Dear Highest of Higher Ups:

You
will
not
win.

Got that? See, you can still send rude emails and tell me I never do anything right (You did just give me a raise, so I must be doing something right. But anyway, that’s not the point.) You can scream. You can red-line everything I produce. But from here on out, you will not cause me stress.
I will continue to work until 11:30 at night if that’s what it takes. But I will do it from home. AFTER I go to the gym where I imagine I am running all over your leathery face. And I won’t be burning the midnight oil for you. Nope. I’ll be working for every other peon who has to kiss your smarmy ass all the time. And I won’t care what you think. Because your negative energy is totally getting in the way. You’re like the antithesis to good mental health. Do you need a moment to look up antithesis in the dictionary?
So, anyway, that’s really all I have to say. Oh, and this: fuck off.

That is all.

H

Have felt this coming on. Like the way old folks sense an oncoming storm, or two-for-one sales on Ivory soap at Safeway.

Have also felt like this before. Worn out. A bit unfixable. Defeated. Four hours ago, was set to make brave attempt at holding defeat at bay. Make a list of goals. Dive in. Throw whole self into reasons for being. Live deliberately.

Then, made mistake of checking work email. The only unread message was from the highest of Higher-Ups expressing disappointment in yours truly for failing to meet a deadline. Doesn’t matter that said deadline takes back seat to the other fifteen fucking million things that am trying to get out the door this week. Doesn’t matter one bit.

As many lists as this gal can make, and as many hours that come in early, am still insufficient. Have been working v. hard – almost to the point of obsession. Sadly, on reflection, it seems work has been the only marker of success or failure that have been able to gauge self with lately. And clearly, it is just one more failure.

Have been feeling like something of a non-participant lately in my own personal life. Family matters are beyond sort of scandal even the Osbournes could conjure up, but am getting used to that. In truth, am mostly a bit lonesome. As much of an egregious fuckwit as J could be, felt as though our back and forths gave me some kind of an anchor in real life. (Not that the fellas from Queer Eye aren’t real, of course. But am digressing.) After J, purposely stayed away from forming any substantial connections and have continued to do so. And, quite honestly, will probably continue in same vein for the foreseeable future. Feel tired. Wobbly, like Jell-o having been left out too long. Is quite an accurate physical description as well. Perhaps should focus less on work and more on being able to embrace the fall’s tribute to the miniskirt. Not that it matters. Am too poor to buy a miniskirt. Ah, life’s cute and tragic ironies.

This is the blog that PMS built.

This is the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.

This is the boss
That stressed the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.

This is the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the Fish
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.

This is the skirt Fish wanted to wear to
the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the FIsh
That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.

This is skirt that was too fucking tight
For the Fish to put on
to wear to the monkey job
that worried the boss
that stressed the Fish

That ate the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream
And wrote in the blog that PMS built.

Am aware that the original poem is much longer, but am certain it’s only because the author did not have PMS. Or this job. Or this ass that can’t fit into her suit.

Fucking Monday.

California, I’m comin’ home. (ladies and gentlemen, Joni Mitchell)

Yipppeee!

Bought plane ticket. Bought concert tickets. And it two weeks or so will be off to San Francisco to visit sisters and sing along with favorite angstful band. Can’t wait. Am feeling rather burnt out and a short jaunt to the West Coast will be just the thing.

Indeed.

Had horrible, terrible, no-good, v. bad dreams last night. And the night before. And, am fairly certain, the night before that. Have no idea what is causing them and have spent several minutes discussing with officemate the reason for such nightmares. Stress? Perhaps. Diet? Hmmm… most likely.

Am going to cut caffeine out for a bit and see if that helps. Being cracked out on Diet Coke all the time just may not be the most helpful thing.

Had dinner with J on Tuesday night. Or, rather, J invited yours truly to his new place and made dinner. Was nice and perfectly platonic. On all accounts. Really and truly. Had moment of “What am I doing here” when got a call on my cell phone and stepped into J’s bedroom to answer. Sat down on the bed and chatted, but halfway through the conversation, looked down at the sheets (new) and was stuck with the bizzarity of the situation. (Bizzarity. New word. Say it five times and add it to your vocabulary. It will be on the quiz) But overall, was v. nice experience.

J does seem v. melancholy and negative though, after latest break up. And spent most of the evening teasing (with merciless roommate). Note to self: J does not take well to nicknames like Mr. Poopy Pants and Ye Olde Crybaby.

Am missing sisters quite intensely lately. So, as soon as paycheck is securely deposited in account, am buying a plane ticket to opposite coast for extended-weekend visit. And that is that.

Got called into Stone-Faced Director of Ops’ office yesterday. Had seen my boss in there previously — door closed, in serious discussion. And when, ten minutes later, was asked to step into his office felt slightly panicked. Why, oh why does the man who never speaks to me want to speak to me now?

“Come in, come in. Go ahead and close the door.”

Close the door? If the door is closed, bad things can happen. And there will be no witnesses!

“Have a seat.”

Yes. I’ll sit. On my shaking hands. Please don’t fire me.

“I wanted to discuss something with you. A money issue.”

Oh god. Okay, fine. We’ve fallen on hard times again. You’re cutting my salary. Getting fired is worse, right?

“… your current salary…. adjustments… increase…. does not preclude your annual living increase or bonus which comes in December… “

What?

“Thank you for all your hard work.”

You’re giving me a raise? A real one? Where’s my calculator…

An unexpected (completely unexpected) 8 1/2% raise later and am feeling quite sated. Could not have come at a better time. Have never been v. good with money woes. Good with money, yes. Good with money problems? No way.

And along the vein: Have paid web-hosting bill and will be able to make $100 donation to the food bank. My sincerest gratitude to all who made donations.

Oh, and flattery will get you everywhere!

Am v. foolish girl. But what else is new?

Despite all plans to the contrary, got v. v. drunk on Friday night and thus… v. chatty as well. So chatty, in fact, that flung hissing cat from bag and told IRB all about this fishy spot on the web.

Say what?!

Am inclined to blame lemon drops. Or wine. Or vodka tonics. Don’t show nearly as much restraint when others are paying for my drinks. Cursed vodka.

The thing is, do not feel completely foolish or appropriately mortified. Why not? Perhaps because IRB, should he have remembered that drunk confession, will (am hoping) be flattered at level of celebrity that he has achieved. Being among ranks of Cute Fireman, Beautiful Bus Boy and the-affair-who-shall-not-be-named is fine company indeed. Besides, as much as currently have stacked on my overflowing plate, potential embarrassment with IRB is the least of my concerns. Am also quite used to being found out by now, as well.

In other news, am happy to confirm that Britney is indeed a v. lousy actress. Have begged Roommate to keep under wraps the fact that yours truly actually watched Crossroads. May have to grease some palms.

Am poor.

Am v. v. poor.

Came home last night to emergency room bills from Great Rafting Accident of 2003. Oh, god. Is it not enough that had to pay nearly THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS to move? After paying rent tomorrow, will again be quasi-destitute and staring at empty refrigerator hoping that leftovers, left alone, will multiply by themselves.

Had contemplated abandoning this site and returning to the ever-so-free blogspot, putting an end to paying hosting fees, but instead, have decided to humble self and ask for donations. Any kindly donations will go straight to hosting fees and only hosting fees. Will not be asking generous readers to pay for this gal’s toilet paper and Lean Cuisine. Any excess funds will be donated to the Greater Boston Food Bank.

There’s a Make a Donation button to your right.

Mister, can you spare a dime?

Did NOT get to see Mars last night. Was somewhat disappointed but still had v. nice evening with good pals and good food. Even got to see (finally) second Lord of the Rings flick… and subsequently have nightmares base on horrendous battle scenes. Which is hardly surprising, though, as yours truly had nightmares after watching particulary scary scenes in Monsters, Inc.

Will attempt to see Mars again this evening. Perhaps even taking J on his offer to make trip out of city, away from lights, for such viewing.

H: Why the trouble sleeping?
W: I don’t know. Perhaps my conscious gnaws away at me at night? Perhaps it’s the unrequited love I feel for you? In all honesty, I’m not sure what the problem is. I’m certainly tired enough, but when I lay down and close my eyes I just can’t seem to shut my body down until after 1 in the morning. I should probably see a specialist.
H: Or we should just requite our love.
W: You’ll get no complaints from me.
H: That’s because you’ll be bound and gagged.
W:….

Had the most wonderful night’s sleep!

Woke around 5 AM to purring Reluctant Kitten curled up, sharing same pillow. Thought, This is mighty cute. And then thought, Am done being tired. Then realized it was far too early to be up and about, so snuggled with the kitten and read for a bit. Normally, am prone to punch the snooze button for a good 45 minutes. But not today. Today was up and at ‘em before the alarm even went off. Perhaps is result of last night’s hot bath-candles-glass of wine event that rounded off a rather decent day.

Has been downhill ever since. Have wanted to gnaw the faces off several coworkers who just don’t get that my office is… MY OFFICE. Why are you standing here yammering?? Get out! I do not care about Canadian Bacon. I do not care about Kevin Bacon. In fact, I don’t care about bacon at all. I care about getting this article out the door before noon so I can go outside and catch some of this glorious sun before it’s too late.

Speaking of too late, am heading out to Museum of Science tonight to catch glimpse of Mars before the Red Planet heads away for another 208 years. Can’t wait. Am going with Work Pal and friends for free viewing and planetarium show. My Inner Nerd is all excited.

Have been talking to J again.

Which, in a list of all possible vices, isn’t so bad. Right? Because have also been going to the gym, taking vitamins, not drinking, paying bills on time and keeping my bedroom spotless. So, talking to J (being a minus) amid all those good things and the tally is still in the positive. Right? Of course, right.

Interview questions courtesy of Miss Jezebel.

1. Is it ever acceptable to “slightly stalk” an ex-boyfriend and his new flame?
Hmmm. Acceptable? Sure. I mean, I wouldn’t call you crazy for doing it, but I personally wouldn’t stalk an ex and his new girl. I don’t want to know where they are, what they’re doing or how much better she looks in low-rise jeans than I do. It’s all better left up to my imagination which has them bickering constantly; him doing drive-by’s of my house because he misses me oh-so much and her steadily gaining weight and catching some horrible skin eating disease. That’s way better than stalking.
2. McDonalds or Burger King?
Why isn’t Wendy’s an option? What about the Frosty?? Given the limited options, I would have to go with MacDonald’s. They soak their fries in sugar water, and all their menu options so cleverly begin with Mc. So they’re not flame-broiled. I’ve got one word for ya: McFlurry. Yum.
3. Really, is a first date necessary before sleeping with someone?
Nah. A first, second and perhaps third date prior to the naughty are only necessary if you want him to hang around for an extended period of time. Most men have such a short shelf-life that the investment is hardly worth it. That is, unless you actually like the guy.
4. Your apartment is burning down, are you OK with a female firefighter rescuing you?
If she can heft this gal, more power to her. I’ve got no pride when it comes to having my tush rescued from a fiery inferno.
5. How old were you when you finally got rid of the training wheels on your two-wheeler bicycle?
Six? Five? Perhaps younger. That’s a question for my mom. But, as kids, we rode bikes like it was our job. You keep your training wheels too long and you get left behind.

Okay, so… if you want to get interviewed by This Fish… you know what to do. And if you don’t know, here’s the deal: leave a comment, send an email, etc. and I’ll send you the questions. Ya dig?

Got quite sunburned spending tremendous day with V Calm Brother. Did not Kayak as hoped, but managed to fill the time with lobster, peach frozen yogurt, etc.
Saw Freaky Friday. Also HAD Freaky Friday.

J called.

Mmmm Hmmm. Yes indeed.

Happy Andrew Dan-Jumbo Day!

While am not about to start lobbying to make today a national holiday celebrating the ever-so charming, tool-belt wearing carpenter from While You Were Out, am not opposed to dedicating this fine, sunny day to such a deserving chap.

As have been right poor lately, have been taking in hours and hours of home redecorating reality TV as means of passing time til payday (15 hours to go). Must say that Andrew is my favorite part of being poor. After a quick internet search found that ADJ has his own FAN page, complete with fan mail address. Simply had no idea (though it’s completely justified) that he had such a following. Will refrain from sending him fan mail, as am not the sort to do so. But… if this gal were to send a fan letter, it might go something like this…

Dear Andrew,

H

Am certain that snooze button is going to break from this morning’s over-usage. Or go on strike for unnecessary use of force.

Hastily got ready and as was ready to walk out the door, found that keys were nowhere to be found. Until a few days ago, said keys were attached to my wallet, and therefore nearly impossible to misplace. Nearly. Am capable of losing anything. It’s a gift.

Frantically searched for keys. Dumped out purse. Combed through laundry. Even accused Kitten of having hid them as to prevent yours truly from leaving the apartment and spending energy on someone or something else. After twenty minutes, and fearing for security of monkey job, decided to give up and leave the door unlocked. Flung the door open and… jingle, jingle… fucking keys were hanging in the lock.

Should just save everyone time and effort and put out neon sign: Axe Murderers Welcome Here.

Foolish, foolish girl.

Things a Gal Can Do with $4.77 in her checking account:

Run through sprinklers
Watch hours of While You Were Out & Trading Spaces
Cook (and eat) unreasonable amount of Ramen noodles
Sit in tub
Complain about lack of pedicure
Post to website
Sleep

Things a Gal Can NOT Do with $4.77 in her checking account:

Buy Cat Food Many apologies, RK.
See S.W.A.T. Many apologies, Mr. Cool J
Eat anything BUT unreasonable amount of Ramen noodles
Sit in tub with bottle of wine
Get a pedicure
Pay web-hosting folks
Sleep well

And the lists go on. Am v. much looking forward to pay day, though, won’t be much better of a situation. Have so many stinky bills to pay.
Am also v. much looking forward to V. Calm Brother’s visitation on Thursday. Have not seen him since our misadventures in London last year and am quite excited. Am hoping VCB will find it charming that am lacking in living room furniture, especially when he figures out that affects the sleeping arrangements. V. charming indeed.

He once was lost, but now he’s found.

V. many thanks for the thoughts and prayers. Am now going to eat and sleep, as have not done so in days.

PS. Happy birthday littlest sister. You’re everything.

Dear Dad,

I got a call from home a few minutes ago. They found your note. The one you wrote before you drove to the airport and disappeared. She was crying, when she called. I know that you think teenage girls cry about everything — angry, petty fights, break-ups, fits of frustration over the unfairness of life — after four daughters, you’ve heard it all. But, do you know what it sounds like when one of them cries over a suicide note? Your suicide note? No, you don’t. Because you’re not there to hear it.

Because you’re a coward.

I have felt sorry for you my whole life. After the mysticism of the Daddy-Knows-Best years faded, you did, too. Faded, I mean. I started to see you as somehow broken. Short changed. Weaker. Weaker than me. Your child. Why did I feel like that? Because you had me believing that for some reason, your problems were more special than everyone else’s. Your life was harder. You got the raw end of the deal. You felt put-upon by your father, cheated by God and misled by religion. You’ve never had the job you wanted. Your wife doesn’t love you anymore. Your life is hard.

Because life is hard. All life. Yours. Mine. The people who hurt us. You think anyone gets off easy?

I used to think I was good with words but I’m so angry and frustrated with you that the only thing that comes to my mind right now is get over it and get on with it, Dad.

You know what? Maybe you were right when you wrote that note. Maybe you should never have come home from Vietnam. Because from where I sit now, I’m pretty sure that was the last time you did anything brave.

I love you so much it’s painful,

H

PS If you go through with this, you don’t have to worry about God cheating your children. You’ve pretty much covered that for Him.

New, and nearly always Absent Roommate comes with many perks (absence NOT being one of them). For starters, is v. mellow, v. quiet, v. clean boy. AR also cooks and came cable ready.

Past living situation came with three channels. Was not a problem, as yours truly can find much better things to do (and really, three channels has all the bad reality tv one could need). But lo, what a world has been opened to this gal! Queer Eye for a Straight Guy?! The Love Channel?? The Home and Garden Network? Even 7th Heaven is tolerable when it’s coming to the house on that beautiful cable. Well, screw 7th Heaven. Yours truly has been watching until my eyes bug out and have STILL not gotten my fill of decorating shows. Perhaps never will.

Friends may start to wonder when repeated attempts at contact are ignored. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that if am going to learn everything about turning an old bedroom into the perfect art studio, must give full attention to the TV. It’s all v. complicated. I mean, who knew plaster walls could be such a problem?

Cable. The next best thing to actually having a life.

Am sober.

FINALLY.

Spent entire weekend in foggy, THC haze doing nothing more productive than eating, sleeping and catching up on newest addition to American Pie family of films.

Am completely disgusted with self over obsene amount of weight that have put on recently. Am headed back to the gym this evening with resolution to never feel this gross ever again. It’s horrifying, really, the extent to which have let self go. Am wretched.

Soon, this Fish will be sending two v. lovely boys off to war. Oh, alright, they’re not heading out to war per se, but they are off to Cuba to play babysitter to terrorist detainees. This is as close as I will ever come to sending loved ones off to war (fingers crossed), and can’t say I like it one bit.

The lovely boys are brothers (not MY brothers, but they themselves are siblings. Get it?) — the younger, with whom have shared outrageous and entertaining flirtations, and the older, with whom have formed an actual kinship – both to be missed quite ferociously.

Spent yesterday evening frolicking with gal pals and GI Joes in few remaining hours before shipping out. Woke up this morning feeling v. tired and quite melancholy. Yes, am aware that have been highly sentimental lately (an unfortunate side effect of PMS), but am still taking this rather hard. While Cuba is a rather safe place (relative to other war-time assignments), can barely fight inclination to place anonymous and frantic phone call to their commanding officer.

H: I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.
CO: No ma’am. Those boys are headed out to Cuba.
H: But they can’t. These boys mean something to me. They must stay here.
CO: They’re just doing their duty. Where they’re needed. In Cuba.
H: But! But! What if something… happens?!
CO: Like what? It’s very safe. At worst they might get sunburns.
H: Yes! Exactly! You’ve seen how fair skinned they are! Do you want them to blister?! I really think it’s in everyone’s best interest if they stay behind.
CO: They’ll be fine.
H: Let me level with you, General.
CO: Eh, I’m actually a Sergeant.
H: Sergeant? SERGEANT? I should be addressing someone much higher up, I think. But maybe you can pass this along to someone with the proper amount of bars on his shoulder. Accidents happen in hot, sticky tropical climates where terrorists and/or iguanas and Hummers are involved. And if one of those sticky terrorist iguana accidents happens to these boys… well, it just can’t. Because I mean, who would frolic with me? Who would flirt shamelessly with me? Who would help me move? Who would know that I can’t go a single day without eating my own weight in ice-cream? Don’t you see?!!
CO: Ma’am… your tone has reached levels that only dogs can hear. Maybe you need to lie down.
H: I need for you to station these boys in a non-sticky, non-tropical, non-terrorist and iguana-infested location. Hey, I know somewhere like that. RIGHT HERE. You can leave them with the Hummers, though, because they’d be disappointed to lose the toys. But… Hey! Are you listening to me? Hello? Hello…?

Have put John Denver’s Leavin’ on a Jet Plane on repeat. And intend to leave it playing until Lovely Boys return.

Ivy Leaguers stink.

Am so v. fond of being able to walk to monkey job (weather permitting, of course), and like nothing better than to don headphones, sneakers and wander across the river. Gives one a sense of ownership to do so. And am excessively fond of owning this city. Except on trash day. Which seems to be every day lately. Seems Ivy League students produce an unreasonable quantity of foul-smelling garbage. And said Ivy Leaguers feel compelled to store it up and line the lovely brick sidewalks with it as though leaving some sort of gift for the rest of us, not-so-blessed-to-be-Ivy-League-educated schmucks.

Here is our refuse. Take it. Learn from us.

Yes, indeed. Have learned that not only did some Ivy League daddy spend way too much to send his kid off to booze away his/her education, but he raised a v. stinky child. Which has most likely escaped his attention since he is probably Ivy League educated himself, and he must therefore also produce an obscene amount of unbelievably stinky garbage. But he’s way far away in Scarsdale, or Malibu or Highland Park and therefore am not forced to deal with his stink. Thankfully. There’s really only so much Ivy League stink one gal can take.

Will simply have to hide out in office until stink is gone.

Have decided one of two things is happening. Either uterus is wrenching itself free of this body or, is getting a tattoo.

Indeed. Am more convinced it is the latter. In annoying, yet predictable act of rebellion, my uterus is getting inked. That totally explains the torturous pain and buzzing feeling in my cranium. Just hope that the results will be pleasing. Most certainly this new tattoo will say something clever like No Room in the Inn or Don’t Tread on Me. Or, perhaps a big red heart with the word Mother through the middle. That’s it. Don’t see why stupid uterus couldn’t be satisfied with trite little symbol, but noooo she had to go all out and get lettering. That shit hurts.

Oh well. Could be worse. Tattoos aren’t the end of the world. At least she’s not knocked up.

Am beyond penniless. Oh, payday where art thou?

Have learned a v. valuable lesson. Will henceforth refrain from taunting God, Mother Nature and any other Associated Forces in control of moving-day fate. Will not, in the presence of light rain, scream at sky, “Is this all you got?!” Because chances are, no, this is not all She’s got. Luckily, yours truly and an armful of table legs were the only things soaked by ensuing massive shower. God, Mother Nature and Associated Forces have one hell of a sense of humor. And vengeance.

RK took relocating surprisingly well. By 4 AM of following morning, despite horrific scene just 12 hours earlier, the young one was quite ready to explore the new abode. This gal was tiniest bit annoyed at being invited to v. early morning exploration session, but am v. glad that RK isn’t still under the bed sulking. Am hopeful that New Roommate and Reluctant Kitten will become fast friends. Or at least not frighten one another.

Am v. glad to be living across the street from pals, as spent last night in all out gory Monopoly battle. Am hoping for a rematch as did not do so well, even sporting lovely Boardwalk/Parkplace money trap.

Speaking of money trap, have I mentioned that am v. near to having exactly zero dollars? *sigh*