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Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Read Me Seymour, Read Me

Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia. ~E.L. Doctorow

Earlier this week, while in the throws of moving hell, a friend asked if I was going to write about moving.
“Probably not”
“It’s just so comical”
“You think it’s comical?”
“Yes it’s funny. You don’t write for us you write for other people. It’s comical”

I wasn’t sure whether to take this as an insult or to shrug it off. I thought about it and realized how correct she was. Lizzie touched on this earlier, which got me contemplating the idea of blogging even more, and why I really do it. I’m not very narcissistic and public speaking scares the shit out of me. A public speaking professor when critiquing a speech of mine, once said that I had a very strong presence and therefore compelling people to want to listen to me; which only made me more freaked out.
Although I want to be a politician, I become uncomfortable talking about myself to people I don’t know very well, therefore I come off socially awkward and unapproachable. In reality I’ve become standoffish and possibly bitchy due to elementary school. I’ll write more about it later, but I was often sent in the hall for talking too much and from second grade through seventh grade, I was labeled the annoying girl who talked too much.

I’m turned off by narcissism, especially those that are loud and/or obnoxiously self absorbed and narcissistic. Call me crazy, but no one wants to hear you talk about you for hours. Blogging is an act of self absorption I suppose, but it’s also a rather anonymous activity and no one is ever forced to read about it, unlike being forced to actively listen to someone drone on about themselves.

Honestly I don’t blog just to see what I have to write and then read it over and over again. I blog because I kept hearing “when I was out of college I didn’t have a job for 5 years and had to work at Burger King” stories. I wanted to share this splendid first year out of school with others, with hopes of making them think that maybe it won’t be that bad. I enjoy it because it’s a fun and humorous way to “meet” other people and see what they have to say about anything and everything, it’s like a whole new world has opened up. And I will readily admit that I check out who has been reading and where they're from, because I'm curious and I just really want to see how unpopular I am.

Regardless, I do get bored with myself and I’m sure my readers (all five of them) get bored with me as well, so I’m always open to suggestions of other fun and exciting things to write about and I LOVE comments and knowing what others have to say.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Boys and Babies

Learn to... be what you are, and learn to resign with a good grace all that you are not. ~Henri Frederic Amiel

“Oh my god, did I tell you about the dream I had?”
“What dream?”
“You had moved to the West Coast and you were coming back to DC to visit me. Before you left you called me and said that Julie had told you that I had a secret for you. You then called me and I said that you would see it when you arrived. When you got here (hesitation and downtrodden look on face), you saw me and I was pregnant. And to make it worse, I was living with some man and we weren’t even going to get married”

Wait no; not a dream, a nightmare. I have no inkling of maternal instincts whatsoever. I babysit solely for the monetary gains and I do adore Sammy and Rebecca, but that doesn’t mean I want to take them home with me.

Being told repeatedly that when I get older I’ll change my mind and want to marry and have children, is irritating and it only makes me hold my stance even more. Besides, this isn’t about you, it’s about me. It’s me not wanting to give in to some supposed pre-conceived notion that all women want to get married and have babies, that’s bull shit.

I have no ill will towards the opposite sex or babies. Babies are cute and cuddly, and as all of my friends know I will buy the little tyke cashmere from Ralph Lauren and take it on trips, but then I get to give it back. My mother confessed to me last summer that she never wanted to have children. “Seeing women in the park with children, was the most awful thing. This is why we only went to the park after 5:30pm, when normal people went”; i.e. normal childless people in business suits and Coach bags.

My parents separated when I was four after marrying due to my impending arrival and I’d rather not be put in that position. So it’s an unfounded fear, I know, and I’m only 21 and things may or may not end up this way; the point is that I don’t want to be in a position where I am forced to go through something like that alone. Mind you this entire idea has been fermenting for years but then I read about the unfortunate fate of a woman whose husband became unattracted to her after witnessing the birth of their first child. I realized that I've been on to something.

Compromise and change are good and I am open to both, but as of right now I feel that it's not in the cards; and I shouldn't be lambasted for not wanting to conform to society's thoughts on what women should want.

Although, should an attractive educated man with a sense of humor come my way though, with an adorable baby, I'd be more than accomadating. See? Compromise.




Monday, August 29, 2005

Speaking of Boredom

The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity. ~Dorothy Parker

True story; last week while watching Sweet Home Alabama-pathetic in itself, but not the point of this story-I actually teared up when a promo for The O.C. came on. I kid you not, that Peter Gallagher does something to me, maybe it's the eyebrows. Regardless, in addition to my penchant and weakness for diet code red, take five bars, pizza, Law andOrder, and Congress; I can now add all things Orange County. The movie, the show, I even have a slight problem with starting a conversation with"That Talan is a fuck head, cute, but an ass". Yup, I watch Laguna Beach too.

I really do think it's natural human condition though, to become slightly obsessed with things that would be nice to have; you know living vicariously through others. Not that this means I want to pack up and move to Newport Beach and botox myself to death, but you must admit,it is fun to watch and damn entertaining.

I have a slight problem with becoming fascinated with something,especially when I'm bored (ahem, the blogging bug that I seem to have caught). I just think "wow I never thought to do that. It might befun". I read up on it then obsess about it for awhile; thus the reason for why I know the difference between my pitching wedge and sand wedge and why I can play every song from the Lion King on my clarinet; boredom my friends.

But then again, trying different things and becoming interested whether through boredom or not, is what makes one a well rounded person. I getbored, I try new things. That's what makes life (and maybe me) more interesting. And fun DAMN IT!

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Debbie Downer Doesn't Give a Damn

If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide. ~Mahatma Gandhi

Under normal circumstances I would be caught dead posting on a Saturday; a) because I have a life and b) I should really be doing all the things that I don't do during the week. Like for instance the dishes, laundry, packing because I'm apparently moving tomorrow and this apartment looks like hell. Whatever.

Lately all of my posts have been melancholy and dramatic. Sometimes I have a flare for the dramatic-it's a scorpio tendency, but good Lord. Someone should slap me and tell me to shut up, but not quite yet, because this all is leading somewhere.

Last week I wrote a post entiled Red Diva about a certain blogger, who is the girl everyone loves to hate. I'm not retracting my hyperbolic filled post which put SK on a pedestal, because I did and still do find her somewhat inspirational, but what I will say is Oh My God. I have realized that blogging is like high school. And last I checked most of us blogging are well out of high school. SK is the popular girl and may can't figure out why. But being popular means that there will be those that love you and those that just really don't like you; and both groups will be vocal about it. A blog was created to parody SK's blog called Tale of Two Sisters. It was the funniest fucking thing and now it's being shut down. It was funny, satirical and just by reading one post after reading SK's blog you'd realize that. I'm not going to speculate who complained etc. but get a grip. This is supposed to be fun and entertaining and without me getting into extensive First Amendment talk, we should be allowed to write what we want without fear of someone getting mad and 'telling'. This isn't high school and it definately isn't third grade. And let's be honest, if you are secure in yourself and you have a fan base and a book deal etc., then why care about what others have to say about you?

And now to other things, because I just lost 10 minutes of my life. I've had an epiphany. I love when I have epiphanies. I've been a downer because things are changing and I can't deal and because I care about what people think about me. I worry about who is or isn't reading my stupid blog including those that I work with (and feel free to comment on what an ass I am) and what will happen in my future and I make myself neurotic and get TMJ. I'm ridiculous. I like to write and I enjoy what I write so I want to share it. I also really want current college seniors, like those I met last night and worried if I was doing ok after college, to realize and know that by May things may feel shitty, but it will get better. An epiphany in which I've realized that I care too much about what others think (it happens in bursts) and that I need to get a grip and stop being a baby.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Vanilla Soy and Brie

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration. ~Charles Dickens

I come home to my refrigerator, filled with my favorite things. My brie and vanilla soy milk and my whole foods pesto and my yellowtail Shiraz. Everything here is mine and part of a life that I’ve made for myself over the past four years. A life that I just happen to love.

It’s hard to admit this and forgive me for being sappy; but my friends here are my life. They know my flaws, even the little ones. They can tell me what I do every Saturday morning and that Sundays are my time to be alone. They don’t mind that I’m neurotic, obsessive, un-assuming and sometimes slightly pretentious. I tell them where I work and they are as proud of me as my own mother. I love that.

A few weeks ago in Albany, I went to a martini bar. After three martinis I wanted a glass of red wine and was picky that the only option was merlot (I’m no sommelier but merlot is crap). I got laughed and ridiculed of course, but I can’t help if I know what I like, and what I like is my Shiraz.

When I read Washingtonian magazine, I always smile, because it’s always when I realize how much I love it here and how much of my life is here. People keep telling me that I’ll eventually get some sense and move to New York. I always think about it for a minute then realize how much I wanted to be here in DC in the first place. And that even though there was a time when I would cry and beg my parents to turn around on the way back to DC, this is my new home.

Home is where you feel most comfortable and where you can be yourself. It’s where you’re surrounded by people who know you best and will let you be you. And even though I’m writing this now, by October I’ll need to go back to Albany to see the leaves, pick apples and drink apple cider, and I’ll write about that as well.

Because thinking about it will break your heart when you're not there; because home is wherever you feel you need to be.

Uncensored

If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison

I’m feeling lukewarm. Not quite blah, but not exactly the most ecstatic person in the world. Everything has become hum drum, and yet I feel like there is more excitement in the horizon. I’m going to have to wait it out a bit I suppose. I abhor waiting.

I could call it pergatory, actually from now on I will call it pergatory. Everything is fine and perfect and yet imperfect at the same time. It’s all part of this learning curve that I’ve been on for 17 years; and I can’t seem to escape it. It’s a place where I’m caught between holding on to a childhood I never really wanted and springing into being a full on adult who can make her own decisions. I still ask my parents for permission and I still think that when I do something wrong I’m going to get yelled at.

The things I worry about are unfounded and ludircous. I’ve become this neurotic person, that worries herself to death and then feels it imperative to write about how truly neurotic I am. It’s this cycle that I apparently won’t let myslef escape. So what happens is, I begin to sensor things about myself in talking, writing wherever, out of fear.

I love the quote above from Toni Morrison. I really want to read a book about what you go through during pergatory. The time between letting go and holding on. I suppose I should be thankful that I had an epiphany to write about what happens right when you enter life after college. And yet I wish that someone else had before me.

I hear stories about it all the time. During my six week unemployment, my mother kept telling me how she was forced to live with my aunt for three months until she was able to find employment. She can say now-almost 30 years later-that it ended well for her.

But I want to know what happened to other people. Does everyone become successful? Probably not. Does everyone who goes through this phase get what they want out of life? Did the years of education pay off?

The point is that I need to stop censoring myself and to just do the things I want to do, write about the things that I want to write about and stop being so damn neurotic.

But I’ll keep asking myself; how will it end?

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Who are you?

"How am I not myself?"-I heart Huckabees

While reading some Vespa-Rosso today and having terrible writer's block, I found this and decided to fill it out. Enjoy-I'm such a dork.

have you ever
Been so drunk you blacked out: yes. My 21st birthday when Julie decided to play “guess the shot”. The shot was gin.

Missed school because it was raining: no, but I did once convince a school nurse to let me go home due to an ice cream headache

Put a body part on fire for amusement: What?!?
Been hurt emotionally: yes. It’s called middle school. And good Lord those therapy bills…

Kept a secret from everyone: It’s all I ever do. My friends think I have a secret life…and I do. It keeps things more interesting

Had an imaginary friend: yup two. Mimi and Hockie.

Cried during a movie: During the last part of Deep Impact when Tea Leoni’s character and her father are standing on the shore waiting for the wave to sweep them away. I used to cry during Beaches all the time, but I got over that.

Had a crush on a teacher: Paco freaking Gomez. He could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about Velazquez’s Las Meninas and then go onto tell you everything about ETA. And those euro-shirts. “Jesus-he’s like the light”…you had to be there.

Ever thought an animated character was hot: Aladdin in that vest. Good Lord.

Had a New Kids on the Block tape: “You got the right stuff…baby…” Need I go on?

Cut your hair: In 5th grade I noticed my widow’s peak and so I decided to Nair it off. I had to cut myself bangs.

when was the last time you:peed your pants: ask my dad. He’ll tell you all about the time I peed in the rental car when we were in Orlando. I was 8.

hugged someone: Monday. Elizabeth Jean.

kissed someone: he he he.

cried over someone: I cried because I was going to miss someone and that was May 6th all the way from Spain to Dulles.

favorites
Shampoo: Suave Milk and Honey.

Soap: dove. It takes me back

Color: PINK!

Day or Night: Day.

Summer or winter: I’m from upstate New York where we get all seasons. And we all know that upstate NY is where all the Manhattanites go in the fall for the foliage. We are cool some times.

Lace or satin: how about neither…? Cashmere though…love it!

Cartoon Characters: Doug. Patti Mayonaise was so great.

food: Anything from B. Smith’s or Oceanaire. Pad Thai, pizza, crispy eggplant from Mr. Chen’s…do you want me to go on?

Ice cream: tiramisu gelato from Blue Ice in Rome. Chubby Hubby Ben and Jerry’s.

Fave Subject: diet code red mountain dew and US Congress.

Normal Drink: diet code red mountain dew, Yellowtail Shiraz, Vodka Tonic

right now
clothes you're wearing: blue club monaco sweats, Victoria Secret tank, skagen watch, platinum tiffany’s bracelet, mikimoto pearls (all I ever wear), and a single pearl around my neck, Summer by Kenzo

feeling: tired but full of ideas to write about

Eating: California Pizza Kitchen tostado pizza

Drinking: water from the ol’ Nalgene

Thinking of: All the people I know going back to school right now and how thankful yet sad I am, that I won’t be for the first time in 17 years and what more to write about

Listening to: Law and Order

in the last 24 hours

Cried: yes, last night during House.
Worn a skirt: yup earlier today
Drove a car: no.

Do you believe in:
Yourself: very rarely…I’m the eternal pessimist.

Santa Claus: not anymore

Tooth Fairy: not anymore

destiny/fate: Things just work out in these perfect ways…I don’t get it

Angels: no

Ghosts: no

friends and life:
Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend: Nope.

Like anyone: I just had a terrible experience, so no. And I love being out of like.

Who do you cry to: The madre.

When did you cry the most: May 5th 2005, immediately after dinner on Avenida Florida all the way through Serrano 41, in the cab on the way back to my host mother’s house (simultaneously crying/throwing up because I was so drunk), in the cab to Barajas, while waiting for my flight to Munich and I stopped there. It was bad.

Best feeling in the world: as of right now, it’s getting nice comments on the blog and just when things go well. But then again, for me, it’s the little things

Vinyasa and Shavasana


“You're fine, all right, you're fit as a fucking fiddle”-Wonderboys

At times neurotic doesn’t even begin to describe what I am. The girl who has given herself TMJ and cries on her day off, because she forgot to send out one email. Some therapist is probably going to come across this and leave me a comment about the social disorder I have.

I get scared, I cry, I’m obsessive compulsive and I’m neurotic. I sometimes cry during 60 minutes.

“I didn’t know you were scared…”
“About what?”
“About life. Adult things”

This comes from someone I’ve known since I was 15. When you’re 21, knowing someone for six years is a pretty long time. But that’s not the point. The point is that I need to de-stress. Relax some. Yoga.

I used to be a gymnast then a cheerleader. In competition, I was in the very front, because I was the only one who could do a split. Good Lord, what I wouldn’t give to get back that flexibility. Yoga is supposed to relax you. Hot yoga-yoga done in a 97.8 degree room-gets out all of the toxins. The first time I went, I left on cloud fucking nine, like I’d had a shot of Prozac instead of espresso in my coffee.

Doing shavasana is the nice and easy part. It’s at the end. You lay there. You are nothing, you think of nothing, there is nothing to worry about. You’re just free. Vinyasas are the non-relaxing part. Where you’re doing planks and cobras and down dogs and you’re wondering whether or not the human body is meant to be in these positions. People laugh at yoga, but trust me, this shit’s not easy. Then again one can counter that and say that nothing is supposed to be that easy; and yes it gets relaxing over time.

(This is the part where I whine, speak in hyperbolas and become contradictory) I want to be less neurotic and more relaxed now. Which I would be if it wasn’t for people, not any specific person, but people in general, were all less OCD and could just live.

We all make mistakes, I fuck up all the time and I’ll be the first to admit my imperfections (but that requires several hours and several thousand dollars in therapy). It’s because I’m human. Despite popular beliefs I cry and I am terrified of failure. And I want to be in some Zen place, where I am nothing and need not worry about anything.

I know I know, give it time. Only time will tell…blah blah blah. A little shavasana would be just fabulous right now.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Balancing Acts

"I'm concerned about people walking around without some means of emergency cash. But we all agree what an emergency is, and a shoe sale at Nordstrom is not."-MSN Money

Last November I lost my job. But it was ok then, because a) it wasn’t my fault and b) I was still in college and had just finished this great feat of working 50 hours a week and taking 13 credits-just for shits and giggles. I ended that semester with a 3.4. The following semester I went to Madrid and squandered all of my money away on wine and travel to Amsterdam, Morocco and just generally gallivanting through Spain. When I say squandered I mean, that every last dime was gone before my mother arrived for spring break to Majorca. She came equipped with Suze Orman’s book for the “Young Fabulous & Broke”.

I arrived back to DC in May, unemployed but thankfully there was that graduation money. Then I discovered that Anthropologie makes things above a size 6 and well…you know.

Then she cut me off. My own mother, cut me off.

I have very few memories of me not being able to get things that I wanted. I asked for it, I usually got it. Not because I was spoiled, but because thankfully my parents could buy me the things I wanted and were willing to let me do what I wanted with my life without being hounded for it. Like college for example-that shit isn’t cheap, but it was all taken care of, thanks to my mother. A studio to myself cost the amount of a three bedroom luxury apartment in Albany. My rent cost more than my parent’s mortgage. Holy Shit. And while doing this, we traveled, golfed, and bought homes in Martha’s Vineyard. We did all the things that good middle class African Americans do (I hate to admit it but there was even Jack and Jill, I stopped myself at becoming a Delta or AKA). I was introduced to coach and good shoe shopping. And that you have to just do things sometimes to make yourself happy.

Now I’ve been cut off. I get nervous on those occasions when I have to ask for money, because deservedly so, my parents can deny me. I can’t freely go shopping. Brief digression; for my 19th birthday I received a platinum card. My mother is a very smart woman, but good Lord. To this day I contend that purchasing three pairs of $100+ jeans is a necessity.

I have to keep a budget and after two months, I still just barely break even. And this isn’t just me, growing up nicely and then being cut off. It’s an epidemic! Parents who bring you up in this nice and comfortable lifestyle, suddenly saying; “That’s it kid. We’re over.” I for one was devastated. Hell, you’ll still see the affects today. Case in point the conversation with JB yesterday in which I professed that I only had $20 and she had $53:
“Actually $40 I’m saving for Saturday night”
“What’s Saturday night?”
“The Jimmy Buffet concert. I want to be nice and liquored up before I go so I can stay away from the $7 beers”

Maybe I can guilt my mother into letting me hang on a little longer. But probably not.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Just Heavenly

In New York City's war on crime, the worst criminal offenders are pursued by the detectives of the Major Case Squad. These are their stories.-Law and Order: Criminal Intent

My mother used to get so pissed at me because I was a pathological liar. I would lie about anything and everything and then lie about lying pathologically. Now that I’m older I can see how that was. I sincerely apologize Peg.

I’m a big fat liar. Mostly it’s those times when I want my alone time. I live alone, but I’m only home alone enough to enjoy Everybody Loves Raymond at 7:30 and then sleep.

I've lied a few times this week, but if I give you exact days then friends will know who I've been lying to-that's no fun. The best part about having different sets of friends is that they probably won’t encounter each other until a birthday, and then they’ll all be too drunk to remember. Or at least that’s the plan. You see I tell group A, that I have plans with group B. Then I tell group B, that I have plans with group A. Then I sit at Jane’s and watch episodes of Laguna Beach and seven hours of Law and Order: SVU or Criminal Intent.

Law and Order is my therapy, especially since I have no time for therapy anymore, I need something. I write and watch Law and Order and it makes me happy.

Brief digression: Vincent freaking D’Onofrio man. Some people (like my father and brother) can’t stand that Detective Goren knows everything, but my God, it’s my secret turn on. Sometimes, I even give up Desperate Housewives just to watch CI.

So now everyone knows that I will give up any day of the week for Law and Order. I’m addicted. It’s sad and pathetic really.

I love it.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Jam It

"All you gotta do is jump"-Aladdin

He doesn't know that I think that doing the dishes and putting away laundry are a complete waste of a perfectly good day that could be used for golfing. He'll probably look at me funny when I consume four (count 'em four) cans of diet code red, because I'm anxious. He won't allow me to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself, but he will make me share. I will no longer walk around naked. I couldn't do it in front of Kimber so how would I be able to do so in front of him?

He will make me go out and I won't be able to lie about all the things I just have to get done, but I'm really just watching SVU. He'll know and ask where I am going, and I've actually learned to accept that that is ok. I am not sure if he'll be more or less protective than he already is; "Remember that if this white republican is bad to you, it's onward, upward and to the left". He'll check out guys that I even attempt to date.

He'll be lazy with me on sundays because saturdays we'll have both been out and drunk. I secretly love that he wears, polo, pops his color and is enamored by Nantucket, but still likes to hear "wait till you see my oh..."

I've lived in this studio for two and half years. Six months with a roomate and for four months it had to be sublet, but it's still mine. It's been a constant and what I've always gone back to alone, and I've loved that. Two weeks from now, this studio will no longer be mine and Jam will be my new, 'for better or worse roomie'. The last time I lived with someone it was Maria Teresa and Victor. She cooked and cleaned for me, I could understand her, but couldn't form a sentence in spanish to save my life. She knew that I loved tortilla though and knew that I hated when she ironed my pajamas and did everything for me, yet she did it anyway. I figure Jam knows english, so it can't be much worse than that.

There's a part of me nervous about losing my freedom and that I won't get to just lay around and write and read and just be me. The other part of me thinks about how quickly we became friends and that we will remain that way and that his need for a roommate and my need for housing was fate. This is a pretty big step for me, moving away from an area that I've made my life in for the past four years. I'll need a new dry cleaner, grocery store (apparently no one on the Hill goes to Bethesda), nail place, and restaurants.

I'm sitting here smiling because I know that this is all part of that whole growing up thing that I've been trying to avoid, but here it comes in all of its glory.

But here's a secret; I think I might be ready for it.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Temporomandibular

Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are! ~Charles Dickens

Temporomandibular disorders (TMD) occur as a result of problems with the jaw, jaw joint and surrounding facial muscles that control chewing and moving the jaw.Possible causes include: Stress, which can cause a person to tighten facial and jaw muscles or clench the teeth

The temporomandibular disorder was first noticed during the last few days in Madrid. Waking up with headaches every morning, I thought it was the food finally getting to me-all those eggs, fries, and the wine. I returned from Madrid on a Friday and graduated that same weekend on Sunday. By Monday I had called my “contacts” about job opportunities and on Tuesday a former boss died of a brain tumor. I was also getting headaches every morning.

“You’re grinding your teeth again”

Last year and I can no longer remember why, I had been grinding my teeth to the point where it was painful to open my mouth. My dentist said it was stress and prescribed advil and a cold washcloth on my jaw. What the hell was I worried about?
I’ve always had more than I ever needed and gotten whatever I have wanted and yet I am more neurotic and get more stressed out than anyone I know.

“That’s such a neurotic disease”, proceeded my laughter from Elizabeth.

Stress from graduating, going home after four months away. I had literally run out of money, to which my mother gave me Suze Orman’s book and told me to be more careful. I was unemployed and I needed to find a cheaper place to live. My father had been in the hospital for months and one my former bosses had died. I felt I had a reason to be stressed.

Change is huge and just comes at you. Yes there are warnings but no matter how you prepare yourself the change comes at you like a Hummer, and you’re standing there in the middle of Ward Circle waiting for it to hit you. It’s scary. I had spent four months in a place that I dreaded going to in the first place with people that I thought hated me for the longest time. That Hummer comes at you, and thankfully swerves, you survive it. That’s what change is and most of the time you get through it unharmed.

Graduation came and went, through the haze of jet lag. I found a job within six weeks, which I’ve heard is pretty good, especially for a senior who had been out of the country for four months prior. I found a new apartment My father will be ok. And my APR has gone down. My jaw still aches so I’ll need to get my first dental appliance.

But I'm still relatively unharmed.

Friday, August 19, 2005

In Vino Veritas

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you." ~A.A. Milne

There are caveats to every facet of life. Nothing is really black and white. Four years isn’t a long period of time and yet it is. As humans and emotional beings we learn from one another and four years is long enough to learn and change and perhaps learn some more. In four years you and your roommate, neighbor or acquaintance can grow into one another. We learn each others habits and respective caveats.

I love that we put up walls not solely to keep people out but to see who will tear them down.
I do it all of the time. It doesn’t make me bitchy but human and proves that I am a little scared, then again, aren’t we all?

Two and a half years ago, I disappeared for a weekend. I didn’t go far, just to the apartment I had recently leased, just a block away from school. I left and told no one and when I returned later that weekend my friends shunned me. Yes they were angry, but also hurt and scared. “Did you have friends before that didn’t care where you were?” I will never forget Liz asking me that and how badly I felt about myself and the way I was around others.

Relationships of any sort are hard to bear and are based on trust. Who can you trust to tear down those walls that will inevitably be put up? Who will always be there no matter what time or what day? Does it matter that this person or these people have only been around for four years or even two years?

Elementary school through the end of middle school make me cry and embarrassed just to think about them. Maybe one day I can elaborate, because even after two years of psychotherapy, I still cannot. The point is that by high school I had to put up these walls. Not just the regular brick kind, but brick with barbwire at the top. I kept this up all through high school, because I was afraid that I would never have close friends; because I was afraid that the ‘friends’ I had weren’t real and that they would just disappear and I would be left alone-trapped inside of my walls.

I have these discussions with Kim, where she’s literally inside of my head. I think about something possibly five hours beforehand and later, when I mention to her “what do you think about this?” she can tell me exactly what I had been thinking. It’s quite scary actually. I want friends like Kim and Liz, and thanks to God I have them, because if not, those two years of therapy would not be enough.

I put up walls when I’m scared which is more often than not, I will finally admit. There are people that in less than four years have learned to tear down the walls and save me from me.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Caught in the Rain and Other Stories

Every survival kit should include a sense of humor. ~Author Unknown

DC weather come late July-early August can best be summed up as hell. It’s not the same as that southwest/Vegas dry heat, where it’s a scorcher during the day but by evening it cools off. No. This is heat advisory, 100+ degrees, 75% humidity kind of weather. I remember my first summer in DC, four years ago, when you would come in from trekking around the monuments, shower, and then you’d feel the need to shower again, because you are soaking wet. I ran across the street one day to catch my bus and looked as if I had run 10 miles.

You wait everyday for the heat and humidity to dissipate so that maybe once you can step outside without becoming drenched in sweat. I must tell you, that the sweat covered look, is just what I’m going for. There’s no point to make up, don’t even attempt it. And everyday, the weatherman says that “This heat and humidity should let up. There will be scattered thunderstorms later today”. I bring my raincoat or umbrella everyday. The rains never came.

I have fears-we know this. I’m new to work and my biggest fear isn’t fucking up (ok that’s a lie) or showing up with my fly unzipped, it’s getting rained on, soaking wet, wearing a white shirt and having nothing to change in to.

One day last week, I once again made sure that I had my umbrella. I left the office and the sky had become gray, but had been that way for hours without a single drop. I left for the bank, just a few blocks away. My next stop would be subway and a block away I feel the first drop. For the record I was wearing black ankle pants, my mom’s new Birkenstocks, and a white button down Polo shirt. I keep walking, gradually increasing speed.

“If I make it back to work, I can get my umbrella and then go back out to subway.”

More drops fall. I start to run. “If I make it to subway at least I’ll be inside”

It then starts to pour and I take cover under a tree. Around the corner from subway and three blocks from my office. What the hell do I do now? I have no cell, no blackberry, I’m under a tree, which will only work for about 15 minutes. I arrive at the tree and find a coworker, who also is sans umbrella and in a see through top. We hang out for a bit, she blackberries my supervisor, who replies with a laugh.

The rain gets harder. I mean the type of rain where people on I-95 will stop driving, because frankly windshield wipers don’t work. The tree, doesn’t help and my co-worker has the idea to make a run for it to an awning about 10 feet away.

Drenched. Saturated. Sodden. Whatever, that was me, in my white shirt, ‘natural’ hair and my mom’s new shoes. Grrrrrrrrreat.
Thankfully, I was met with laughs and assistance when I got back to the office and given a shirt to wear, that broadcasted my political affiliation.

This morning poor Liz was pooped on by a bird on her way to work. This occurred as she was running for and missing every bus between Dupont and Georgetown.

We’re young, these are our first jobs. Showing up to work wet and wearing see through and/or having been pooped on, isn’t exactly the look we’re going for.

I can laugh about the rain now. Liz is still trying to get bird poop off her skirt. Maybe one day I'll be able to tell you about the day I got stuck in a metro in front of my coworker, after getting drunk at dinner...but there's still time.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Red Diva

"The glow of inspiration warms us; it is a holy rapture." -Publius Ovidius

Mondays are horrid, my pick me up is reading the Sunday New York Times Style section. In the July 24th edition is where I first discovered the Red Diva. Under the title of "Dear Reader, I dated him" was a piece on a Manhattanite who blogs, writes, and gets NBC sitcoms about being single and almost 30 living in Manhattan. Now where have we seen this before? Sex and the City perhaps a la Candace Bushnell. I readily admit that I was never a huge Sex and the City fan. HBO was only seen in my home, when they were running a promo month to try and get more subscribers. Upon entering college, the one draw was HBO. Sunday nights, girls gathered in dorm rooms throughout campus to watch Carrie Bradshaw and her friends Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha (along with Big and Aiden of course) live and learn in Manhattan. It was good, I suppose, something to watch. SATC ended almost two years ago and since then there has been a flux of writers and shows about being single in your 20's, living in Manhattan.

I'm a terrible New Yorker, I don't 'do' Manhattan, except for an occassional visit. But I've digressed.

Here I was reading about the Red Diva and little did I know, how hooked I would (inevitably) become. I clicked on the link to her blog-I was a blog virgin at the time. She had been keeping her blog since January of 2004. I tore through every entry from January 04 to August 05. There wasn't a day that I didn't read her. It was like I was compelled to read her and know more. It wasn't the subject matter-single in Manhattan is pretty passe. It was her writing. It was that she could make lists over and over again (my favorite pastime). It was that I could read her and get goosebumps .

One sunday night after a glass of shiraz, I got up the nerve to write her:
(an excerpt from my journal written to her)
I've been reading more Stephanie Klein. I don't read her because Iwant to live vicariously through her-gallivanting through Manhattanand shopping on the Upper East Side. I read her because she'sinspirational and because something inside of me compels me to do so.That girl can write and I get the privilege of reading her. I read Greek Tragedy the way I read Middlesex and East of Eden-I devour it.And my heartaches while reading it, because I know that if I continueto read it at warp speed it will be over before I know it. I'll thenbe stuck with these memories and quotes in my head; the funniest andmost inspirational bits used as away messages or in my AIM profile. Ihate books that do this to me-make me sad when the end comes. I am sojealous of authors who can write so well as to bring me to my kneesand thank God for literature. If I could I would spend my life inBarnes and Noble reading all day. Steinbeck, Euginedes, Salinger andnow Klein. All of these people-brilliant artists, get to do what I'vealways wanted to do.

She even wrote me back:
Heather, you just made me cry. I read a lot of email.. I just got toyours now. My hair is wet from the shower, dripping in runnels, andI'm watching HELLO DOLLY, laughing until I snort. Thank you for youremail... it's one I'll save. Thank you so much. Some days I feellike a wretched writer, others great. On the wretched days, I'll hit the archived mail. Thank you, once again.Very much.

It was the highlight of my day.

Red Diva, who is actually the infamous Stephanie Klein that I've mentioned, oh just a few times, has inspired me and kicked my ass into gear. Many people really can't stand her. Her writing, her book deals, her t.v. shows, her narcissism etc. But I dig her. My only suggestion to her would that she will hopefully move away from the "chicklit" and into a good novel, that has nothing to do with single life and/or Manhattan. I know she has it in her.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Optimistically Challenged

The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised. ~George F. Will, The Leveling Wind

There are the unsubstantiated fears that everyone has. Maria is afraid of flying because of the miniscule chance of a plane crash. I reply with “you have a better chance of getting hit while walking across the street”. I doubt she jaywalks either.
I personally have had enough of being afraid of things that may or may not happen, thus my decision to go straight pessimistic and cynical. Don’t even touch on being pragmatic. The worst will always happen, no matter the situation. It’s to the point where I’ve begun to just not think about the good, always expect the bad and be prepared for it.


I’m pessimistic about relationships, to the point where I don’t even try anymore. I’ve resigned to the fact that I won’t ever get married.

Thinking that you’re always going to fuck up or get in trouble becomes taxing after awhile. It’s like congenital heart failure. My chest tightens up when there’s something I really want to happen, but I think may not happen. I think about it at night, keeping myself awake from the hours-who knew I was so anxiety ridden..? I shake when I have to do public speaking, or when I have to talk to someone important (until three weeks ago I had a problem forming a sentence in front of my boss) or playing my clarinet, alone, in front of a judge NYSSMA style. The point is that I have an anxiety problem due to my pessimism-I doubt there’s a name for it yet, until then let’s call it HB disease.

I asked for my first raise today, by way of anxious nail biting for the past week. I love what I do. I love where I work and I’ve been very fortunate that I was able to have my first job be exactly where I wanted. Either way, when I have to ask for something important like a raise or for my rent (oh this happens with my parents as well), my voice shakes and the tears well up.
Even though I love it, I feel like I’m doing shit and that no one likes me. Pesky pessimism. I don’t even say to myself, “You’ve been getting your shit done and going beyond what you need to do”. I think about the one day I was slightly reprimanded, although it was proved later to not be my fault.
My supervisor said yes. He said that I am awesome and that he would hate to lose me. I’m a freak. So not only did I ask for my first raise today, but you’ll be happy to know that I got one.

Pessimism takes work and dedication to fear failure, but then it so happens that I’m right or pleasantly surprised.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Saab Story

It takes 8,460 bolts to assemble an automobile, and one nut to scatter it all over the road. ~Author unknown

A young man decided to take a drive one weekend to visit a friend, so off to New Jersey he went. He had named his car "The Silver Bullet". It was an old and tired car, that made many trips to and from Pennsylvania. Despite this, the young man loved his car as his car had been quite good to him.

The young man headed up to New Jersey and cast his worries aside. On the way up, his car began to over heat just past Baltimore on I-95. So the young man got off at the closest exit, which happened to be a five lane road and upon entering the road in the furthest turning lane the Silver Bullet died. But thankfully there was AAA, and they sent a flat bed tow truck.

(This is where you think, or at least I thought the story ends...but no)

As the car was being pulled up onto the bed of the truck, the young man heard an ungodly snap. Just as this happened, the Silver Bullet begins to roll off the truck at a pretty good clip. Does the Silver Bullet stop at the end? No. The kind old car proceeds to continue to roll into three lanes of traffic slamming into the trailer of a semi, spins a little then finally stops.

The young man nearly dies of embarrassment although thankful that no one was injured. He is now looking forward to driving a rental car provided by AAA and purchasing a new Passat.

My condolences to you after the death of the Silver Bullet.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Click on Preferences

"Choice has always been a privilege of those who could afford to pay for it." -Ellen Frankfort

I will drink diet code red mountain dew, before drinking diet coke. Regular coffee is better than that no foam, latte, with a double shot crap. And while we're on that, Dunkin' Donuts over Starbucks any day. I don't care what kind of vodka you use in my vodka tonic, just as long as there's more vodka than tonic-although bonus points if it's Ketel One.

Sending your child to private school only matters if you live in DC. In Albany,NY no one really cares, and you just sound pretentious for announcing that you went to Albany Academy. Private school doesn't matter in college either. I only went because there are no public universities in DC.

Pizza Mart is considerably better than pizza boli, if you want a jumbo slice. But then again, we've just gone over this. I'm sensitive about my pizza and Trader Joe's makes the best frozen pizza in the world. And I'm not afraid to buy and eat three.

I'm obsessed with Adam Smith. He was a genius. Thomas Moore was not. Utopia is bullshit.
While we're speaking of good literature. "Chicklit" isn't literature. Salinger is. But then again, I'm a walking contridiction and I will read Stephanie Klein.

The Senate is better than the House. I can even recite the members of the Senate in alphabetical order. I can name your Senator faster than you can. That includes the state of Idhao for you Craig and Crapo fans.

Going left is better in most every circumstance. And whoever heard of a hot piece of elephant?

Coach is better than Dooney and Burke. Don't come at me with that signature shit either. Coach is good leather not good fabric covered with C's. Nordstrom is better than Neiman Marcus. Don't trust a place that doesn't sell anything above a size 10 in shoes and doesn't take Visa.

Whole wheat bread, whole wheat pasta, sweet potoato fries, red wine. If I'm going to be bad, I'll try to be slightly good.

Pink looks good, especially in the dead of winter. If you think you might need to go into a tanning booth before wearing pink, I would say you shouldn't be wearing it.

The Hampton's is all about the scene, as is Nantucket. The Vineyard is where it's at.

Pearls over diamonds.
Camping in Washington State over frolicking in St. Tropez.
Kayaking over canoeing.
Golfing over tennis.
Polo over lacoste.
JCrew over Gap. Although Anthropologie can trump them both.

Peg over anyone in the world.

An abundance of friends over a bounty of boys.

Washington over Manhattan.
Rolex is classy. Movado makes me think you'll never really be sure of the time.
Barnes and Noble over Borders.
Target over Walmart. Loehmans over TJ Maxx. By the way Woodbury Commons is the best outlet place ever.

Thai over Chinese.
Chipotle over Baja Fresh.
Veggie burgers over hamburgers.
Madrid over Barcelona.
Window over the aisle.
Morning over night.

I'd prefer to be single and happy with myself than married and miserable not knowing who I am. Although if it does happen, I want someone who knows what he wants.
Adoption over childbirth. But in the event, a midwife over an obstetrician.

If I ask you what you want, don't say "I don't care", because I have no qualms about letting you know my preferences.

For the Love of Pizza Mart

The first thing in the human personality that dissolves in alcohol is dignity. ~Author Unknown

How about Friday night? When I walked through Adam’s Morgan with my wet bathing suit on, solely to get to pizza mart-home of jumbo slice pizza.

I double book myself intentionally. It gives me great opportunity to get together with multiple groups of friends in one night. It also makes up for the fact that I won’t feel as obligated to go out the next weekend. It makes sense that if I went out multiple times the previous weekend I don’t have to go out the next weekend. Regardless, I double booked and used a colleague’s going away party to sit and chat with co workers and drink a bottle of shiraz.

I enjoy parties and the whole debauchery of it all; the gathering of a group of drunk people out to have a good time. But what I find to be more stimulating is the one on one conversations that I have when drunk. Nothing is kept secret. No stone goes unturned. And I end up drunk and happy. But I digress.

Back to me and friends drunk and talking about work and my future at my place of employment. Back to me being picked up and placed into a fountain taking shots of whisky. Back to me wondering towards the metro at 12:30 headed for my next engagement.

With my bathing suit in hand I was ready for a little hot tubbing. Now would be a good time to explain my friend Steph. Steph who hosted this little dress up as your favorite or least favorite republican luau. She believes that going topless in a hot tub is a proper thing to do, and really who am I to disagree. Steph et.al. hot-tubbed, while I drank more and decided to slip in as well (with my bathing suit top on by the way).

Which leads us to me in Adam’s Morgan with a wet bathing suit on desperately headed towards Pizza Mart. When I’m drunk anywhere near Adam’s Morgan, Pizza Mart is my passion. Gooey giant slices of cheese pizza that I WILL eat without the help of others. So there I was with my wet bathing suit on and a blue polo dress (it possibly looked like I was lactating). Walking through the ghetto of Columbia Heights to Adam’s Morgan in the dark. Alone. For Pizza Mart. Once I got my pizza I headed towards Connecticut Avenue. Of course I’m thinking “It’s late, I’m not going to see anyone I know”. My drunk ass walking down the street stuffing my face with pizza and there I find Graham Murphy, a close friend from High School, also touring Adam’s Morgan. I stopped him. Said hello. And just kept on walking.

Wet ass and all. But at least I had my pizza.

Fear of Falling

Failure doesn't mean you are a failure... it just means you haven't succeeded yet. ~Robert Schuller

I feel myself starting to try too hard instead of just letting it go and writing the way I would speak to someone. I’m trying to be witty and charming. 95% of the time I write the way I would speak to someone. Throwing in words with more than 4 syllables intermitently (look there’s one now). Through high school and college I did much of the same, save for my papers in spain, which were fine, yet neither witty or charming, because I didn’t know how to do that in spanish. Talk about inhibiting my writing and ability to just be me. It took me two and a half months to learn how to use the subjunctive properly. But know full well that I had been taught to do so years before, but as the saying goes, practice makes perfect.

Here’s the deal; I’m deathly afraid of failure. The way I fear space, sinking ships, public speaking and the death of my mother. Even now just thinking about failure gives me a lump in my throat. There are things that I’ve said I want to do and I end up doing them. I learned to play the clarinet, golf. I actually lost weight once (although I was told I appeared anorexic, so I just said fuck it). I went to spain. My obsession with United States government paid off as well. Writing is one of those things, where sometimes I have it, sometimes I don’t. One day I can write brilliantly other days it’s complete shit. Since kindergarten I’ve done well at it, but when I was 5 I wasn’t nearly as critical of myself as I am now.

Few people know that Harper Lee wrote one great novel, a novel that I have been in love with since fourth grade. Some things I read because it's mandatory and then I praise God when it’s over and others I devour and cry at the end because there is no more. I’ve gotten the political thing down so far and everything in that regard thus far is going along swimmingly. Now all I want is someone to read what I write and appreciate it. I want to make someone laugh or even cry.

That’s all I’m asking.

Here’s the part where the little shred of optimism that I have saved up gets spent. Will any of the things I’ve wanted or that I fear, actually come to fruition? I hate to be cliché but only time will tell. But thus far, have things that I have wanted to happen happened? Yes, yes, oh yes. So is there really any need for me to worry about the inevitable failure that may or may not happen? No. But will I? Yup.

Friday, August 12, 2005

FAQ

Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton asked why. ~Bernard Baruch

A lot of people ask me the same questions over and over again.
So here is a list of frequently asked questions and my ever enlightening responses:

  1. Why did you start a blog? I'd refer you to Stephanie Klein and JB. I was bored and I'm pretty freaking narcissistic.
  2. Are you in only child? You seem like an only child. No, I have three brothers, but sometimes I'm such a brat that I push and push until I get my way. My parents get annoyed and I get what I want.
  3. Where are you from? I tell people DC now, but technically Albany, New York. Yup it's cold and yes Albany is in New York and yes there are places north of Manhattan. idiot.
  4. How old are you? 21 1/2. Or almost to the end of my 21st year as Kim likes to say
  5. Why don't you want children? You're so good with them. I enjoy spending money on myself. I'm selfish. Although I recently started crying during a 60 minutes news story on why it's so hard for black children to get adopted. So I may adopt. I'm good with children because Jane's kids are normal, she pays me well and I get to do my laundry.
  6. Why don't you want to get married? I'm perfectly happy alone. Why fuck with that? Also, have you met my parents??
  7. Why do you live alone? Do you get lonely? I like to walk around naked, not do the dishes, not clean up in the bathroom, not make my bed and watch tv without being nagged about it. No I don't get lonely, I have a cell phone and instant messenger if I want to see people. But my Jam is going to change that!
  8. How much do you pay for a studio? $878. And let's be honest I don't pay it, my parents did.
  9. Who do you look up to most and why? Who the hell asks that?!? Besides Peggy Barmore (who I love and adore and she buys me things), Donna Brazile, and Oprah. And all of these fine women are google-able.
  10. Why did you decide to go to American University? Ithaca is too freaking cold. And I didn't want to go to school with people from high school. Also unlike GW, AU has a campus and I am mildly obsessed with DC.
  11. What was your major? Communications, Legal Institutions, Economics and Government. Yes I know that sounds interesting and possibly difficult, but not really.
  12. Where did you go abroad and why? I went to Madrid. George Bush was elected president for the second time. I couldn't leave the country fast enough
  13. What is your favorite city? Lisbon, Portugal. It's cheap and fun (sidenote: that was the best week EVER!) Sadly I was either too tired and/or hungover to remember the rest of portugal.
  14. What do your parents do? Who cares?!?! My mother works at a teachers union and my father is an instrumentation specicialst at General Electric. No I don't know what that is and he already knows that I really don't care.
  15. What was the last book you read? Who is your favorite author? What is your favorite book? Franny and Zooey. JD Salinger. East of Eden
  16. What do you want to be when you "grow up"? Although technically I am an adult and grown up now, I would like to be a United States Senator and upon retiring the United States Ambassador to the United Nations or Spain.
  17. How did you get your name? Not that my name is unusual or anything...but it was on the list as one of the Top 20 Whitest girl's names (my brother Garrett's name was on the list for the top 20 whitest male's names)...anyway...my father liked the name Heather. My mom wanted to name me Callie. I'm glad my father got what he wanted.
  18. Is your hair naturally curly? Are you kidding?!?!
  19. What is XYZ like in person? He or She is not my best friend and I don't spend all of my time with them. But for the record all of my bosses except one have been completely normal and nice in person. No I'm not telling you which was the out of touch one, but I think you can guess on your own.
  20. Is XYZ going to run for President? I watch CNN just like you. I have no secret insight.
  21. What is your favorite color? Pink. To be honest I started wearing it because a boy said that I looked really pretty in it. Later I found out that this boy was gay. But I still wear a lot of pink.

That's all I've got for now kids. Let me know if you have anymore questions and I'll try to come up with some sarcastic answer.

The Shower story

Stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don't drink too much. Then again, don't drink too little. ~Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen

Calle Alcala in Madrid leads directly to Puerta del Sol, the center of the city. Right as you come into Sol as we called it, there on the left side of the street is the Hotel Paris. You'll see th giant horizontal sign, with the two stars at the bottom. And that is where we begin our story.

12 hours of flying-through Munich nonetheless-doesn't make anyone happy. It makes one jet lagged and pissy. Jet lag does wonders to me, I swear I get it terribly, even if it is just 1 or 3 hours. It hits me the second I land and it stays with me for 24 hours. None of that "try to stay awake as long as possible" shit. No, HB + bed = love. Also when I'm terribly tired, I tend to forget things (this also happens when I'm drunk or disgustingly happy). So if I forget somethings about that first night in Madrid, please forgive me.

I recall Paula hugging me upon my arrival. And that I shared a room with Angela and Marcela. I remember going out to dinner and exactly where we all sat that first night. Across from Josh. Two down from Thomas to my left and Jasamine to my right. Kat (blonde Kat not Kat/Jane Kat) sitting next to Josh. The sangria was flowing my friends. I was upset about being "forced" to go abroad and decided that my best recourse was to be drunk. Kat and Josh persuaded (persuaded the way I was forced to go abroad, ie not at all) me to go out. They had been in Madrid the semester before so I decided that since they were established they would a) make good friends if I ever learned to speak to people sober and b) they knew where they were going. So we headed out that night to Sol and to an area I didn't recognize again for three months.
We bar hopped like no other, losing people along the way until we ended at Havana Club around the corner from the hotel.

Now let me point out something here, I was upset and distraught and away from everything I knew. I could barely form a sentence in spanish and I thought that I would make no friends. I also thought that I was made of money since I drained my bank account on night one (it was downhill from there). So now I'm down to my last 40 euros and I'm rocked sipping on a mojito.

We return back to the hotel. I will myself to pass out because I have the spins so bad I'm afraid I'll throw up if I shut my eyes. The next morning I awake, hungover and decide that a shower would be the best option. As always I get in the shower and everything is ok. That is until I turn around and lean over to reach for something. Something happened just then. Maybe I was still drunk, who knows. But as I lean over, I lose my balance and reach out for the curtain rod, praying that it would keep me up. Does it? No. I continue to fall. Shower curtain and rod in hand I fall out of the shower. By out, I mean laying on the bathroom floor of a two star hotel on top of the shower curtain. Now what does one do in this situation? I laid there for a bit saying holy shit and managed to get back up, albeit I was very slippery.

I emerged from the shower to Angela and Marcela wondering what fell. I told them I dropped my shampoo, which they pretended to believe until I told them what happened three months later.

I can't believe I fucking fell out of the shower.

Drunk with Happiness

There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction. ~Salvador Dali

This morning I noticed the mess I had made in my kitchen the previous night. Foggy memory as always after a night of shiraz. Not that I'm an extremely neat person, as living alone gives me that right, but I have a particular brand of messiness when I'm drunk. I come home make food and 90% of the time leave it out until the morning. My only reminder of what transpired the night before. This morning it was a half eaten tray of mozzerella sticks and the pasta I was making for lunch the next day, and the marshmallows I was going to use to make rice krispy treats for work.

Ok so I get drunk and make messes and leave them to clean up in the morning, if I feel so moved to do so. But I wasn't drunk. There was no shiraz-ing. Just utter happiness. The kind that you only notice when people smile back at you walking down the street because for once you are actually smiling at them and your cheeks hurt because you've been laughing all day. Laughing the way I only do, when my cheeks stick out and my eyes get squinty. And if it's something terribly funny, my right eye closes all the way. That's how yesterday went. I laughed 95% of the day.

Maybe it was the thought of upward dog, downward dog hot yoga that night.
Maybe it was that I fell out of like and I hate being in like so much so that I am inevitably miserable.
Maybe it was realizing how completely obsessed with my friends.
Maybe it was the compliments that a boss gave me yesterday morning.
Maybe it was that Bank of America isn't really so evil.
Maybe it was knowing that pay day was just around the corner.
Maybe it was Salinger.

It's little things that make me happy and a lot of little things makes me ecstatic. Whatever it was, I loved it. I was in such a good mood for the rest of the day that it spilled over to the evening, which is where we began. My messy kitchen and me barely remembering how it got that way.

The best part...no hangover.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

The Seven Hour Itch

Life is too short for traffic. ~Dan Bellack

I keep telling people how much I enjoy the drive from DC to Albany. 7 hours isn't that bad I say. I have my ipod. Truth be told, 7 hours in a car is too damn long. On this particular trip it was 9 on the way up due to the jack knifed Mack truck. I swear the only thing that keeps me going is the cinnabon along the way. I love that place.
So what does one do, on a 9 hour drive besides blasting Natasha Bedingfield(4 1/2 of which are through New Jersey-ugh!)?. I think little HB thoughts, which on this particular trip were of places I wanted to go/things I wanted to purchase. Here's the deal, as part of my new "save money get out of debt quick" scheme I have developed a list of all things kryptonite. Things that I have a weakness for that I can no longer afford to have a weakness for. For example $300 Stuart Weitzman sandals with Swarovski crystals are not a necessity. No matter how cute they look.

Nordstrom-If the shoe fits buy it my ass. And I've already maxed out my Nordie's credit card, so technically I can't buy there anyway.
Target-Suddenly I need things that I never knew I needed.
Anthropologie-I'm just a little obsessed.
Trader Joe's-Yes, food is a necessary evil. But $100 worth of food for one person, is probably not.
Coach-my obsession with fine leather goods is a genetic problem.
Yellowtail Shiraz-a bottle of wine an evening, an alcoholic makes.
Ralph Lauren/Polo-"You know it's a good day when Baroni is wearing polo", that would be everyday.
the Mac, Clinique, Smashbox counters-goes along with the spending too much time yuppy-ing it up at Nordstrom.Very very bad, even if my eyes look awesome in smashing wrap eyeshadow.
Barnes and Noble-orgasm for the eyes and for the brain. Oh how I love it.

That's about all I have for now, but if you think of other places I'm damn obsessed with that are very very bad for my wallet, lemme know. K? thanks.

The Genesis

“We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?”-Grey’s Anatomy

Talk about great expectations. There was always this want to be older. Everyone does it and everyone goes through it. When you’re 5 you want to be 10 so that you won’t be forced to nap anymore. When you’re 10 you want to be 13, so that you can be in middle school and able to go to the mall alone. When you’re 13 you want to be 14 and in high school. At 14, who doesn’t wish to be 16? Driving is the key to parental freedom. All through high school, graduation and the thought of college far far away, is the only thing that kept me from throwing myself out of a window. And all through college, well, I just wanted to be an adult. By myself. No parents to tell me what to do and/or how to do it. I would be a free woman. Being an adult meant that I would have money to spend how I please (ahem, Nordstrom) and whenever I wanted. It's been such a pleasure watching these expectations as an adult, blow up in my face. No joke, I asked my parents for money three times in the past 72 hours.

Now, out of boredom (yes I'm bored and no I'm not afraid to say it), frustration and good ole fashioned narcissism, I've decided to write about it. Even if just to amuse myself.
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