This article was so well-written. Kudos. And thanks to Caryn for pointing it out.

How long is thirty-seven days? When measured in seconds it’s something like a little under 3 million, 2 hundred thousand. In social events, it’s a weekend in New York, a couple of movies, a few late nights getting trashed at cheap bars, a party and a few trips to the mall. A crumb off the crust of time. But when measured in heartbeats, when you’re stricken with intermittent thoughts of terror that yours may be markedly limited in number, it’s an eternity.

It’s 23 hugs, a few kisses and 36 nights of bad dreams and cold sweats since Day One when you first feel the lump, foreign and frightening. In your shock, you try to ignore it (maybe it wasn’t really there at all), but your fingers find it on their own—drawn to it nearly constantly. And on Day Three you sit on the examining table, cringing in pain as the pretty blonde lady in the stiff, white lab coat swabs your throat so that the man at the lab can tell you, for a nice fee, that you have Strep Throat. Your sister already told you that for free; you’re only here for the antibiotic. And in a sudden escape from denial, when the white toothed doctor asks if there’s anything else, you mention the lump. The lump. Somehow it’s become The Lump…like it’s part of the family…like The Dog, The Cat or The Brother.

She feels the lump for herself. You’re too delirious from the fear and fever to feel like you’re being violated. And when she tells you that in cases like this, considering your age, you should wait to see if it goes away on its own, you just nod. It’s most likely nothing, she tells you, but to be sure, come back in about a month and we’ll check it out again. So, you leave (not without making another appointment), still mostly concentrated on the fact that you can’t swallow or passing into partial delirium from the 103 degree fever you’re running.

It’s half a dozen Vicodin, 40 doses of Penicillin and half a bottle of Advil, as Days Four, Five and Six pass in more or less a haze, punctuated by conscious thoughts of, “Don’t be there when I wake up.” You beg your fingers not to find it, but they do. Over and over. And after Day Eleven, it just becomes part of the routine. “Good morning, lump.” Pretty Doctor Lady told you to notice if it gets smaller. If it does, all the better. If it gets bigger, what then? She didn’t tell you. Just said to come back in. You run your finger over it slowly. It’s not getting bigger. Or is it? Your brain plays silly tricks on you.

It’s several temper tantrums at work, a dozen or so emotional outbursts when anyone so much as looks at you strangely, and seven ridiculous fits of insecurity with friends as you pass through Days Fifteen to Twenty-Four. It’s neurotic cleaning and bogus bouts of enlightenment pasted all over your blog. It’s two twenty-minute showers some days spent crying – the one place you can emerge from, red-eyed and wet-faced and have no one look at you with questions forming on their pink tongues. It’s a handful-too-many fights with your sister, a couple of plane tickets you hope you’ll get to use, a new bra you wonder if you’ll need, and twenty-five car rides with a two-year old that have you hoping you’ll get a chance to have one of your own…because on Day Thirty, it’s still there. Just as big. You hope not bigger.

On Day Thirty-seven, it’s one breath held and one needle pierced through your breast and into the lump that the doctor agrees has not changed in size. And it’s less than five seconds of escaping fluid to tell the doctor and you, that it was nothing more than that. It’s Thirty-seven Days of misplaced fluid. Thirty-seven Days of your heart-rate being not-quite normal, of panic attacks and self-imposed emotional sequestering. And after those thirty-seven days, it’s a twenty-five minute walk back to work, bawling, wiping tears and runny nose on the sleeve of your black turtleneck. After thirty-seven days, it’s a lifetime of relief.

How funny is that
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I'm the brains of the family...and the rest of this isn't going to be coherent. Ah, the irony that is Belle. "I aslo my fav subject is English??" Oh dear.

My friend, Jenn, is taking a Man Sabbatical. For those of you who may be unfamiliar, this means that for the next two months, this particularly amazing girl is not going to pay any mind to members of the opposite sex. She won't return phone calls, flirt, primp or do anything for the singular purpose of attracting and/or securing the affections (hah!) of a man. On Friday night, we spent the evening more or less oblivious to the testosterone club and I have to say, I've never passed such a great time at a bar. We talked about everything from culture to curtains and bad crushes to bad kisses. We tried, I promise, to avoid the topic of men altogether. But we're not KD Lang fans...we still really like them...just don't know exactly what to do with them all the time.

The Man Sabbatical is particularly freeing for a number of reasons. In an existence that has, since meeting Gino Notini in Ms. Poulsen's sixth grade English class, revolved around attracting and/or maintaining the attraction of a boy, much energy has been expended in the effort. And for a girl who was never really pretty, it came down to the details. And lord, there were many. The hair, the make-up, the perfect way in which a pair of shoes went with an outfit, the push-up bra, the ever-so precise arch of diligently plucked eyebrows, expensive and carefully chosen perfume... If those things were taken care of, if I were well put-together, maybe nobody would notice that I wasn't actually very attractive.

And then a few weeks ago, without even realizing that’s what I was doing, I went on Man-Sabbatical. For the first time in years, my nails are a wreck; I haven’t used a blow-dryer, a bagful of make-up products, a bra, or shoes that while uncomfortable, raise the calf-muscles just so; and I haven’t laughed at a joke that I didn’t find funny, said something was okay, when really it wasn’t, nor cleared my calendar to do something simply because it would involve mixed company.

And when I tell you my ducks are in a row, it may be a result of the overall attitude adjustment commensurate with spring cleaning, and not necessarily of the Man Sabbatical. Regardless, I am happier and more hopeful and more at ease. And when I decide to take interest in someone, he will not be ordinary…because the best and most important result of the Man Sabbatical is a renewed oath to not settle for average. And maybe, just maybe, the next one will be Mr. Right.. and not just another Mr. Right Now.

So, I'm sitting here, writing with Peter, Paul and Mary lullabying me in the background. I'm feeling peaceful and happy... then THIS song comes on. I don't notice until I'm feeling tense and angry, just how awful this song is. So, now, here you go, kids...the lyrics to the This Man Is Evil song:

That's what you get for lovin' me
That's what you get for lovin' me
Ev'ry thing you had is gone
As you can see
That's what you get for lovin' me

I ain't the kind to hang around
With any new love that I found
'Cause movin' is my stock in trade
I'm movin' on
I won't think of you when I'm gone.

So don't you shed a tear for me
'Cause I ain't the love you thought I'd be
I got a hundred more like you
So don't be blue
I'll have a thousand 'fore I'm through

Now there you go you're cryin' again
Now there you go you're cryin' again
But then someday when your poor heart
Is on the mend
Well I just might pass this way again

That's what you get for lovin' me
That's what you get for lovin' me
Ev'rything you had is gone
As you can see
That's what you get for lovin' me
That's what you get for lovin' me

**Note: After hearing this song, I prompty put in Carole King's Tapestry...to restore my faith.**

What an empty head I have today! I’ve nothing much to say, and nobody to say it to. How odd.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been to the kitchen, where, finally, I’ve started to fill my cup. And, in doing so, I’ve managed to empty not only my savings account (eh, there are worse things) but also my head. I’ve got no especially deep or wholly engaging ideas to expound upon. This must be what it’s like to be a boy. (Only kidding…)
Nora and I bought plane tickets to Florida this week, and now Eleanor and John have decided to join us on our Fort Lauderdale adventure (Aruba, the sequel). I’ve got a project to play around with, a couple of good intrigues, and I’ve begun designing a web page for First Impressions (Underwire’s maiden voyage). I’ve got a new story idea in the works, as well. (Please, don’t ask, because I won’t talk about it yet. Why not? Well, can you say JINX?!) My house is clean, my bills are paid and my ducks are currently in a row.

Quack.

Dear Sean,

You drive me up a wall.

Heather

Dr. Atkins had a heart attack!!

That man, a so called nutritionist, who publishes books telling us to lose weight by eliminating carbohydrates from our diet and subsisting on meats? Yeah, that's him. I've been saying for years, "That man is going to fall over dead from a heart attack." And while he hasn't fallen over dead, he's fallen over...and it's just such a mystery why such a diet healthy man would have heart disease!
You mean, those guys telling us for years that red meat is bad for our hearts were... on to something???? My God, what will they tell us next?! Smoking isn't good for your lungs??

Caryn called me a dork. Now, don’t take this as some sort of virtual tattling, rather a forum for defense. I hereby deny the accusation and assert that I am not a dork, but a well-rounded individual.

So, I play Settlers of Catan online. So I like it. I don’t know any of the goofy cyber talk they use in there or have nicknames for any of the resources (besides calling sheep “baas” or “lambies”— but that’s hardly dorky. It’s endearing.), I just play the game.

A shopper from birth, I went through a mall-rat phase. Ok, maybe “went” should be replaced with “am currently in—since the 6th grade.” My clothes cost too much for my budget, I own dozens of pairs of black shoes alone, and those who speak freely, say I posses a certain shallowness that makes me far too concerned with my appearance. That is not dorky. That is superficial. Perhaps some would say I am not deep enough to be a dork.

I do not watch Star Trek. Although, I did for a spell when I had a fascination with Wil Wheaton.

I don’t program anything. Not computers, not VCRs…nothing. That’s why God made boys.

I do know things like, what a sugar alcohol is and how you get it, miscellaneous facts about the inception of FM radio, the intricacies of co-ax cable, and the right and very, very wrong ways to us appositive phrases. Dorky.

I embrace pop-culture. Not dorky.

I listen to obscure music from other countries. Maybe a little dorky.

I know all the correct uses for the F word. Not dorky.
I distinguish that there are correct forms of the F word. Dorky.

Need I go on? You may argue either side…but the fact that I hang out with all you dork engineers doesn’t necessarily make me one of you. I (as well as all of our non-engineer cohorts) serve to bring balance to this world full of “code blah blah server blah blah computer talk blah.”

You need me.

Hee hee.

I know it's awfully sappy, but I love this song. Loooove it. And I love my Louis Armstrong for singing it to me in the morning on the way to work. Good Morning, Louis!


Give me a kiss to build a dream on
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss
Sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on

Give me a kiss before you leave me
And my imagination will feed my hungry heart
Leave me one thing before we part
A kiss to build a dream on

When I'm alone with my fancies...I'll be with you
Weaving romances...making believe they're true

Give me your lips for just a moment
And my imagination will make that moment live
Give me what you alone can give
A kiss to build a dream on

Give me a kiss to build a dream on
And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss
Ah sweetheart, I ask no more than this
A kiss to build a dream on

Daisy Buchanan was overcome with love for Jay Gatsby, simply by grabbing the sleeves of his brightly colored shirts in his closet one night at a party. And simply by watching Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome neatly arrange his on the blue plastic folding table one night at the Laundromax, I finally understood why. Such beautiful (and diversely colored) clothes! Such a beautiful man! Surely we're meant to be together!

His name is Mark, and he hopes he's not taking up too much room. Do I have enough space?

"Oh, sure. Don't worry about it." (How neatly you fold your boxers! Please tell me you're not gay.)

"I’m not gay." (Hooray! So, no, ok, he doesn't really say this, but I imagine it to be so.) He tells me I dropped my card.

"Thank you." (Will you marry me and make a very clean, happy home with me?! Please don't say no.)

He jokes about the smell of incense and knows it is unpopular to hate them, but he does.

"Oh, no kidding. Who would make something smell like this on purpose?" (Let's live together in a very clean, happy, incense-free home!)

He finishes folding the beautiful clothes, goes to leave and then says he'll see me next Tuesday. (I do laundry once a month, maybe less, but I'll roll in the mud to make sure I have laundry to do next Tuesday if I must!)

"I'll roll in the mud to make sure I have laundry to do next Tuesday. See ya." (Subtle, Heather. Marry me, Mark!")

He laughs, says he hopes so, and leaves. (I especially like the dark blue one with the white buttons! I love you!)

And while Mrs. Daisy Buchanan missed out on her opportunity to share an over-stuffed closet with so many beautiful shirts, I will be at the Laundromax next Tuesday, NOT missing out on mine.

Well, you know what? I'm having WAY too good of a hair day to be stuck in this office. I think I shall take up my new friend's offer to hit the town this evening and dazzle the world with these tresses. I'm not kidding... Flat hair? GONE! Shine and volume? Present. And should you (Ahem, Caryn) think all I am concerned with is my appearance...on to less flaky items:

You know what else? I've decided, that as dumb as things are that happen to me... I'm so much bigger than them. No, I'm not making any comments about my girth... I'm saying, the world isn't a horrible, self-interested place unless you want it to be, or that's all you can stand for it to be, in some cases. People aren't trivial and fate, unkind...

To see the world for its possibilites, rather than its limitations does not make one simple or naive. Happiness is not the result of being uninformed about the grim realities of life, nor of some blind subscription made to a faulty ideology. It is, rather acknowlegement of evolution and a belief in the possibility of change.

Seeing the glass as half-full isn't ridiculous, and it isn't a handicap. I still know exactly how much is in that glass...I just don't choose to hate the bastards who drank the other half, or say, "That's how life goes. It's always going to be half-empty, so it's time to face reality." Well, the reality is: I can get up off my ass, go to the kitchen and fill the fucking glass! It's only half empty, or even half-full if I do nothing about it.

Can I get an "Amen?"

Yo tuve una profesora de español que me dijó, “¿Que tienes, hija? ¿Existe aglun problema que no puedes entender? Para simplificarlo, explícalo en otra idioma. Para hacer esto requiere el uso de palabras más sencillos.”
Este mundo es un lugar tan complicado… no hay que hacerlo el peor con las palabras.
En leer algunos cuentos, la cosa que me da la más aprensión es el carácter infidedigno. Y en la vida actual, lo mismo. Para Othello, fue el compañero Iago. Para mi, algo similar.
Acabo de aprender algo…increíble. Un amigo mío me mentió y ahora que sé la verdad, estoy enfadada. La mentira me hice dudarme a mi misma. (¿Es correcto decir ‘dudarme a mi misma”? Me da igual. Esto es para mi…y a mi no me importa.) Y ahora, no se que debo pensar….de todo. Que confusión.
Bueno, yo se que no es algo tan tremendo…que hay mas cosas importantes en el mundo…cosas mas graves. Pero, ahora estoy enojada, y me preocupa, este emoción.
Es todo.

Si ya es hora de esconder
Del mundo el dolor
Bajo la piel
Más se que estaré bien
Los gatos como yo caen de pie
No quiero
Jugar mi suerte por ti
No puedo
Con V pequeña vivir
Pronto estaré de aquí
Muy muy lejos

Ay me voy otra vez
Ahi te dejo
Tus rutinas de piel
Y tus ganas de huir
Yo no quiero cobardes
Que me hagan sufrir
Mejor le digo adiós
A tu boca de aniz

Si ya es hora de limpiar
Las manchas de miel
Sobre el mantel
Yo nunca supe actuar
Y mis labios se ven
Muertos de sed

No quiero dejarlo todo a lazar
Entiendo
Que he comenzado a estorbar
Pronto estaré de ti
Muy muy lejos

--S.M.

Conversation with coworker which received a "thanks for makin' me smile" from Heather:

Mike (approaching desk): Hi, Feather.
Heather: Hi, Mike.
Mike: (walking past) How you doin'? (Joey Tribbiani Style)
Heather: I'm okay.
Mike: (continuing to walk past) You have nice hair.
Heather: Thank you.

Comment which received a good, hearty laugh from Heather:

"If women are a dime a dozen, where's yours?" K. M.

So, Nora and I bought tickets to Florida last night, in an attempt to put some excitement into our lives. It's working so far. I'm picturing waves crashing, cold drink in hand, and myself getting sunburnt beyond recognition on some beach far from here. Ahhhh... the mini-vacation. What more can I ask for?

Some insight would be nice, actually. I mean, I don't need to know the secrets of the universe or anything... but throw me a bone every once in a while. I mean, is it just me or do people NOT make sense?? Male people, more specifically. No, not the individual who brings you letters and bills and stuff. Men. They're freaks. All of them. Can't decide one second to the next what they think, much less what they want. So, I want some insight.

And some advil. And this chair. I don't anything but this chair and some advil. And the remote control.

which "monty python and the holy grail" character are you?

this quiz was made by colleen

In response to one of my posts this week, my mom IMed me to say, "I love you. And I'm sorry for the genetically small breasts thing." I had to laugh. It's really ok with me that Biren thinks he has bigger breasts than I do...because mine are MUCH perkier than his. Still, Biren is the tit in my Titanic.

I wish I had something stunning or insightful to say. But, I don't. I'd comment on Sean's rant about the American Princess Phenomenon, but I'm not sure I should justify it with a reaction. Meh. I'm reactive. Why disappoint??

It seems it angers Sean that girls want to be treated as "special." Ok, fine... don't treat them as special and they won't treat you as special and you'll end up where you are right now--physically precocious and still just as frustrated and emotionally repressed. I understand I'm not one to talk--my attitude towards men vacillates between complete indignation and spurts of adoration. I think, deep-down, every girl (who has ever had a father that doted on her even just a little bit) would like to believe that she is a princess and quite the catch. But most of us, the healthy ones at least, DO realize that men are...well, what they are... and have the attention span of a fruit fly. So, in order to bring some balance to this mad, mad world, I'm tempted to say (and this may shock and appall you all) the following:

LIE.

Tell her she's pretty and special and a catch. And she will treat you like the Amazing Sex God that you think you are and everyone will be happy. Humor her. We humor you all the time. There’s nothing wrong with playing games as long as both people know the rules.

Am I a horrible person, or what?

Heather's Issues for Thursday, April 18, 2002

1. Eleanor STILL has my prime rib in her refrigerator.

2. My skin is the color of skim milk. It matches my sweater today. Even the office health-freak is telling me to get sun.

3. Men are ridiculous.

Thank you. That is all.

There is something to be said for minding your own business. Yet there is also something to be said for prying and maybe getting just a little more information than you were ready to learn.
She can't be more than fifteen years old, and when she refers to her parents as "heartless" I take a leap and asked her why this is so--don't all parents love their children?? Apparently not. Or they simply don't know how to show it. Her story unfolds for me like some horribly sad Lifetime TV movie--something Soliel Moon-Frye would have starred in, post Punky Brewster. I feel like crying for her and think to myself, "I knew none of this when I was her age." But that is not true.
When I was 15, a close friend got pregnant and miscarried and I was the sole person who knew of it. Whether it was loyalty or stupidity, I did not do the one thing that could have helped her. I did not tell a soul. One friend told us she was raped. Another friend ran away. One talked often about suicide. Pretty serious stuff for a handful of clueless teenagers.
My friends now will tease me about the world of "sunshine and flowers where everybody holds hands and sings" that I like to pretend is around me--where movie violence and yelling do not exist. But man, it's so much safer there. I didn't cry for any of those friends back then... but I certainly would now. And I guess that's why I like to custom-make my world without any of that pain...because I'm much more susceptible to it than I used to be.

I was just informed that I am a disgrace to my sex. Now, it was bad enough when Biren said that his boobs were bigger than mine... but a disgrace to my sex? Come on!
A co-worker wondered aloud why I didn't date this nice looking guy in the office who is a fellow Texan. My response? "He's so sensitive. It would never work." "I thought that's what girls want," he said. "A sensitive guy." Most girls do, I suppose, now that I think about it. And even I used to lament that there weren't any to be found. And then I found one. And I couldn't STAND him in the end. Always wanting to communicate, share feeeeeelings and the like. If I feel something worthy of sharing, I'll let you know. All that forced closeness is just counter productive.
Deep down, I'm just like any other girl who wants security and love and stuff...but really, at this point, I'm satisfied with someone to hang out with, make out with, and not expect to much out of me as far as commitment goes. My friend Jenn says I deny my nature. That sooner or later, all this non-committal crap will be out of my system and I'll be left, stuck with a non-commital guy. She says it's like a man saying he wants a long-term relationship. He's a liar. She says these are lies we tell to ease the pain of the fact that we will never actually get what we want. Ok, fine, Jenn.
But right now, it's still in my system. And Eleanor and I muse over the fact that guys, like the Irishman, and some other strange, silly creatures, just couldn't get that a girl could be just as emotionally uninvolved as a guy. Or moreso.
Does this make me broken... like my coworker said, a disgrace to my sex?? Eh, maybe. But to quote the ever verbally profound and inspiring Sean Cote, "Meh."
Tranlsation? "Who really cares? It will all work itself out in the end."

Well, my computer arrived two days ago, but sadly I haven't really had time to sit down and play with my new nerd toy. It's a bit inconvenient to use right now, as it's sitting one of the livingroom end tables by my bed. But this weekend, I fully intend to buy a computer desk. And have Nora put it together. Hee hee. Hey, she LIKES doing stuff like that. And I always mess it up.

I *borrowed* two DVDs from Sean last night. Now, what he doesn't understand is that when I *borrow* something, it becomes mine. ---insert evil laugh here---- He may get them back eventually, but it will take some effort.

We had the super-duperest weekend ever! Crawling out of bed this morning was painful, at best, but such a small price to pay for 48 hours of uninterrupted, good karma-promoting, self-indulging fun. I have a few bruises and some tired eyes to show for it, but I'm restocked and ready to roll.

oooh...I think I have a new project today!

It's spring.

It may be cold outside, but I cannot see any reason why I can't pretend it's lovely out. I refuse to wear my coat in the mornings. I carry it with me, knowing full well that by the end of the day, my resolve will be much weaker than the chill biting at my skin. But I will not wear it in the mornings. I will not wear a coat and my toes will show. Last year's summer sandals are already out and in use...and my toenails are painted. I'm just waiting for the weather to catch up.

Ah, the important things I have on my mind today.

This is just one reason why I hate wearing skirts to work: I crossed my legs and hit my knee on the desk. And since I have such fine reflexes, my leg kicked out, hitting my shoe against the power button on my computer and shutting the damn thing off, losing what meager amount of work I'd already pretended to do. That's a FINE start to a Wednesday morning, I think.

But at least I got felt up on the way to work.

I had turned around to play with Thea, when Michelle had to put on the breaks...so she protectively threw her arm across me (in case my seatbelt didn't do the trick) and by the time either of us realized what was going on, I'd been groped. "It was soft...and it took me a second to realize, 'Oh my God, that's a breast!' Could you maybe try to turn your shoulder out next time?" "Or wear a bra," I offered. "Or wear a bra," she agreed. "Ah, well, you're young. You'll have plenty more opportunities to get felt up before 8:30 in the morning."

Let's hope so.

My mom IMed me to say that it was Honeynut Cheerios that we had as kids. And I responded with "I hate, hate, hate Honeynut Cheerios." Now, this was not a dis on my cereal years...I was not saying that I didn't like my Cheerio Childhood... but, as a matter of fact, we did NOT have Honeynut Cheerios until I was in junior high or high school. Just to clarify. I don't want my mother thinking I hated my upbringing.

I called Nora this morning and she answered the phone, "Good afternoon, Brattle Group, this is Nora." What a tease! The sprinkles weren't even picked off all the donuts in the coffee room yet and she's announcing the afternoon! I wiiish!

Speaking of, talking with Caryn last night, I stumbled across a metaphor that sheds a little bit of light on my Quarter Life Crisis. Speaking of? Yes. I was talking about morning. Morning=breakfast=cereal=cereal isle=choices=Crisis. Got it?

Being a young, twenty-something, no longer a recent grad, is like finding myself in the cold-cereal isle at Stop N Shop...without a grocery list. There are so many choices! And herein lies the dilemna that keeps me gnawing at my fingernails and spending countless hours blogging trying to sort it all out. I could just buy Cheerios and make this whole damn problem non-existent. I seem like a Cheerio kinda gal. I mean, after all, Cheerios were what my parents gave me. Sure, they may be boring, but they're wholesome and relatively inexpensive. But do I really LIKE Cheerios?? What about that new Oreo cereal with 900 times the amount of my daily recommended intake of sugar and twice the price? Now, they may not be as healthy for me as Heart Smart Cheerios, but I'm young! Am I worried about my heart yet? No. Shouldn't I be having more fun and variety in my breakfast food? Sure, why not? So, what if I buy that Oreo cereal...and what if I don't like it? Does it stop there? Can I go back to eating the safe, stable Cheerios or will I inevitably move on to other cereal catastrophes like Apple Jacks or Lucky Charms? Do you get kicked out of a Cheerio-eating Family if you, say, go the way of the Honeycomb?

Mind-boggling, isn't it? This is why I make lists, people. This is why my closet is organized by color. Not to give you reasons to mock me, but to bring SOME kind of sanity to a world completely overwhelmed by too many kinds of cereal and shades of 3/4 length sleeve shirts from the Gap.