In celebration for turning THIRTY FUCKING THOUSAND visits on the lovely sitemeter, yours truly will NOT be making a list. NO indeed. Will instead be inviting you to:

home of the new fishblog

Am v. excited about the new site and wish to thank Mr. Paul Frankenstein for all of his hard work and patience in dealing with a v. picky fish. She can be quite a bitch, am told. And also many thanks to Mr. Ken Goldstein for the logo. Lovely work, my friend.
A special note to those kind enough to link here: Would you ever-so-kindly to reset those links?!
Dear Natalie Portman,

While your pajamas are v. cute (especially tucked into those big black boots as they were), and you're a v. adorable person, must tell you that it appears you've got a rat at the other end of the that leash. That, or you have one fucking ugly dog. Am going to assume that you have a v. kind heart and have adopted said ratdog as an act of charity. Is the only explanation. No one buys an animal that mangy, right? Anyhow, as am aware of your celebrity status and thus v. busy schedule, will let you go. But first, must say again that did indeed like your flannel pjs and am greatly impressed by your kindness toward v. ugly animals.



Need quite desperately to do laundry again. Damn vicious cycle. Perhaps will resort to nudity and render the entire process unnecessary. Or perhaps not. Don't really have the figure for prancing about in the buff, nor have any interesting tattoos to take focus away from less-than-perfect body parts. Besides, would have to shave my legs just way too often. Guess will be doing laundry this weekend.
Will also be getting full body massage. J, noting crazy stress that have been under, suggested that yours truly clear her calendar for Saturday afternoon. Said time is now booked for this fish to get a massage, courtesy of J. Good boy. V. good boy.


Started off the day brilliantly with unexpected call from UMF. Must get caller ID at work. Simply must.

Seems Smart Assed Sibling is in midst of rather serious teen-angst episode and UMF, with all of her Mother of the Year parenting skills seem insufficient to deal with said episode (shocker!). Thus, yours truly was being recruited to fix things. Phoned tired-sounding sibling, but was not feeling inclined to badger or pry. Thus, made no headway. Have stopped answering phone.

Have nearly thrown several temper tantrums at place of employment as well. In venting with GalPal, came to conclusion that will skip unnecessary and annoying conversation altogether and start delivering well-timed (and well-deserved) Piggy Chops. Hiiii-yah!

A: What's going down?
H: You mean who.
A: Ok, who's going down?
H: You, if you're holding another conference report for me to edit.
A: I'm leaving now.
H: Hiiii-yah!

And worst of all predicaments: Am certain to miss out on, So-the-Millionaire-Picked-You-But-You-Still-Lose-'Cause-He-Cheated reality television special as have such poor reception that network television is simply not a watchable. Is there no justice?? If cannot escape stress of monkey job, should at least be able to seek solace in watching Helene cry her anorexic little body into a snotty heap on the ABC studio floor. Right?

Evil. Pure evil.


Conversations of Note:

B: Knock, knock
H: Who's there?
B: Dwayne.
H: Ugh. Dwayne da baftub, you're dwowning?
B: Dwayne da hot tub so I can see da rack.
H: Ha!

H: How wrapped up in each other's lives can two people be? We're an anomaly. We should be studied. Like lab rats.
J: Yeah, but only if they give us the cool psychological drugs to play with.
H: And if they make us run mazes, there can't be some crazed guy with an axe chasing us. That just wouldn't be right. (Reference to The Shining)
J: How messed up was that movie?
H: Good stuff. But not nearly as compelling as Bum Fights. That Rufus is the next big reality TV star.
J: "Who Wants to Marry Rufus?"
H: We're going to hell.
J: You and I? Yeah, I know.
Dear Former Cellular-Phone Provider,

Die a long, horrible death, preferably engulfed in your own flaming ignorance. Oh, and stop fucking with my credit, please. I'd like to be a respectable member of society one day.

Many Thanks,


Am on line with aforementioned company trying to explain, in v. simple terms, why should not have to pay for service that cancelled over three months ago. Not that cannot pay outstanding balance of $132.47, but is a matter of principle at this point. If faceless voice at other end of line would go that extra special mile and check to see that no activity has been posted to said account since November, then argument would be pointless. Fuckwits.

It's very big of you to take out all your frustrations on that poor customer service girl.
Well, she's retarded.
You're having what amounts to a nervous breakdown, and it's the cell phone company's fault?
Exactly. My god, you're astute.
Yes, I am. And that's how I know this has nothing to do with $132.47, and everything to do with what J said in the hot tub.
Come on. I always knew that's how he felt.
But now he actually said it. To a handful of strangers.
It was inevitable, really. Sad, though. That as close as we are, and as good as it can be, it's not...
Nothing is.
*Ahem* as your Inner Goddess, I'd just like to point out that when we chose roles, MINE was the cynic. Where did this pessimism come from? Besides, it's not true.
Yeah? Name one thing, besides these extra 10 pounds, that's going to be with me forever.
Oh God. Kill me now.


One food fight (consisting mainly of melting, semi-sweet chocolate chips), two v. lazy days (consisting mainly of THC-enhanced board games and MTV marathons), three v. drunken nights (consisting mainly of alternating white wine and Smirnoff Ice) and four-hour drive home in blizzardy conditions add up to v. interesting weekend away.

Of the seventy-something hours spent in the v. cold New Hampshire mountains, the most memorable sixty minutes or so were spent trying to put into semi-succinct terms, the oddity that is the H&J relationship to virtual strangers. Was personally a v. difficult thing, sitting among the six un-clothed hot-tubbers, knowing that yours truly was being emotionally disrobed as well. At times, wanted to leap from foamy water and shout, "Yeah, yeah, so we're really messed up. Look at me, I'm naked!" and put an end to the whole extravaganza.

Though was v. nice to hear J tell sauna strangers that am wonderful, and loves me ever-so-much, was caught off guard by how disturbing it was to hear reference made to this twisted best-friendship existing in five years and impact that will have on future, and separate dating relationships. Was honest enough (and drunk enough) to admit that was going to be v. difficult when either one starts actively dating again. After being badgered by Out-Spoken Stranger, J confessed to having not thought through possibility that yours truly would find someone before he did. Indeed.

OSS: Seriously, you haven't talked about what it's going to be like?
J: (turning towards me) Have you actually thought about this?
H: Is it hot in here? I think I need to go back in the house.

Results of said hot-tub expose ranged from dry, irritated skin (due to ridiculous amount of chemicals present in water), to frantic, mid-night bathroom sex (due to ridiculous amount of people present in small mountain cabin), and finally, to realization by yours truly that it is time to move on (due to ridiculous amount of time spent not doing so).

Now accepting applications.


Lasagna baked, for-the-road sandwiches made and house tidied up. Have indeed been possessed by the less-financially astute spirit of Martha Stewart. Or Jodi Foster, as hair is looking so v. Breck Girl-ish today. *flip!* Cannot stop flipping hair as though were either Breck Girl herself, or fifteen year old mall rat, clutching bag of new Steve Maddens, sipping faux-healthy, but ever-so-trendy smoothie and eyeing clerk at the Sun Glass Hut. *flip!*
Those were the days.

Happy love day to all. Am off on non-skiing ski trip. And am wearing simply fabulous new bra, so better get some nookie. Or there will be hell to pay.