. And then suddenly, we were two. I remember being confused when I was handed my wallet and the other two left. But we kept dancing. I was being flirtatious. A kiss here and there. I wasn’t being coy. Just having fun and not altogether sure I wanted to head in any particular direction. He was the smooth-talking kind, clearly, having already smooth-talked his friends into leaving the bar before I knew what was going on.

I didn’t want to be talked into anything.

“You’re a line a minute, you know.”
“Why do you say that? You’ve been blowing me off since the 4th of July. And I like you! That’s not a line.”
“You don’t know me. How do you know you like me?” Again, I wasn’t being coy. Defensive, for whatever reason — but not coy.
“Well, A, you’re sexy as hell. B, you’re a good dancer…”
“You’d better be able to go all the way to Z.” I laughed.
“C, you snort when you laugh.”
“And that’s likeable?!”
”Yes. It means you’re low maintenance — not too prissy. D, you’re really considerate of your roommate. I like that.”
“Hmmm, alright. You can have that one.”
“E, you can quote Zoolander. F, great kisser. G, you’re amazingly soft.”
“Is that a euphemism for fat?”
“You’re insane. Are you going to argue with me all the way back to your place?”
“You think that’s where you’re going?”

By the time he made it all the way to Z, that’s exactly where we were. I put a movie on; we didn’t watch it. I don’t think I have to tell you to curb your imagination as to what happened. I’m a good girl.

And I’m a cagey girl.

Because when he came by the next afternoon, he got something of a cold shoulder. I knew I was doing it… but defense systems were engaged and I couldn’t help it. See, the worst part is, had you seen this guy’s face, you might have believed he meant that list. Maybe even down to the letter. And I? Well, I remember having to stop myself from calling him by another man’s name.

Seriously, I should come with some sort of warning stapled to my face. (I’ll leave it to you to work out the exact wording.)

The girls came bearing dessert and Jose Cuervo.

I made tacos, strawberry margaritas and ice cream sundaes. We played tipsy Scrabble. (Though, I gave up after round 5, when thanks to the Cuervo, all of the letters became as difficult to place as Q.) We watched Law and Order SVU.

And we curled my hair.

It’s the greatest temptation. There’s not a Barbie-ownin’ girlfriend out there who hasn’t, at one point, wanted to make this stick straight mop into a mass of curls. So my girl came armed with a new ceramic curling iron, and an iron will to make me look less Stephen King’s Carrie, and more Carrie Bradshaw, Season II. She was a success. Even Roommate did a double take.

The new “do” debuts Friday night at Soho.

I know, I know. I had you at Cuervo and lost you at curling iron. And I know that Friday night’s hook-up story is much more interesting, but I haven’t quite figured out which gory details to omit, yet. But if you show up on Friday night, the likelihood that I’ll be blitzed enough to tell the whole, uncensored tale, is very high.

As for tonight, I’m staying in, ruminating, chowing on some homemade chicken fried rice, and about to settle into a hot bath. Bills are paid, the Q1-04 budget squared away, and I intend to start of my new year (which incidentally gets underway tomorrow) residue free.

At 5:30 AM, we discover he is allergic to cats.

At 5:42 AM, I send him home.

***edit***

1:34 PM

The REAL issue is not whether I can find a suitable curse word for the events that transpired but rather, what the hell was I doing bringing him back to my apartment in the FIRST place?!

I’m going to go shower now and find something to kill this hangover. And when I emerge, I hope to have the answer to that.

Oh, hi 2004. Were you supposed to be different? My bad.

Or, how I spent the last twenty-four hours

BosNyp

I brought Ayn Rand along because it’s a long trip and Atlas Shrugged is a long, long read. I fell asleep after 20 pages. When I woke up, face smooshed against the glass, the train was dark. I blinked a couple of times to focus and when I did, I caught the reflection of HeMan, several rows up, staring at my reflection in the glass. (Okay, so maybe more Prince Adam than HeMan, but decidedly quite nordic, blond and brawny. SO VERY Flash Gordon). I did the polite thing, and looked away. You know, to give him a chance to do the same? He didn’t. After a while, it started to make me nervous. And fidgety. Stop. Looking. At. Me. He didn’t, so I looked back as if to ask, “What do you want?” He smiled. After the train ride we exchanged Happy New Years and I ducked into the subway.

NYC for NYE

“It’s so good to see you! I have M&Ms. Peanut and plain. I know who I’m dealing with!”
If you know Ari, you probably understand that all of that came in one breath in the middle of a very big hug. I had some M&Ms (it would have been rude not to!), we got ready and then headed to the party, tottering in too high, too narrow heels, and amusing some fellas on the street with our,
“Sweet Jesus, how does Jessica Simpson do this ALL the time?”
“Too dumb to feel.”
“Ah. Say no more.”
Times Square area, or the festive recreation of 1949 War-torn Europe, was quite the experience. Every intersection down Broadway was another border (complete with half a dozen snarky cops). Us and our Evite passports. Well, really, more like, Us and our Evite passports and powers of flirtation. (Some of New York’s finest really are some of New York’s finest. Yowza.)

As for the party, a few items:
- Sam, wicked sorry for monopolizing your date. And those are some mad sneak attack camera skillz.
- Dahlia, girl, what a pleasure!
- Doug, there’s an unopened bottle of vodka hiding somewhere in your apartment. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
- Anyone who saw me open the bottle of champagne and hit myself in the face with the cork, yeah, it left a bruise, okay?

I know that by the time we left the party, I told someone I was pleasantly tipsy. LIAR. I was rocked. The original Big City GalPal mixes a strong drink! We three gals made it a few blocks (thank you for holding my hand, Ari) for post-party drinks, and I was really in a state. Shoes, booze and tongue all working against one another in a bizarre fashion. I was talking faster than my brain would keep up. And I’m fairly certain I told a story I have never told anyone since I left Dallas. Let’s keep that one under wraps, okay?
Home around what, 4:30? Awake around 2 PM and back at Penn Station at 4 PM. And happily, no hangover in between.

NypBos

Well, that’s where I am writing this. So, let’s talk New Year’s Resolutions. This year’s theme is, Live Deliberately, and my goals are two-fold.

Debt No More, 2004
On June 1st, I intend to be finished with Visa and their interest rate rape. I should be living within my means. Ten thousand dollars in raises in one year and I have debt? That’s ridiculous.

Do something well
I play the piano. I play the guitar (I do a mean version of Smelly Cat). I paint. All only marginally well. You know, party-trick talents. So, starting in two weeks, I’m taking of of my marginally practiced talents to school. Latin Ballroom classes.

Last year’s resolution was to drink more water. Which I totally accomplished. Let’s hope this year is as… successful.

Dear Everyone I Talked To Last Night in my Intoxicated State,

I do not think I have ever run my mouth like that in my life. My sincerest apologies for being that drunk girl. I do come with an off button, I swear.

Love,

H

(I wrote a whole post about New Year’s Eve on the train home this evening. But, I’m tired. Bone tired. So I’ll get to that tomorrow. Love and hugs and stuff.)

Once I stepped into my office yesterday morning, I did not step out again until after 7pm. I didn’t make tea; I didn’t go to the bathroom. Nose to the grindstone for ten hours. Production days are like that. So when I sealed the Fed-Ex box, slapped the label on and gathered my things, I decided to take myself to a movie.

It must be noted that I have never, previous to last night, been to a movie by myself.

It’s not that I’m unable to go anywhere alone. On the contrary. I shop alone. In January I’ll be taking a Latin Ballroom class… alone. It’s simply never occurred to me that there doesn’t need to be a social aspect to movie-going. That, and, well, who’s gonna look over at me and roll their eyes, and pat my arm, when I cry?

(Here’s a tangent, if you’ll allow: I cried at Sixth Sense. Almost the entire movie. Not sobbing or anything ridiculous, mind you, but I was pretty upset for that traumatized little kid. I have an overactive Empathy Gland or something. Someone is scared? I must cry for them. Really happy? In love? Oh, the joy! I must cry happy tears. This is why, if we’ve just met, it’s best to stick to comedies or anything with Julia Roberts or The Rock. No chance of being moved there. Okay, tangent over.)

On the way to the theater, J called. I was half-tempted to say, “See this movie with me!” But I didn’t. I’ve all but cut the J-cord completely, and well, why revert? So, instead, I guided him through his current crisis — curtain buying — and went into the theater alone. I watched Big Fish, sitting between two women (their dates on either side) who cried at exactly the same times I did. I could see, in my peripheral vision, their hands go to their eyes, almost in unison. Synchronized crying. Unbelievable. I didn’t know there were others. We really should form some sort of club.

A few notes on the movie:

1. Jessica Lange was luminous. Absolutely radiant.
2. Someone should really have warned me about the spiders.
3. The line, “To your father there were only ever two women: your mother and everyone else.” sparked some synchronized crying like never was seen before. It was so touching. I mean, I’d feel lucky to get into someone’s top ten list, let alone render the rest of the female population a faceless throng of skirts. No wonder she was so radiant.

It’s a bit gray out today, and if I continue along with that sentiment, well, I just may cry myself into a snotty heap on my office floor. Instead, I will clean my desk and take a lunchtime walk by the river and think about less moving things like, what to make for dinner.

I have company coming.

Dear Diary,

Last night I had a dream about Justin Timberlake. I just know this means we’re meant to be.

Love,

H

PS Only in real life I hope he’s not that skinny and pasty. Or I might have second thoughts.

H: What would you say if I bailed on lunch?
LD: Well, after you bailing on the movie, I’d say you were being cagey. But that’s okay. I can deal with cagey.
H: Ha! Oh, come on. I don’t get cagey until after being the recipient of overt romantic gestures.
LD: Note to self: Put overt romantic gestures on hold.
H: Glad we got that out of the way!
LD: So, where’s the fire this time?
H: Oooh… watch your tone, mister. — Insert explanation of uglifying rash here — It’s all over my face! I can’t go out.
LD: Please. You know I don’t care about that. I’m much more of an ass man.
H: Believe me, it’s there, too.
LD: If this weren’t the Behave Like a Gentleman phase, I’d have something to say to that.

{secret} If I were being honest, which is sorta the theme for days of late, I would admit that I was being cagey. The cagey-ness just happened to be shrouded in really well-timed excuses. {/secret}

Jesus, I hate dating.

I’m ugly!!!

So, we all remember Ari’s adventures in medical care… and the resulting rash. Well, turns out, when future docs ask me if I’m allergic to anything, I get to say,

YES! An entire family of antibiotic!

Oh god. I’m so ugly. And itchy. Nevermind not really breathing that great. It’s the ugly I’m having a hard time dealing with.

The mark of a good make-up used to be that it would almost hide my freckles (wretched things). But what do you do when you make the Ten Lepers look like a Noxema commercial?

Whimper.

I had a dream I got expelled from high school for leaving early, and that my mother was in a half-way house overrun with scorpion-spider things that had tiny little faces like aliens.

Oh yeah, and Michael Bolton was my boyfriend. WAY worse than scorpion spiders with alien faces.

Somebody really should label NyQuil better. Active Ingredient: Shrooms.

When a girlfriend called and said, “I’m feelin’ really low,” I tossed my movie plans out. Movies can wait. Boys can wait.

Pizza was ordered, a trip to the corner store produced a pint of Chubby Hubby and some soda. The kettle was put on to boil. There was no need for a video rental, though. Saturday night has Law and Order back-to-back. And when she came to the door, we hugged and she said, “Thanks. He and I are just not getting along.”

Thanks? Are you kidding? This is why God invented girlfriends.

We didn’t talk about her relationship problem for the simple fact that I’m friends with her boyfriend, too. Oh, sure, we did to some extent. The light stuff. Shake my head at the ways he blunders through their relationship; call him a jackass, but nothing that could cause tension between any of the three of us in the future.

She and Kitten have a rapport (the only other person on the planet that Kitten isn’t terrified of, actually), so at commercial breaks, we had a big cuddle and talked a bit about the Pakistani. I mentioned a few of his more adorable qualities and that he’s not daunted by the fact that I plan to marry Terry Tate, Office Linebacker.

She wasn’t the least bit interested. She wanted to talk about Resident Sports Fanatic.

E: Would you EVER consider dating RSF?
H: I dunno. What makes you ask that??
E: ‘Cause it seems like he wants some of dat.
H: {insert riotous laughter here}
E: I’m serious!
H: Honey, all those silly boys do for a minute.
E: Well no, I think he really likes you — your looks and your personality. You’re someone I’d bring home to meet Mom.
H: He was being nice! I didn’t have Christmas plans. Anyway, it surprises me that you’d ask.
E: Do YOU think he likes you?
H: Okay, fine. Yeah. But I try to pretend I don’t know. I thought I was the only one who sensed…
E: I sense it! So, would you date him?
H: Oh, I don’t know. I don’t exactly know what to do with men anymore.
E: Well, not date then, but… hang out with him?
H: We DO hang out. You must mean, make out with him.
E: No! Hold on… so she staged the rape?

Clearly, Law and Order had resumed. We watched three more hours of who dunnits and then girl time was over. It would have been a sleep-over (I put fresh linens on and everything), but the Fever from Hell picked back up and I was all burning eyes and sniffly nose by midnight. We hugged goodbye at the door and she got her last word in.

E: I think you should hang out with him. And I didn’t say make out!
H: Don’t push it.
E: He’s a really nice guy. Really decent.
H: Go home.
E: Alright! I’m just sayin’! Gotta watch out for my girl. Now, you watch until I get to the car. I don’t wanna get murdered.
H: You got it.

This is why God invented girlfriends. Somebody’s gotta do the watchin’ out.

the proof is in the fire
get touched before it moves away

Today is a good day.

The sun is out, my bedroom windows spilling afternoon light onto the stripped bed. I’m doing laundry. The Dixie Chicks are on in the kitchen, along with a kettle for tea. My fever is down.

I’ve read and reread last night’s delirious entry, tempted to delete it, lest we all really start to worry about my state of mind. But I’m going to leave it.

I’ve realized that nighttime is a funny thing. Apprehensions, like shadows, seem to loom larger when the sun sets. And then shadows melt together and pool into darkness and you can really almost get lost in it, if you’re not careful. But I’m starting to appreciate that for what it is — downtime for defense systems. Like a few glasses of wine, nighttime can produce honest moments, real conversations (with yourself and others) and a bit of mania. It all keeps us human.

Nighttime is hard for me. I’ve been having too many dreams lately, which, when I wake up, keep me from wanting to go back to sleep. There’s one that’s on the repeat cycle. My father sending his children letters explaining his suicide. I hate that one. I wake up wondering if I should call him, to make sure it was just a nightmare. Sometimes I call, and we chat. Sometimes, it’s too late to talk. There are also dreams about events of no consequence, names that mean nothing, faces you can’t place, but that keep you up just the same, in the loneliest of the twenty-four hours.

Anyway, I have decided it’s time to focus and decompress (working under the assumption that the two can be done at the same time). I figure that right now, I need several things. One being to see my family. Another being to stop being so focused on myself. And another to set a goal. I need something to work on, to get up in the morning for, if you will. This coasting along business has gone on long enough. And when I straighten out how to go all about this, I’ll let you know.

But in the meantime… well, it is what it is, my friends. Kettle’s whistling, and I’ve got a movie date to get ready for.

It’s two a.m. and you’re awake.

You were lying there, sleeping, your bare arm across your cheek, a bare leg crooked over the body pillow. You always sleep this way – one foot out of the goose down.

And then, just like that, you’re awake.

You don’t know what woke you. You don’t know what you’d been dreaming. You only know that your heart feels like it doesn’t fit in your chest quite right. It feels… too big. It hurts. And that if there was someone sleeping next to you, you’d shake their shoulder, wake them. Please stay awake with me for a minute, you’d say.

You might not need to wake them at all; you might just hold onto them until your heart went back to being its normal fist-sized dimensions.

But there isn’t, so you don’t. Instead, your mind races. There on the bedside table, next to all those white candles –should you light them?—is your cell phone. Who do you call? Your sister in California. But it’s already past midnight on the West Coast. You need friends in Hawaii. Or is it the same time there? You really should figure out time zones. Europe! It’s morning in Europe. But you don’t know anyone there anymore.

You get dressed and go outside onto the front porch. You would smoke, but your hands were shaking and you put your last cigarette in your mouth backwards. And you lit it. So you can’t smoke. It’s cold and you don’t know what to do with your hands. You sit on them. That keeps them from shaking.

The night feels so enormous that it could swallow you. And you almost wish it would.

You feel like crying. You look up as a car drives down your street, only to find that it dead-ends. The cold air hits the back of your neck where the hood of your sweatshirt has slipped, and you realize you’re sweating. You put your hand to your wet hair, and then to your face, your burning eyes.

So this is delirium.

You go inside, headed toward the medicine cabinet. Something for this fever. There’s vicodin in there. From when you had strep throat. The stuff you didn’t even touch during those weird drug months. You swallow a long, white pill. Then you sit cross-legged in the middle of the big kitchen, feeling a little disoriented. A little lost.

And
so
very
small.

And you let your eyes tear. But mid-cry, you have to laugh. Crying’s like your favorite sport these days. Only it makes you feel unproductive. And crazy.

So you sit at your computer. And you write. More productive. More crazy? They’ll forgive you for being crazy, you think. Isn’t everyone a bit crazy? You decide to write until your thoughts are semi-lucid, until the vicodin is working. After that, you don’t know what you will do. Make tea? Write a letter you won’t send? Whatever it is, you do know that you will not get back in bed. In bed, it feels too lonely and your heart, too big.

Please stay awake with me for a minute?

I am not allowed to watch A Dating Story, A Wedding Story or A Baby Story.

In fact, could I have TLC removed from my cable package, please? That’d be great.

***Addendum***

No Lifetime Movies either.

I should be at work.
I should be actually at my desk, doing productive things.

I’m still in my pajamas.
And I intend to stay in my pajamas.
(Mostly because nothing else fits after two days of holiday feasting.)

I can’t believe I survived The Great Eat of 2003. Two generations of Sicilian women and one Jewish gourmet descended on the kitchen and didn’t let up. There was the antipasto (I ate boars meat sausage. Yes indeed I did), then lasagna, then salad and bread, then lemon chicken, then fruit. Then came the canoli and cheesecake and coffee. I was honestly in a lot of pain by the time the dessert rolled around.

At one point, as Chris was trying to force feed me pastries, I looked to his mother for help.

“I can’t! I’ll be sick! Jackie, tell him!”
She took a long look at my pained face, back at Chris with the canoli (all the way from the best pastry shop in New York City, I was told) and shook her head.
“You have to eat the canoli.”

And I did.

Christmas was really nice. Warm people, warm food, really warm, cozy spot on the couch where I curled up and fell asleep between meal courses. We said grace. We lit Hanukkah candles. We told stories. (I was ever so grateful when Chris said, “Hey guys, remember the time H flooded the apartment building?”) And when my sister called from California, we sang “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” My end sounded a bit froggy, as I had managed to pick up a pretty decent a cold.

But it’s like Krissa said, “Maybe when you said, All I want for Christmas is you, Santa heard FLU. All I want for Christmas is the flu.”

Maybe it’s time for the big guy to retire.

From the office, I went to the florist at Brattle Square. I handed the gruff man my fifty dollars and said, “Something bright and elegant. It’s for the hostess.” I wasn’t sure he heard me, the way he turned away so quickly. I didn’t watch him work; I was lost in orchids and others flowers whose names I have yet to discover. And when the man came back, he handed me a hastily wrapped bouquet that was, for lack of a better word, breathtaking.

“You didn’t think I was listening to you, did ya?”
“You must have been. These are perfect.”
“I always listen.” He said and winked. “You have a happy holiday, honey.”

On the bus, the 2 ½ foot bundle attracted a lot of attention — they practically needed their own seat. The man next to me smiled when he got up to leave.

“Somebody really loves you,” he said, gesturing to the flowers.
“I hope so,” I laughed. “But these aren’t for me.”

At home, I removed the shelves from the refrigerator to accommodate the flowers (I didn’t want to risk them wilting). I shed the workday wear, dropping articles of clothing all the way from my bedroom to the bathroom (roommate was at work, this was perfectly safe), where I washed my face and got ready for a really great Christmas Eve nap. I was back in my room, decked out in the softest pink pajamas known to man, when I heard the door. Up I got, gathering my strewn clothing on the way and when I opened the door (arms laden with tights, mini skirt and bulky sweater) I was surprised to see a flower delivery man. I smiled. This man must have the best job, I thought. Look at me, grinning like a fool and all he has to say is, “I have a delivery for H.”

“That’s me!” I said.

A girl who likes to savor surprises might have ventured a guess as to the sender before tearing open the card. Clearly, that girl is not me. And maybe I already knew who sent them. Written on the card, almost a poem, the fitting message read:

No Swiss Army Knife
But nonetheless
Happy Holidays

And I smiled. Sometimes, you don’t need a Swiss Army Knife. Sometimes, all you need is to be heard.

Merry Christmas.

And thank you for listening.

you know when you’ve found it
there’s something i’ve learned
’cause you feel it when they take it away

This Christmas will not find me pajama clad, drinking my father’s cocoa, one of seven around the ceramic tiled dining room table. It will not find yet another tiny Swiss Army knife in my stocking. There will be no stocking. My sister and I will not sing, “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” And I won’t lie under the tree squinting at the lights, blurry miniature stars of Bethlehem, until I fall asleep.

I will call four states and five cities and say “Merry Christmas. I love you” to the ones I used to play “zap tag” with, our feet in slippered pajamas in Grandma’s den on Christmas Eve. I will wake up and wish, in a sort of vacant way, that we were all piling into the car to see our traditional Christmas Day movie. And I will wish I could be there for our rather untraditional Mexican Food Christmas dinner.

I may cry.

But most likely not, as I’m still all about pretending that I understand this is all just part of divorce. That we’re transitioning.

I will spend the holiday with the boys across the street, in the home of a renowned gourmet cook, eating, drinking, laughing. Being part of someone else’s tradition.

I do know that there will be more Christmases and mended fences and other opportunities to make new traditions, while holding tight to the old ones. That I am blessed. That distance and separation do not diminish love.

And this is my comfort and joy.

I remember december
and I wanna hear what you have to say about me

Inadvertently, I ended my musical fast this afternoon when my boss gave me an early Christmas gift. A Damien Rice CD.

I hadn’t really heard much of him, except what she’d told me. I don’t listen to the radio. And I don’t watch music videos; for some reason, they make me uncomfortable. Maybe if I thought about it, I could tell you why. And if I wanted to think about it, I could probably place where I had heard this voice before. And why it feels so haunting, like a blurry dream, or a déjà vu, or a smell on the street that makes you feel displaced and lonely.

If I wanted to think about it, I could probably tell you why beautiful music, in general, moves me so strongly. How it fills me up and hollows me out, all in one contradictory pulse of valves and heartbeat. Maybe I will take the time to think about this. And while I’m thinking, I’ll tell you a little more about me.

Early in life, a series of ear infections robbed me of my hearing. It was, thankfully (and obviously), treatable.

Most of my friends know this, though not in any detail.

My mother doesn’t really talk about those times; she will simply say they were very difficult. A firefighter, my father had to leave Forrest Service because it required him to be away too often. He took a job as a butcher’s apprentice. The construction of their first home was not finished on schedule, and soon one summer, their options became as limited as their income.

We lived in a tent.

I can only imagine most of this, because I was too young to remember anything with any sort of clarity. My earliest memories are only white and cold. A white pinafore embroidered with a turtle, the doctor’s office in a white brick building, his cold hands, his white clothes, and the cold metal of instruments and exam tables.

And then I remember Grieg. It’s my first memory of music, listening to The Hall of the Mountain King. Sitting on my parents’ California King, Saturday morning sunlight on the comforter and begging my mother to get up and move the needle of the record player back. I wanted to hear the drums again.

After several years of speech therapy, a now-slight lisp — which I hesitate to point out for fear you’ll listen for it — and spider-webbed scars on my eardrums are really the only reminders of that part of my life. And even if I fail to draw any clear parallel between being caught breathless by a contemporary artist like Damien Rice, and my first real sensation of music from a thundering classical suite, I’m willing to bet there is one.

Music moves me and touches me in the same way people tend to do. And often at the same time. The people and the music get stuck in your head so you will remember.

And I remember.

I’ve worked enough rooms at enough parties to be able to tell you who will end up talking to whom.

And so I was not surprised when after the acceptable amount of time, we ended up elbow to elbow, him talking just loudly enough so I’d hear his conversation. Did I want to join in? He was unquestionably one of the better looking men at the party. I could venture to guess he’s probably one of the better looking men at most parties.

I’d seen him come in. You don’t miss entrances like his. Mmmm. Italian, I thought.

From that point, our crowd maneuvering became as strategic as his two-day stubble (oh-so-very sexy) and Kenneth Coles or my little black dress and toussled hair. So, maneuvering done, there we were, elbow to elbow and I felt his attention shift. He asked if he could refill my wine, and I looked at him thinking, Our children would have the finest heads of hair ever. EVER. when it suddenly occurred to me that

this is the way I always work a room. And this is the way I always ended up with the most vain, selfish, ridiculously self absorbed man breaking my heart. And I am surprised every single time!

So I thanked, but no-thanked him, and made my way across the room to chat with a very nice Pakistani who introduced me to his fiancee. And then his brother. With whom I’m having lunch on Tuesday.

We’re going out for Italian.

No, just kidding. About the Italian food bit. But I do have to ask:

Is it fair to accept a date with someone when you know very well that you are in perhaps the most unglued state you have ever been? Poor unsuspecting victim. I mean, I could spontaneously burst into tears at any moment. It really doesn’t take much. Pass the water? Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can do this…

Welcome to the breakdown lane.

I am so completely at odds with myself right now that if I could crawl out of my own skin and donate it to Goodwill, I would.

And this place, this forum, this blog is of so little comfort these days that calling it a farce would be putting it mildly. It’s a soft-shoe routine and it infuriates me. I infuriate me. I haven’t written anything ‘true’ in too long. I’ve watered it all down, made it fit for human consumption and censored myself in a place that was built for exactly the opposite purpose.

Doesn’t that seem wrong to you?

And why?

Site stats!

I know who reads this: 500 more people a day than when I started it. And of those 500, I’m pretty sure there are at least a few of you who don’t want to know the whole truth. Nor do I want you to! You see, little by little, as my anonymity has faded (for better or worse) and good friends, family, not-so-good friends, love interests and coworkers have started reading, I, in turn, started tidying things up. If I put it all out there, told you exactly what I was thinking, I can only imagine the backlash!

There’d be some who would want take pity, take credit, or take me to therapy.

Please don’t be tempted.

I mean, what if I told you who I wrote those letters to? The answer would just throw you ALL for a loop. And on a completely separate note, what if I told you that everything you’re saying about me at parties is true? I mean, would you be comfortable with the truth if the truth was,

Yes, I had an affair with the Fireman. I did. And I’m actually very sorry for being selfish and for hurting people’s feelings, but it’s just a little too late for that, isn’t it?

I’m disappointed with myself. I’m dissatisfied. And I’m uncomfortable.

What if I told you I stopped listening to music that had any meaning? That I want to turn every single CD I own into a fucking coaster? To stop watching anything but bad reality TV. To stop buying good books. All just so I can avoid feeling.

Because I feel wrong all the time.

What if I told you that today at work they gave me another raise and a bonus and that only makes me want to go home and cry in the shower?

I feel ungrateful. I feel ungraceful. And I feel lost.

My instinct makes me want to run home to my family. But I can’t. Because they aren’t there anymore. I want to be surrounded by my friends. I want to be left alone. I want J to not be the only person who calls my cell phone. I want to not want what I cannot have. I want all the answers right now.

And I want to stop waking up every single morning, terrified that this is all there is.

What if I told you that?

Don’t be so quick to walk away
Dance with me
I wanna rock your body
Please stay
Dance with me

I was rockin it to Justin Timberlake on the way to work this morning, ever so slightly hungover and I was thinking, Mmmm. Justin. And then I thought, You know, I don’t really want Justin. Too skinny, too…young. Besides, who wants to deal with his entourage??

I just want to dance with Justin.

It was that way with J’s roommate, B. You all remember B. We used to flirt, cajole and top it off with an amusing amount of silly innuendo — all the while being very aware that’s all there was to it.

But when you got us on the dance floor…

Fewer dance partners have been so in sync (obvious Justin Timberlake reference not intentional) or so totally uninhibited. For the very reason that dance floor antics were just that, there was no reason to be inhibited. Except for J, who, not nearly as good of a dancer as B, had a jealous streak a mile wide. Come to think of it, it was more a “Hey! You’re not paying attention to me!” streak a mile wide. I remember him actually prying B’s fingers off my hipbone with the hand that wasn’t gripping his Sapphire and tonic. Pathetic.

B called about ten minutes ago from somewhere in Florida where he’s hiding out these days, and announced he’ll be in town next week. When will I see you? I asked. Tuesday, he said. I’m in town for two whole weeks. Can we go dancing? I think we should. Nice.

Even better than Justin Timberlake.

No entourage to deal with.