Furnace is making warm bubbly sounds in the corner of my bedroom, Joni Mitchell on CD, and am happily winding down a rather uneventful day. Friends have taken Roommate out to the ever-so-classy Hooters to celebrate his birthday, so have spent the evening quiety reading, keeping a distracted eye on the Sox game and ignoring the muffled cries of the Breyer’s Cookies and Cream from the freezer. Eat me. Eat me.

No way, Jose!

Perhaps was a result of today’s choice of booty pants, but was a tad on the fiery side at work today. Sure did make the day go by faster.

Oh, and for the record, the IRB did NOT call me by his girlfriend’s name today.

But boy, wouldn’t it be funny if he did and yours spent all afternoon teasing him mercilessly for it? Yeah, it sure was funny. Err, rather, it sure would be.

We shall never speak of this again.

Before leaving for the office, must take the time to say,

these pants + my ass = HOTT

At least one out of 135 Californian Gubernatorial candidates would grope it at work.

Am a big fan of color. Have for some time wanted to paint one of the living room walls a deep, warm red. Still have not done it, though. Perhaps is the commit-o-phobe within. Who knows.

Anyhow, despite being hooked on hue, entire bedroom is white. Practical? No. But once I got on the white kick, could not stop. White gauze curtains hang on both windows, nearly floor to ceiling. White duvet covers, thirteen pillows of varying paleness, and natural wood furniture. Suppose is somewhat asylum-like in this You Will be Peaceful, Damnit! kind of way, but have always seen it as more of a retreat. No sensory overload here. Very gentle. Pure.

Pure except for new, muddy kitten prints all over everything!

Somehow, kitten found herself in contact with water and dirt, from God knows where (not in MY clean house!) and has redecorated Meow Style. *sigh* Perhaps now that am full-time kitten mother, it’s time to connect with color again and redo the bedroom. Will be like child-proofing. Only, for a child with dirty paws, claws and penchant for leaving dead flies as presents.

There is a party (gathering of v. close friends) going on across the street that am supposed to be attending. Actually was there a few minutes ago, but suddenly felt the urge to v. quiety slip out and walk across the dark street to my own, quiet house.

Perhaps because have been spending so much solo time buried under double layers of down comforter in recovery, that feel less inclined to be around noisy chatter. Same old stories, different party.

Friendly Lab Person called this morning to confirm that latest Keep This Fish Home from Work illness was, as suspected, Mycoplasma Pneumonia. Or, Walking Pneumonia. Basically, bad enough that you want to die, but not bad enough to take your sorry ass to the hospital. Or, affectionately known among Fish’s v. close friends and immediate family as The Poo-monia.

I get The Poo-monia at least once a year, get delirious with fever and attempt to valiantly suffer through at least one of the four or five days at work, pretending to be fine. They always send me home. Apparently looking like a corpse does not attract clients. Who knew? At any rate, Friendly Lab Person advised that should continue taking antibiotic, get plenty of rest and avoid over-taxing myself. Ah, thank you, wise Friendly Lab Person, but today, am feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that spent nearly half the day not only out of under downy retreat but out and about in the real world. Found the party to be a bit overwhelming though, and thus find self home, parked in front of computer, with sleeping kitten within kissing distance.

And now, back to goose-down heaven. THAT’s a party.

1. Ice-cream lovin’ ballerinas. Anna, can we be friends?
2. Lord Helmet. Oh, the giggles.
3. Indian food.
4. Nick and Jessica. Can you feel yourself getting stupider?
5. Going home early. Oh, bathrobe. I’ve missed you so.

As did not go to work today and have passed most of the morning in foggy, sleepy haze, have had many bizarre, medicine-induced dreams. In once such dream, went ahead and cut off my hair and gave it to charity, as though it was my plan for ages. That is the kind of dream/nightmare that would usually have this gal in a semi panic until fully awake. But not this morning. No, indeed. Waking from the dream, simply rolled over and said to no one in particular,

Man, I’m nice. But I’m not THAT nice.

you’re single.

so you get up off your ass, put on some socks and make your own god damn soup. Then you take some Nyquil and a hot bath. And stop feeling sorry for your sick self.

Mostly.

Sniffle.

Bring soup. Don’t care what kind. Can’t taste anyway. But someone is supposed to bring soup when you’re sick. They just are. And I am. (sick, that is)

Absent-mindedly pat my head while you do whatever important things you have to do tonight (pay bills, read, watch Queer Eye for the Straight guy) until I fall asleep. Maybe then my eyes won’t feel like they are on fire.

Promise to take me apple-picking. You don’t really have to mean it. It’s not likely that I’ll live until morning anyway. Don’t look at me like that. I am NOT being dramatic! I AM SICK! Now promise, please?

Turn the heat up and up and up and never complain that it’s too hot. You know it beats me complaining about the cold chills and trying to put my frozen fingers in your armpits.

Marry me so if I do survive this, I’ll always have someone to make the other half of the bed.

Funny how a fever, teary burning eyes and a sniffly nose can turn a gal into a whiny mess. But when sick, and feeling quite miserable, is only natural to want nothing more than to have someone warm your feet, make you soup and promise to take you apple-picking. Right?

A hard-earned quiet night at home and am disappointed to find that there is not a single un-read book on the shelf. Well, except for the last 400 pages of The Brothers Karamazov, but simply refuse to finish that one. And why?

Here’s a plot summary of the first few hundred pages:

Bad, terrible things happen
{insert tangent wherein MORE bad and terrible things happen}
Return to original plot where bad and terrible things are already in progress
{another really, really hard-to-follow tangent}
Bad, terrible things

And there you have it. Am certain that Dostoyesvsky suffered from not only v. serious depression, but Attention Deficit Disorder as well.

Perhaps will simply go smother peacefully-sleeping kitten with kisses. She acts annoyed, but deep down, am certain she loves it.

So many good stories from the West Coast trip and so little attention span to tell them! There was this one time, that yours truly got to play with elephants (there are photos). And this other time where a normally peaceful gal embraced her inner-bouncer and took down some hoodlum at a concert. And this other time when she had to get up at THREE AM to catch a return flight only to sit next to the worlds most annoying plane talker. But mostly there were plenty of times where she simply enjoyed the company of two v. v. great little sisters in a rickety Honda Accord barreling down Highway 80 at ungodly speeds and wishing every day were as sublimely perfect as the ones spent in just that way.

Too few and too far between.

Hi,

I’m surprised to find myself writing to you. But sitting here in seat 4F, listening to the static of the jet engines, it just seems like the thing to do.

Outside of my window right now I can see the Aurora Borealis. It’s beautiful. I’ve seen storms roll in on the horizon of a perfectly clear, blue afternoon. And that’s what this looks like, only showers of light against the perfect black canvas of night.

I didn’t get to talk to you tonight. Can’t use my cell phone — might throw the plane off its course, the way talking to you might throw me off mine.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in the back. She’s been crying for over an hour and I can tell that some of the passengers are starting to get annoyed. Especially the woman with the dog. Though, where does she get off? I’ve been breathing in her stinky rat-dog all the way from Chicago. Ladies with stinky dogs should have nothing to say about fussy children. You have never struck me as the type to be annoyed by something so innocuous as a crying baby. But if you were, I’d remind you that this altitude hurts their tiny ears. And then to distract you, I’d twist that ring around on your middle finger and ask you to play make up answers to the Inflight Magazine crossword puzzle. And maybe I’d swap seats with you so you could see the Northern Lights better. But then again, I kind of like that you have to lean over me to see — because then I’m breathing in your warm, cottony, low-maintenance man smell and not nasty rat-dog.

This flight seems never ending. But the baby and the dog lady have both fallen asleep, so maybe I should try to do the same. Since you’re not really here to make up silly answers to the crossword or tease me about my pronunciation of “multi-vitamin” or how dirty my flip-flops are, I’ll go ahead and doze off.

Sleep well,

H

Am spending the morning with J painting his new apartment, and then off to California for some much needed R&R and sister time. Am absolutely giddy at the thought of not being in the office for the next few days. Hmmm… maybe will not come back from California at all. But then, would have to find some way to ship RK out and…

When did it become such a hassle to run away?

1. Being sick for two days can really give a gal heartburn. It’s one Maalox moment after another, ’round here.
2. Lavender is NOT a peaceful smell. It’s irritating and nauseating. Eucalyptus is where it’s at.
3. My roommate drinks soda right out of the bottle and it doesn’t bug me.
4. My kitten likes to play at 3 AM. That bugs me. A lot.
5. That Meathead Personal Trainer? Yeah, totally hitting on me. That’s against my Gym Code of Ethics. Someone’s gotta tell him that. Any volunteers?
6. I’m leaving for California tomorrow and it makes me nervous. Not the flight, but that I won’t have internet access for FIVE days.
8. Apparently, my hair is v. conducive to petting.
9. My upstairs neighbor plays the drums. At 11 o’clock at night.
10. I still have a tummy ache. And speaking of tummies, the scar from my appendectomy looks like a smiley-face in my belly button.

***I often write entries that I do not post. They’re drafts that never make it here because they fit neither the style nor the voice that readers are used to. But today, I felt like being a bit different.***

I rarely write anything honest here anymore.

Not that it isn’t all true, because it is — down to the last word of each silly conversation — factual. But it all lacks the raw, disturbing honesty I used to spill out into cyberspace. Maybe because I haven’t felt so raw in the last six months. Packing J up into a neat little box and tossing him to the curb certainly tidied things up a bit. But as my co-worker, Dan, said, It’s a boring woman who keeps an immaculate house. And my house, of late, has been gleaming. Spotless. Immaculate.

J re-emerged, dusted himself off and presented himself again as a friend. And, well, I took him back in. It’s been uneventful and completely un-noteworthy– except for the few friends who have sought to offer their warnings. I don’t take those well. Never been open to criticism, or even advice. Comes with being extremely independent. You have to be to pick up and move across the country without a job or a single acquaintance on the other end. Come to think of it, I picked up and moved to Spain once, too. Why did I do that? The same reason I spent my rent money to fly to Aruba one winter : I can be awfully impetuous.

But re-connecting with J was not about being impetuous. At the time, it was about being whole. I’d missed him. He’s foolish, and real and critical, and hilarious, and an irresponsible, rock-star-wanna-be and I had missed him. I don’t wait with bated breath for his emails anymore and when he says he’ll call, I don’t care when he doesn’t. Because once I got him back in my life, I realized I don’t need him. It was nice to have him around, but I don’t need him to be whole, or happy or alive. Took me some time to realize that. And I was careless with a lot of boys along the way. To Peace-Corps and Bald Boy and the Biochemist and the Writer: I should have called. And to He-who-shall-go-unnamed: You had me running scared.

Miniature love affairs with window washers and even fleeting, though possibly genuine attachments to those like Indie Rock Boy are sufficiently entertaining and a much better alternative than the real thing. Because, I’ve discovered, I’m just no good at the love thing.

Or pool. I really suck at pool.

H: The window-washer outside my building is h-o-t. He doesn’t know it yet, but we’re going to get married.
E: Those one-sided engagements seem to work well for you.
H: For a time anyway. They don’t seem to produce any real and lasting effects. Like presents.
E: Maybe you need to start kissing your fiancés to get presents?
H: I would, but they typically live too far away and/or have never met me.
E: Hmm…it’s hard to be engaged. You should just get secretly married and keep the guys in your closet.
H: Which one? The bedroom closet or the walk-in? My shoes might start to feel crowded.
E: The walk-in. Or you can have them live in Roommate’s closet. He’d never notice.
H: Do you think the window washer is ready for that kind of living situation?
E: No, I think you two should have a long distance relationship.
H: Sweet. I’m much better at those anyway.

Have just come from Monday morning meeting where v. nearly threw a rather large temper tantrum. After pursuing a v. large project (sixty-something [wo]man hours per week for nearly a month), found that Monkey Firm has lost the job based on ridiculously high fees. Would shrug and say, “Oh well. Next time.” But this was the next time. Actually, the third time that have worked my proverbial ass off for them to blow it like this.

Blah blah blah work talk blah blah blah. My apologies… but am so v. frustrated.

Only relief from horrid, never-ending meeting is fourth-grade note passing that occurs between yours truly and Equally Bored Co-Worker.

EBCW: I have to say, you look very mysterious today.
H: Mysterious?
EBCW: Kinda Alfred Hitchcock-ish — the black dress, the hair tied back with a scarf.
H: Awesome! I just hope no one is out to kill me. That’s usually how those things work out.

Now where is that theme music?

A gal could really use theme music during the day… to take cues from. A big dum-dum-dum before Highest of Higher Ups comes ’round the corner would be a great warning sign. Or, some violins when a tender, lovin’ moment is coming up. Would certainly be more interesting at work if had theme music. And some Swedish fish.

Dear Jessica Simpson,

Rigor who? Exactly. How do you survive?!

Try not to hurt yourself,

H

——–

In college, could rely on any one of the six roommates to do it. And after college, living with West Coast Sister.
But today, clinging to the toilet bowl for dear life and yacking up last night’s dinner, found that had absolutely no one to hold my hair. Or run that ever-so-necessary errand to the corner store for nasty pink pepto. J was never good for that sort of thing. Running the errand, sure, but never met a man more unnerved by an upset stomach than J. Am sympathetic vomiter myself, but would never leave a gal to hold her own hair.
Is the true test of devotion (and manliness) — the marathon puking session. Will be grateful to find a fella who can hack it while I yack it.
Today was grateful for nearby supply of hair elastics.

Cable Guy: Blah blah … new cable … box blah blah. And tell your husband that we don’t need to come back on Thursday at 1.
H: *giggle* Thanks.

—- later that night —-

Roommate: Hey.
H: Hey. The cable guy told me to tell my husband that he doesn’t have to come back on Thursday.
R: Really? The box works, then?
H: Guess so.
R: Thanks, wife-y.
H: You never bring me flowers anymore, you know.
R: Yeah, but I’m nice to your cat. And besides, you don’t put out.
H: A marriage of convenience… I have become my mother.

Inner Goddess: Haircut. Now.
H: Shhh… I’m busy trying to manipulate the weather with my mind.
IG: Less Isabel, more Vidal Sassoon.
H: That’s so very 80′s of you. How about: Less Isabel, more Newbury Street?
IG: Speaking of 80′s… is this 1880? ‘Cause the Little House on the Prarie look was passe long before Vidal & Co.
H: Thanks for the tip, oh bossy one.
IG: No prob.
H: Bitch.

Suppose it is rather unsophisticated, in current line of work, to have hair more than halfway down my back, but at least it’s not growing out of my back. Ahem. Eew. Besides, am too poor to cut it. Maybe next month.

While cannot fit Newbury Street haircut into tight budget, can fit back-to-the-gym ass into favorite jeans again. Okay, second-favorite jeans. But am convinced that this gal will be back in the Long & Leans in no time.

A quick visit to a Musical Stranger’s website has my brain so v. busy this morning with memories and completely unable to get Leavin’ on a Jet Plane out of this head of mine.

Used to sing that song with West Coast Sister, picking out harmonies and lullabying drunken stragglers at the end of long party nights. Found, oddly enough, that best acoustics for such singing was under the a bridge on the Charles, slowly paddling in circles to keep our voices trapped under the concrete.

Is so v. sad, that song. When was a youngster, was convinced that the singer was, indeed, going to come back and marry the person they were singing to. Now, as have loved and lost and lost and lost again, am fairly certain that the tragedy of it lies not in the leaving, but in the v. v. slim chance that they are actually ever coming back. The late Mr. Denver (the first performer I ever saw live) made me believe. Mary (of the Peter and Paul variety), her low, melancholy voice on the stereo, made me doubt. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. A childish hope says, someday. A grown-up’s experience says, I’ll try not to keep my fingers crossed.

Miss hearing WCS’s voice taking the harmonies. Miss most of the ways she complemented me, actually. Will be good to get on that jet plane on Wednesday to see her again.

Incidentally, Musical Stranger has such a lovely voice. Can’t wait to hear his version.

Seriously misjudged the length of my skirt today.

Well, not so much the length, as, while standing, skirt falls at appropriate, (perhaps verging on miniskirt) length. But did not consider that walking a considerable distance while shouldering gym bag might cause short skirt to become… even shorter. As a result, scandalized half the commuter population of the greater Boston area this morning on the way to work. Whatever. Was probably the most excitement they’ll have in their commute.

Adding insult to the injury of feeling horrendously large-and-in-charge lately, was zoning on treadmill when realized was being spoken to by Meat-Head Personal Trainer. Wanted to know if yours truly was new to the gym (Am NOT new to the gym. Have been going there for three years now!!), and would I be interested in a personal training session? Bah! Could not decide if was a sales line, or if it’s that this gal must be looking pretty disgusting to be sneak-attacked by personal trainers! Asshole. Was so v. offended.

Will be hiring Asshole Meat-Head Personal Trainer in October.

Am wearing tights and sipping hot chocolate, a rainy morning-inspired moment, and watching in complete horror as the sun comes out.

No! It’s too damn hot to be wearing tights if indeed is going to be a sunny day!

Now, would be one thing entirely if had not checked weather.com before making wardrobe selections this morning. But did indeed check and was led to believe (by weather.com liars) that was going to be rainy and dreary and that wearing tights was a fabulous idea (made even more fabulous by the thought that would not have to shave my legs for yet another morning). How easily led astray!

Perhaps have jumped the gun on autumn fashions, but don’t care. Have missed wearing the many protective layers keeping the general public from realizing that have spent too much time with Ben & Jerry (Dear God, thank you for control top. Amen) and far too little time with a good, sharp razor.

After v. stressful week, decided would be just the thing to take impromptu visit to the Big City to visit the gals for weekend of relaxation (read: girly facials, pedicures and pot). Needless to say, as was weekend involving yours truly, did not exactly go as planned.

To shorten v. long ordeal, Big City-bound bus was involved in rather serious accident. First, a 16-wheeler swerved to miss a car that had hit the cement barrier. Then, fine Chinatown bus that yours truly was on, swerved to miss the lot of them, but the driver couldn’t stop in time and ended up hitting the windshield of the bus on the corner of the semi, shattering the window and smashing the front of the bus. Driver was then wedged with the steering wheel in his chest. He passed out. The semi then decided to move to the side of the road. And being on a hill, once the semi moved, the bus started rolling. But since the driver was wedged in, and consequently out cold, no one could get to the brake. So, we rolled until we hit the cement wall.

The lot of us stood on the side of the road watching quite helplessly for two hours as the emergency crew took chain saws and winches to the bus wreckage to get the driver out. Called the bus company yesterday and inquired after his situation to learn that is stable and still in the hospital. Can imagine the poor fellow has some fairly critical injuries. Am luck to have come away with nothing more than a headache and some bruised knees.

Am certain if airline company knew of luck associated with this gal, would cancel next week’s West Coast flight immediately. And this gal, to be sure, will be appropriately sedated as am getting v. nervous about travel of any sort.

Sigh

Am finally finished with Deadline of Monster Proportions. Have worked a sixty-something hour week and slept v. little for fear of disappointing Highest of Higher Ups. Is a yeller, that one. But so far, have not been yelled at… to the relief of this gal.

Two glad-to-be-finished margaritas later, am feeling quite sleepy and absolutely retarded.

Quick! Fish! Do simple math to save the lives of this group of small children!

Uhhh… um, well, I…

Indeed. Just that retarded.

Dear Paul,

Thank you for the flowers — they’re gorgeous! That was v. thoughtful of you.

Flowerly,

H