Eddie: You’re coming out with us tonight.
H: No. I look like trash. Home is where I belong tonight.
Eddie: Here. (ties ribbon around my neck) All prettied up. Come on.

{enter Joel}

Joel: You look like Daisy Duke with that thing on.
H: You hear that? Joel says I look like Daisy Duke. I can’t go.
Eddie: Yes, you can. And it’s not the ribbon that makes her look like Daisy Duke. Yee-haw!
H: Eddie, you’re a sexual harrassment lawsuit just waiting to happen.
Eddie: But you’re coming, aren’t you?
H: Yeah. Yeah, I am.

She is beautiful in the way that most women will never be. Effortless. She’s the kind of beauty you’d love to hate, if it weren’t for the fact that she is also tremendously good spirited.

We met when we were fourteen. We passed notes in the halls each day for nearly three years. And I kept every single one. They live at my mother’s house in a box marked “fragile.” We skinny-dipped in her pool. We caught her parents skinny-dipping in her pool. We got our first speeding tickets together.

Check that. Mine was a warning.

She was a gymnast, a diver and “Class Flirt.” She taught me how to do a front handspring, a back pike and be cavalier. She was the beauty; I was the brains. And we were envious of each other.

We continued on that way through college. We shared a room; we shared a closet. I cooked, she cleaned and we split the grocery bill. Our best talks took place in the bathroom where I would sit in the tub, the curtain drawn, and she’d sit on the bathmat or the toilet seat painting her toenails. She would brush my hair while we watched Must See TV. We’d leave Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and notes in each other’s backpacks that said things like,

“You know why we’re friends? Because we both hate the same people.”
“I love your guts out.”
“If you don’t wash my blue Old Navy tank top by tomorrow, bad things will happen.”

I kept those notes, too.

In ten years, we fought three times.

When she married, I was told to “wear whatever makes you feel pretty. I’m assuming it will be black.” I flew across the country, stood in her receiving line wearing black satin, and cried when I sent her, and her new best friend, off on their honeymoon.

Dear Boo,

Fezzer

Whenever my friend, Eddie, meets a new girl, he sucks in his stomach. Why is it that I’ve never quite figured out how to suck in my thighs?

I was living in Spain for two months, finishing up my theseis, when Chris left me. For my sister.

Isn’t that a great story?

The man next to me in the elevator this morning reeked of the same trendy cologne and I giggled and grabbed my friend’s arm. Have I ever told you about the Surfer? I had not. So over cut-rate Au Bon Pain pastries, I told her the story I’m telling you now. Only, here I started with the punchline. You know, to get the drama over with.

We met at a hot spring — the kind you hike into in the dead of night, armed with flashlights and skimpy bathing suits. Or less. Moonlight is relatively gentle on flawed bodies. Both recently out of rather serious relationships (Mine, 3 years. His, nine months), we had one of those instant attractions. I have since realized that attractions of that nature are not only the most dynamic, but also the most precarious.

We had a whirlwind romance — the kind you fall into at the least convenient time, armed with… nothing. I was to be leaving the country soon for a short bit to tie up some loose ends and learn how to argue in my third language so I could defend my thesis. But for a month or so, we missed classes napping on the lawn in front of the campus library, stayed out all night to watch a meteor shower, and played connect-the-dots on each other’s sunkissed shoulders by the pool on lazy afternoons. He took me to see the same movie three times because I loved it. He bought me the soundtrack and we danced to it in the rain, his car doors open and the stereo turned all the way up. We waltzed in the rain. Sufer and ballroom dancer. I remember my Clinique TenderHeart lipstick stained his collar. Ah, the irony.

Late in May, he took me to the airport. He handed me his Abercrombie baseball cap and told me to wear it and remember not to fall for any sweet-talking Spanish men. And three weeks later, wrote to say he’d been spending a lot of time with my sister and, yadda yadda. I cried over chocolate and churros with the only other American in the plaza that morning — a history teacher from Saint Louis. Then I mended my wounded ego with Arturo, a political activist for Spain’s Communist party I met at the Rastro. Arturo turned out to be something of a stalker. But that’s a story for another day.

Chris is married now. And not to my sister.

The end.

Dear H,

There are times when words fail to convey depth of feelings, and last evening provides a prime example. The evening was delightful, memorable, and emotional – for me, obviously, for my wife, expectedly, and for all of those who spoke with me as events of the evening began to be completed. Thanks to you for making this happen. It was better than I had hoped, and much less frightful than I had feared!

Warm Regards,

The Retiree

These things are true:

I have never liked asking for permission.
I have never really learned to ask for help.
I’m not argumentative, though I hate being wrong.
I don’t feel entitled to anything, generally, unless I have worked very hard for it. And then I will never understand, no matter how many ways you explain it, why I was not successful.
My pride gets hurt more easily than my feelings (though both much more easily than I will let on).

This little inventory got me to thinking. Ah, the depth of thought one gets when on over-the-counter medication. Why am I wired the way I am wired? How much of it needs to be reworked and how much of it do I just accept as being human frailty?

I don’t know.

I do know that my parents worked very hard to raise independent daughters. Growing up, my mother had two sayings – two very big lessons that she wanted me to learn.

There is a difference between need and want. We will give you everything you need.
When I was five, she bought me tap shoes. When I was seven, a piano. And when I was eight, she strapped half my body weight on my shoulders and took me on my first backpacking trip. She taught me to waltz, cha-cha and jitterbug by light of a campfire. She was my soccer coach, my Brownie Scout leader. I was given theater lessons, art supplies and a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. When I was twenty-three, she bought me a computer so that I could write a novel. To my mother, these were necessities.
Want it? Work for it.
She did not buy me the jean jacket I wanted in the 5th grade, an expensive prom dress or spring break trips. She did not pay for my college education. If these things were important to me, I would work for them. And I did.

My father, in turn, wanted me to learn self reliance, self respect and self acceptance. When I was 16, I did not get a car. Instead, my father gave me a set of keys to the family car (The Beast) and a series of lessons. Change a tire in freeway traffic, flush a radiator, and splice a ruptured hose. He taught me to work hard. “Don’t do a half-assed job, Kiddo”. He taught me to respect nature. He let me be a dreamer. He taught me justice, pride and independence. He told me I could do absolutely anything. And he tried to teach me not to be afraid of failure. Dear Dad, haven’t quite got that one. Can we go over it one more time?

I suppose the point of all this is that I had some damn fine nurturing during my growing up years, but I didn’t quite learn everything I was supposed to. I’m just awfully glad that there’s still time to sort out what I dislike about myself. That this isn’t a one-shot deal. That as long as I am reasonable enough to see my weaknesses, there’s still time to fix them.

And that maybe I should lay off the cold meds.

The Retirement Party, it turns out, will have to go down as one of the more touching experiences I have ever had with coworkers.

The details worked out perfectly. The meal was gorgeous, the head table filled with surprise guests and the wine was exactly right. But had they held the event in a barn with sack lunches, it honestly wouldn’t have taken away from the sentiment one bit.

I cried twice.

(Never mind that lately I cry at the least provocation, but it was all very moving.)

Did I mention that also while cracked out on DayQuil this morning, I shut my hand in the door and fell down my front steps?

Yeah. I did. There goes my second career as a hand model.

I need a new song in my head!!!!

My officemate and I used to play a game. It was called

Guess Which Really Annoying Song is in My Head and Then I’ll Sing it for You.

But, wonderful officemate quit a few months ago and today, I have the entire soundtrack to Gigi stuck in my head and no one to torture with it.

Gigi??

I mean, come on! I know it could be worse. I could be stuck with Seven Brides for Seven Brothers or The Music Man. But still, I woke up so sick that I’m screaming for a mercy killing, I have a million things to do for the Retirement part from Hell tonight and I can’t get “Thank heaven for little girls….” out of my DayQuil-filled head long enough to complete even the simplest tasks.

Fucking Gigi.

“without them what would little boys do…..”

Seeing those pictures of an old, tired, sad Saddam Hussein on CNN just makes me feel bad.

This is yet more proof that I’d make a terrible world leader. I’d probably get someone to run him a hot bath and then send him home after he promised to be nice. And I’d totally believe him. Not only would I totally believe him, but I’d be heartbroken when, even after a nice hot bath and a promise to be nice, he turned out to be a really bad, bad man.

“What?” I’d say. “How did this happen?” And if you care for my feelings at all, you’ll pretend that there’s no way I could have seen it coming.

I just want to buy the world a Coke.

Is that so wrong?

It wasn’t even morning anymore when I dragged myself out of bed. Which, unless accompanying a brutal hangover is totally out of character. But for some reason, I just didn’t feel like rising and shining.

I’m bone tired.

Another party tonight (two, actually), the Retirment Party from Hell on Monday and there’s a desperate need to clean my bedroom, do the dishes, go grocery shopping, return some red stilettos and do laundry.

I’m showered and fed and contemplating crawling back under my down comforters.

I think this requires an intervention.

There’s beer spilled down the back of my dress, and the red rose in my hair is beyond wilted. And it’s made of silk.

Bare shoulders and the fact that I can swing, fox trot and charleston got me passed from older male coworker to older male coworker all night long. And I didn’t mind one bit. This girl simply can’t get enough twirling.

VKHU: Is this what you wore to New York?
H: No… it wasn’t that sort of party. Why?
VKHU: You look hot.
H: Jay, will you come home with me and live on my coffee table?

After we shut down the reception hall, the younger set hit the dance club and it was time to shake it like a polaroid. My boss got trashed and announced I should be dating the Accountant who, of course, happened to be sitting right there. God, was she drunk.

But then I thought, I think we did that once. And in fact we did. We saw Miss Congeniatlity and both fell asleep. We shared his sweatshirt on the way out to the car, like a Double Stuffed Oreo. But it seems so long ago it possibly could never have happened at all.

After the club, when our feet were burning from dancing, and I smelled of someone else’s beer, we piled into the Accountant’s car and he took us all home. As it often does with those who’ve had too much to drink and spent too much time together, the conversation turned to sex.

“God, it’s been too long,” said Gay Boyfriend.
“Three and a half months,” my boss said.
“July 26th,” I said. “I think that beats your three and a half months.”
“But I live with my boyfriend!”

And she won that game by a long shot. Poor thing.

By way of information: I didn’t wear the stilettos. Turns out, they just weren’t me. Maybe in black, but I’m just not a red shoe kinda gal. And I also played the sober hand all night. Turns out, drinking can impair your judgment. Who knew? And really, I need all the help I can get.

Red stilettos.

I just bought four-inch red stilettos.

I can’t be held responsible. A beautiful gay man talked me into it.

My work boyfriend stopped by, snatched me up for lunch of crab cakes and heart-to-heart and then off we went for accessories for our holiday party garb. He chastised my dependence on black footwear and here I am, in possession of a pair of four-inch red stilettos and the promise that we’re headed out on the town tonight.

Where we will undoubtedly hit on the same men.

Yesterday, Roommate found out he’d landed quite the dreamy job as head athletic trainer. I’m so proud. And quite relieved that he will no longer be traveling on weekends and I don’t have to sleep alone in the house. But this is about him, right? So, last night, I picked up some cheap champagne, made some quick invites and filled up my kitchen with friends for a spur-o-the-moment toast to the Roommate.

And even though I myself didn’t have anything to drink, I woke up feeling dehydrated and head-achey. I looked at the party dress hanging on the back of my door and my mind went through all the little excuses I could come up with to miss the company party. If only I didn’t have to Vanna White the whole affair. I’d say it was MC-ing, but really, it’s not about what I have to say. It’s about prancing around in a little dress, smiling and getting everyone to pose for See-How-Much-I-Love-My-Coworker pictures. Which is fine.

My dress is killer and lord knows I do love prancing. And parties.

And lasagna.

Yeah, you heard me. I’ve been under a self-induced lasagna craving for nearly 24 hours and if that sucker doesn’t let up, the minute that party dress hits the floor tonight, it’s go time. I’m starving.

I saw it in the window one morning and stopped walking.

I was not shopping for furniture at the time, especially not bedroom furniture. It wasn’t in the budget—not in the plan at all. But there it was, this chair. This intriguing, modern chair with curved blond wood and a mossy green wedged seat.

“Nifty,” I thought, and continued on to work.

But then there it was the next day. And the next. It couldn’t help being there in the window of that designer furniture store, and I couldn’t help but see it as I came and went from the office each day. Sometimes at lunch, I’d stop at the glass pane with a friend and ask, “What do you think about that chair?” But I never went in. I didn’t want to sit in it, to want to take it home, nor to see how much it cost. The price tags on furniture can be heart-stopping, and designer furniture often requires you promise your first-born child in return.

“It’s probably terribly uncomfortable and impractical,” I told myself

Curiosity, however, got the best of me one afternoon. I went in to the designer furniture store. I touched the curved blond wood and sat on the ergonomically correct, mossy green seat. And in a moment of Goldilocks serendipity, I found that it was indeed a very comfortable chair. I wanted it. I wanted to take it home and see it next to my bed, in the corner where the light is good for reading. I’d have to move things around, of course, but why not! For a chair like that, I could move furniture.

Though certainly not a product of a charmed life, I’d never wanted anything and not been able to have it. Not anything I really wanted badly enough. If it was of any great import, I’d work as hard as it took to get it. This chair, I thought, should be no exception.

So I saved.

Yes, a chair of that price was a silly investment and certainly impractical for someone in my position. But suddenly, I liked the idea of being a bit impractical and even began to feel quite comfortable with this newfound whimsy of mine.

“Look at me being whimsical,” I wanted to shout.

Perhaps I even started to see the price as being more of an attraction than a deterrent. It was a motivation. Thus, saving for the cost of the chair didn’t take an extraordinary amount of time. I’m awfully good at focusing my energy. Eye on the prize – that sort of thing. So one morning a month or so later, with my nest egg and a bit of hope, I went to see about the chair.

And it was not there.

I stood there for a moment, stunned. Why hadn’t noticed it was no longer in the window? How long had it been gone? Suddenly, I was desirous to slink away, to hide my nest egg, my vain offering, to hope no one had actually seen me being whimsical. And I left the store, glad that the shopkeeper didn’t know I’d gone so far as to rearrange furniture.

I thought about whatever living room it might be sitting in. It’s not helpful to indulge in such thoughts. But I did. And the nest egg seemed pithy then, and likely to be squandered on many smaller, trite items of fancy. But I tucked it away.

Then I walked back home to move my bed back into the corner where the light is good for reading.

I’m wearin’ the city streets on my shoes
My heart on my sleeve
Got a million reasons to come home to you
And no way to leave

By the time I realized that the Amtrak website was broken, it had sucked away the last three hundred dollars from my debit card. No cash. No ticket. I’d stopped taking my credit card to New York – better to be without than to have someone steal it at a bar on 14th Street and spend $8K on expensive watches on 5th Avenue. There are some lessons I learn the first time.

With one battery bar left on my cell phone, I called J.

J: Sister Sledge! What are you doing? You still in New York?
H: Yes. That’s why I’m calling. I need your help.
J: Anything.

I explained the situation. He tried the website, getting the same results.

H: Okay, can we try a bus?
J: Bus? No way. We know what happened the last time you took a bus. I’ll get you on a flight if I have to.
H: Can’t afford that. I’ll take a bus. I just want to come home, J.
J: I have a platinum card here that says differently. But let me call you back.

I hung up the phone and had a five-minute pity party. I’d have sent invitations, but it was very last minute. You understand.

J: Okay. Here’s your confirmation number. Your train is at 3:30.
H: You’re my hero! You need a gold star.
J: I’m putting one of my cheek now. Hey, you okay? It’s not like you to need rescuing. I’d make a joke about pigs flying or hell freezing, but doesn’t seem like the time.
H: No. Yes. Just wobbly and hung over. I’ll be fine.
J: I don’t believe you, but I’m not gonna push it. I’ll see you tomorrow night to go over the press kit and I’ll bring something very high in chocolate.
H: You’re the best. Thanks again for rescuing me.
J: Girl, thanks for lettin’ me.

I remember being very sick as a little girl, and my father sitting on the bed next to me, rubbing my back. And I remember crying and saying, “It’s just not fair.”

“Kiddo,” he said. “Life isn’t fair.”

I really think someone should have fixed that by now.

I’ve been at the office since well before 7AM straightening out details for the Retirement Party from Hell.

I think the caterer is a little bit (read: a whole lot) frustrated with me. I suppose I can’t really blame her. I mean, I will admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing in regards to flower arrangements, wine, etc. I did authorize an open bar though, since the latest request is that I actually be in attendance at this thing. Which means partying on a work night with 50 people over the age of 50, in a dress and heels. An open bar was the only consolation. Wait til they get the bill!

As snarky as I’ve been about this party, I’m actually very nervous about messing it up. You know, the kind of nervous that has your stomach all twisted up because you know how much it means to someone that it goes well? My own parties are a breeze compared to this. All I have to do is keep glasses filled and Rocco from leaving dirty toothpaste messages on my bathroom mirror. And when party-goers drag their tired asses home after daybreak (and chocolate chip waffles), I know I’ve done a bang-up job.

But this?

Have I chosen the right wine? Are the invitations printed on sustainable, acid-free paper? Did the courtesy invites arrive in the appropriate window of time? Has parking been arranged for all the guests? Do the guests with hearing problems have a seat at the head table? {insert exploding head here} I think I have personally exceeded the bandwidth for Emily Post Online daily for the last month.

That’s what the Chairman calls me now, by the way. Emily Post. Good to know I’ve made a name for myself in this industry. Emily Frickin’ Post.

Better than Leona Helmsley, though, right?

As seemed to already have Karma nipping at my tush, decided to play it honest with Higher Up in charge of current deadline. Just so happened to be Very Kind member of inner circle and so one, did not fear any vengeful wrath and two, would have hated lying to him. And, as it turned out, the truth got me far better results.

VKHU: If we send the revised scope by Wednesday… H, can I get you the changes tomorrow afternoon?
H: I’m sorry, but I really can only stay until noon tomorrow. My train is at 3.
VKHU: Why? Where are you off to?
H: New York.
VKHU: New York?
H: Yeah… for a party.
VKHU: Oh, well… (long dramatic, are-you-going-to-get-mad pause) The big question is… what are you going to wear?

Praise be! It was about time they made a gay man a Higher Up!

And he is so very right. What am I going to wear? Shirking laundry duty for extended periods of time does seem to make that an issue. As does work, train travel, weather, comfort and such. Am tempted to wear pjs and sneakers for the train. If only I could do that Wonderwoman thing and change with lightning speed and minimal baggage. And have a gold lasso.

Man, that would be something.

The Evil Ones have, at the last minute, decided to visit our Las Vegas office. Ordinarily, that shouldn’t mean much.

But say you had, over a month ago, requested two days off this week. And you go on your merry way, making plans under the assumption that all was as scheduled. But then, say the Evil Ones go to Vegas and tell you (not ask you — that would be too much!) that you are to remain in the office as the department can’t be vacant.

Thus, I’m presented with several options.

A) Go postal. I have a rubber-band gun under my desk. I’m a nasty shot, too.
B) Stay. Sit at my desk for two days and fume, taking breaks only to go to the annex across the street to throw darts at blown-up pictures of the Evil Ones.
C) Come to work tomorrow, as planned. But sometime in the afternoon develop a terrible, hacking cough and fever (I think I feel a tickle in my throat already) and book it to the train station.
D) Take Friday’s paycheck and go to Puerto Rico for a week.

Am inclined to go with C and fantasize about D. But then again, it would be really sweet to pull out that rubber-band gun

*** update ***

Dear Karma,

So, I totally get your job in the Universe and everything. I really do. But aren’t you supposed to wait until I tell actually tell the lie to make me sick? Puking in the ladies’ room at work is so undignified.

Regards,

H

I am a womanish girl
I’ve got big hips
I’m a little insecure
I tell you things straight most of the time
Then again, it’s only most of the time

Lying in the tub, my hair fanned out in the water around me, one leg over the edge of the tub and the other propped up on the faucet, I start taking inventory. The long, pink tipped toes of my right foot still show damage from this summer’s rafting accident (one will never quite be straight), the calloused pads of my feet from wearing heels on the walk to work. I prop myself up on my elbows, sink my feet into the water and think about buying a beauty stone. A girl should have soft feet.

I fixate on my stomach, a curved dome, the silver glint of my navel ring obscured under the water, the three small appendix scars on my white skin. I pinch an inch and shrug, lying back down in the water. Then I lift and re-examine my legs – my calves, the curve of my thigh. I notice they, too are thicker than they used to be. And I remember the way they looked just last year at this time, my stomach taught and my hip bones jutting out just a bit.

I was thin. I miss that a little. But it was all I thought about. And I don’t miss that one bit. My acceptance of myself was measured on the bathroom scale, counted in calories and washed down with ephedrine/caffeine cocktails. It was something of an obsession.

I sit up, watching the slight fold of my stomach and step out of the tub. Reaching for a towel, I have to smile. There’s no scale in my bathroom anymore.

I don’t miss it.

(lyrics by leah siegel)

Being loved is:

Waking up to find that Resident Sports Fanatic has shoveled your driveway, sidewalk, and front porch.

And he won’t take credit for it.

I suppose I could have braved the weather and trudged through the fifteen inches of snow to get out of the house today, but there were just too many reasons to stay in.

Manicure, pedicure, facial, two hour bath and spending the day lounging about in yoga pants were only made better by the TV Gods showing Dirty Dancing this afternoon.

I did shovel sidewalks with Roommate and also managed to start a small but v. terrifying grease fire in the kitchen (took at least an hour for my hands to stop shaking). But aside from that, I have to say, it’s been a v. nearly perfect snowed-in day.

You should come over. I’ll make brownies.

I’m drunk.

Went out with work friends… somewhow, whiskey was involved. I’ve never even had whiskey before. But when one of your ex-boyfriends is at the table, and there’s only three of you, and one is making jokes about someone’s lack o’ cleavage… and that someone is you….

You tend to avoid making any sort of eye contact.

Thank god for Indie Rock Boy, who saved the day in one form or another several times.

Sarah B was right on when she said, now is the time i should, “get in pink pjs, snuggle with kitten, get in bed, listen to nice snuggly music, and enjoy your whiskey sleep!”

And off I go to do just that.

Love and hugs and stuff.

Holy cow!

I got nominated for a blog award!! Best Female Authored Blog. Vote here!

We can still be friends if you don’t vote for me, but it’ll be tough.