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Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Picture Me

A brief hiatus to my blogging hiatus. Yesterday Tara commented on my size 11 feet and asked whether or not I was tall because she pictured me as a 4'11' Asian girl. This made me laugh...a lot. Because, ummm that's not just slightly off, but waaaaay freaking left field off.
And now I ask this, how do you all picture me? I sometimes wonder if I write in a way that best describes how I am in real life. Which I suppose could be another post for another day that further delves into a side by side comparison of blog life to real life. Nevertheless, I've posted two pictures, neither of which I can find now, but seriously, just from reading this 'blindly', what do ya'll think that I look like?

Monday, January 30, 2006

Let it Be Known


a) I am totally reneging on my previous post
b) From now on I will only be going to the gym in the morning. Life is so much nicer at 5:20 AM
c) I have a great ability to make things about me, even when they have nothing to do with me. I think they call that narcissism.
d) that I don’t think narcissism is a problem. I actually kind of like it.
e) I look thinner.
f) I call people ‘dude’ and ‘bitches’ way too much. I should probably look into stopping. Or not.
g) I'm taking a break from blogging. And by break I mean until Wednesday.
h) The reason for the break is because tomorrow I must deal with the DMV and if I write about it, you will have to feel my wrath.
i) I abhor. ABHOR, the DMV.
j) I really need someone to tell me something happy. Anyone, anyone...Bueller.

The Little Things

"Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live." ~Nicolas de Chamfort

Disclaimer: This post is long and boring and I can pontificate like a mother fucker and it took all my brain cells so I might not be able to ever post again. Or at least not until tomorrow. If you’re lucky.

Last year, actually on this exact date, I called my mother from a pay phone in Sol in tears. Ok, fine, I was sobbing. Nothing bad had happened, despite debilitating homesickness, which led me to believe that everyone in my program hated me and/or wanted me dead. That said, there was and still is only one thing that can completely cure me and make me feel invincible; a new pair of shoes. Sadly, the largest shoe store in the world, didn’t have a franchise in Madrid, so instead I resorted to El Cortes Ingles (a shoe store, clothing, overpriced MAC and Clinique, a fucking grocery store). And upon my first visit to this mega uber conglomerate place, I searched high and low for a pair of size 42 (11 US) shoes. And. There. Were. None. NONE. Which then led to the infamous – at least between me and Peg – phone call, in which I cried real tears “I waaaaaannnt to go h-h-home, becauuuuuse th-th-there arrrrrre nooo size 11 shoes! I h-h-hatttte this f-f-f-ucking place” Or something relatively close to that. And Peg consoled as best she could from an ocean away and we both determined that I would stay until mid-February and that she would send me some of my shoes. Needless to say, the next day I bought the cutest pair of *cough, cough* 80 Euro green flats with pink buttons (note to self, post a picture of said shoes, lest readers will think you have crappy taste in shoes, which good Lord no) and I decided that yes in fact, Spain was not an evil country and they do have shoes in my size.

Also note to self: you are a childish whiny baby who maybe should’ve stayed in the US to continue with year three of therapy. Baby.

You see, I have this uncanny ability to become encumbered with guilt and tears and general unpleasantness that best be saved for days when my Aunt Flo is visiting. Little stupid things set me off, I mean need I remind you of the ipod/coach incident or see above, I cried and threatened to leave Spain because there were no shoes in my size. Sometimes, I wish I were joking when admitting these things, but sadly, it’s all true.

Too often I let myself become defined by stupid meaningless events when I am very well aware that the minute I start to complain about my life, things get better. I’m so ever loving lucky in that regard and instead of appreciating it, I bitch. Why? You ask. Because I can and that’s just me.

Once again, after weeks of boredom and malaise and the bitching, Oh God, the bitching, I have had this glorious epiphany that says “yes, Heather, things will be fine”. And to the delight of my many (all 6 of you) readers I am very well aware that at 22 I do not need to have the answers to everything. I’m at a time in my life where everything is becoming relatively new again, which, I feel, gives me some entitlement to bitch and complain and get all “woe is me, who cares about the poor people I’m out of pudding”. Because that’s how I’ve been feeling for the past six months. I’ve been thrown out into the wild real world, to fend for myself and frankly; sometimes I get a little bat shit crazy scared that I might fail. But here’s the kicker, I’m 22, I have many many years to fail and change my mind and bitch. So obviously, it makes no sense to do all my bitching now, I must spread it out. Slow and steady does inevitably win the race.

Therefore instead of incessant crapology, I will instead bask in the little things. Like living in a place where I can golf on January 28th (be jealous) and I have friends that make me pee in my pants laugh and I can be as misanthropic as I would like and I can drink and eat Five Guys and still lose weight (once again, be jealous, metabolism kicks ass), and a mother who calls me, just because she’s bored at work and knows the meaning of a good pedicure. Yes there are other good things but I enjoy being elusive so I’m not telling. But I will say this, I am one lucky little girl and I should probably start acting like it.

P.S. I’m in a good mood today, so this might change, like umm tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Because I can and it's Friday

I just received my first “rejection letter”. I put that in quotes, because it was a rather pseudo-rejection letter.

To make myself feel better, I settled on Five Guys for dinner with one of my favorite people and ate some pudding.

Then I decided to watch episode 456 of Made and an episode of There and Back. While doing so, I silently mocked a girl with alopecia in the former, and that Ashley Parker Angel looks like a girl in the latter.

While watching such stellar television, I chomped on a cup of ice. It has been determined that my ice love means that I'm sexually frustrated. I then sit and think to myself "now, when was the last time that I got any...?" Determine that if I have to think on that like I'm solving the value of X, then that's a problem.

Afterwards, there was free dessert (!) to waste my calories on. As those departing the meeting left, one exclaimed: “Let’s hurry up and get out of the way, so that the cleaning people can get in and clean up. And so that the interns and lowly staffers can get in. Look we left you some dessert”

“did he just call us lowly staffers?”

“no, I think he first started with interns”

No Pasa Nada: it really means “a whole lotta nothing”

And I’m out.

P.S. yes, my planner and my wallet match. If you must know, that's Franklin Covey and Coach respectively.

p.p.s. my ass looks good in my jeans and I've lost 7lbs. wooot.

p.p.p.s. I do have some pseudo-good news, but let me lament in my rejection.

p.p.p.p.s. bitches.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Booze and Schmooze*

"Wine gives courage and makes men more apt for passion." ~Ovid

Living in Washington, I’ve mastered the art of schmoozing. I’ve taught myself to successfully hold a plate and glass of wine in my right hand while shaking with my left. At a Friends of Hilary event a few months ago, Peg was very impressed with my people skills as I worked the room (and by ‘worked the room’ I mean, I told my Congressman that I liked his new haircut) but noticed that I had knocked back about 3 or 4 glasses of Merlot. Damn it, she’s on to me. I had to let her in on my little secret. Ready? Yup I sure as hell come off confident and outgoing, but only after consumption of two glasses of wine. Prior to that, you’re lucky if you can get me to form a coherent sentence or actually (horror of horrors) look you in the face. I am so incredibly socially awkward that the thought of having to meet someone new and possibly be sober, leads to a sleepless night (with bonus teeth grinding) the night before the meeting. Surprisingly enough I have managed to get more than one job, but I doubt it’s because I’m just so well spoken and articulate. I like to call it luck and the law of averages, but whatever. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of the above might be why I don’t date, but let me think on that a bit.

I have to meet someone new tonight, and in the hope that she would cancel, since she’s equally as misanthropic as I, I didn’t exactly dress in my Sunday best, though I can get over that. And thankfully, she also knows the importance of alcohol and has a love affair with wine (and crap beer) as well. My kind of girl. Thinking on it now, college in DC and now living and working here has me believing that for the most part, this place is not the real world (no shit). It’s a bunch of uptight people who have all mastered drinking and talking at the same time (not as easy as it sounds) and therefore have managed to impress the best of the best. I kid you not, that if I weren’t drunk about 75% of the time, I wouldn’t know anyone.

Yup, I’m sad and pathetic but you can admit that I’m pretty open and honest, and that must count for something.

*Oh and before anyone goes and starts calling me an alcoholic, just know that I only drink when out with others, it's not like I sit at my apartment alone yelling at Benson and Stabler to get the fucking rapist. I like to be coherent during my Law and Order marathons, as to try and guess the killer before Vincent "I might break my neck if I keep cocking my head like that" D'Onofrio does. So there.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Thankfully my eyes are already brown

"It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done, compared to what he might have done. " ~Samuel Johnson, in Boswell's Life of Johnson, 1770

Save for the time I hit Lauren Narkeweiz on the head with a rolled up poster, I have never once hit anyone not related to me. I used to punch G* and try to brutally maim him on a regular basis, but then one day I called home and some man answered. A man, with very manly voice who sounded like he could kick my ass. G hit puberty and gone were the days when I could shove him to the ground and jump on his back. I swear that only happened once. Now that he’s well over six feet and 250 lbs, I tend to run like a little bitch when he comes after me. It’s sad really. I’ve never gotten into a fight. Like a real, drop down, I’m going to beat the shit out of you if you fuck with me again, fight. I use the term “I’m going to drop kick your ass” very liberally. Truth is, that’s quite doubtful. Though I look like I could kill you, I’m more likely to use profanity, scream and cry. I’m a pussy ass little bitch, who talks a lot of shit. There, I said it. I think what gives people that misconception is that I’m tall (for a girl), the complete opposite of small and well I’m black. And we all know that black women are really fucking scary (Peg pissed, not pleasant). Over the years though, while I’m been saying that I’m going to “fuck that motherfucker up”, G and the rest of my brothers have been getting into knock-down-drag-out–dad- is- going- to- have –to- post bail, kind of fights.

I can’t help it, I’m just really exceptional at telling bold faced lies about what I’m going to do and then when the time comes, I never do it. I’m chicken shit and I don’t take risks. I like to know that something will definitely happen. Don’t leave shit up to chance, I say, as I wear my raincoat and carry a golf umbrella, just incase the rain coat doesn’t live up to it’s uber-North Face standards. I make promises, and can never keep them (dude! Law and Order was on); I make resolutions and by January 5th they’re long forgotten (dude! Five Guys is so tasty). That’s just the way it is and after 22 years, I’ve come to accept that I am full of a whole lotta shit. Ok fine, I was ok with it. WAS. Now all the shit I’ve been so gung-ho about doing (let’s run down the list right quick: Peace Corps, Teach for America, Grad School…that’s just the beginning), feels like it might come back to bite me in the ass. It’s that decision to not spread my knowledge to all of the underprivileged kids in South Bronx. Payback I tell ya. I’ve been told that I’ve done a lot, like mastering the art of getting two separate calls to conference, without hanging up on some Senator. Yup, that’s a whole lot right there. I feel so fulfilled, I can die happy now, knowing that I can use a fax machine properly. Go me.

I feel like if I don’t do what I really would like to do; something that makes me so fucking warm and fuzzy inside that I’ll start thinking puppies and babies are cute again; then I might never do it. And I don’t want that. I can’t play the ‘I wish I would/could’ game any longer. But like I said, I’m really good at changing my mind and at being 22 and fickle; but never prone to ‘just do it’ tactics. That’s what I need more of, I mean when else in my life will I be able to pick up everything and do something exciting or that I’ve always wanted to do. I suppose part of it is fear of failing horribly and not getting what I really want. I may very well just never be good enough or extraordinary and that scares the shit out of me.

But like I said, I’m fickle. I might very well wake up tomorrow and say, “gee that was a great idea, but I’m perfectly content where I am.” Yeah, then again hell might freeze over tomorrow and I’ll win $2 million dollars and Simon and Schuster will call. You never know.

*the boy's name really is G, like my parents obviously couldn't think of anything better, so they picked a random letter out of the alphabet. I think they may have asked my opinion, and I said X, but I'm over it. (He may be bigger, but I'll always have this lovely sense of humor and wit. God, I'm so witty**)

**did you just roll your eyes at that too?

Just the Beginning

"Life is a series of collisions with the future." ~José Ortega y Gasset

I’m notorious for just not speaking to people anymore; those that were my “best friends” in middle school and high school, hell, even in college, I’ve randomly just stopped speaking to. It’s not like anything actually happened, but we’ve just moved on and I’m really fucking good at moving on and leaving those from my former life behind. Obviously something I need to work on, but that’s not the point, the point is these massive changes can happen to my friends and I’m left in the dark. Though, I totally deserve it, and they deserve good things to happen to them, I’m still conflicted. Not jealous, but this whole getting older thing is weird.

Over New Year’s my best friend, who I still spend every New Year’s Eve with, came out to me. We still speak pretty regularly and I had asked her about it last year as her girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend) and I are also friends, but still when she told me, I got pissed, because she lied, and then had to process this information. It’s not that she’s gay, I could give a shit, it’s that she lied about it and then never mentioned again until we were drunk and playing kings. But then again, I totally deserve her keeping me in the dark. My idea of ‘speaking regularly’ is once every 3-5 months. I hate the phone and I don’t like going backwards.

A few hours ago, during my ritual, ‘let’s check out everyone’s AIM profiles and procrastinate time’ I learned that my best friend from Middle School just got engaged. ENGAGED. A person, I’ve known since I was 11. The person who helped me plot against Emily Haines and her crazy ass mother in the 9th grade, is now engaged. Engaged to the boy she started dating in the 10th grade. Obviously a long time coming, but I couldn’t help but sit here wide eyed and think this is how it begins. We did the usual small talk, about life. Her grandmother’s sudden death and my father’s near death in the beginning of the summer. Then quickly moved on to me. No, nothing is going on, just work. Nope, no boys. Not even a thought. Definitely not getting any, but thanks, thanks for asking.

This is how it starts, isn’t it? One friend gets engaged, then suddenly they’re all engaged and asking me whether or not I’ve found a special someone (ok, please God, don’t let them use the phrase special someone, or else I might vomit). I’ll be here alone in DC with my cats. Me and my fucking cats; feigning happiness when friend number 239 tells me about her new platinum engagement ring from Tiffany’s. Just what she always wanted. I’m rolling my eyes now. When I start seeing sonogram photos of little Billy in 4D sucking his thumb; God please forgive me now from running away screaming and/or telling my friend to please shut the fuck up. I see myself enjoying many glasses of wine, and smiling broadly, while saying “How cuuuuuute” and keeping my upchuck reflex in check. Because that’s just what friends do.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Just so you know, it's always about me

In general I have a difficult time with narcissism. I don’t like talking about myself because I feel like I have nothing interesting to say and most of the time, I do things for my benefit not so that others can say ‘wow, what a great job’. Anyway, I received an email from a new reader, who asked more about me, because I’m too cheap to move to Typepad (which I am now seriously considering once again), I don’t have an “about page”, but instead a profile. So who am I not to submit to the requests of my few, but loyal readers? (I’m also bored and you people get a lot of crap when I’m bored and/or procrastinating).

Ok, so um, Hi! My name is Heather and I often say ‘Hi’ excitedly, but only to people I like or if I’m being super fake, which I am pretty damn good at. I am originally from Upstate, NY, where yes, I am quite aware that it is fucking freezing; thus the escape move from NY to Washington, DC in 2001. There was also that whole college thing, but I sum that up as my parents investing $140,000 in my learning to hold up to six shots of vodka and two beers, without puking. Surprisingly enough, I graduated in May of 2005 from American University, with a complicated degree (and I can't even find my diploma) and now I have a kick ass job, with a kick ass boss, but I will never make any money. Ever. At least not until I’m well into my 40’s.

This was intended for my friends and family, but instead they expressed their disinterest in my life and so now strangers read my thoughts and my mother (whom I refer to by first name, like three times a week) gets upset when I say fuck and my aunt thinks that I need prayer. I probably do, but whatever. And so now I spend my spare time writing about how much it sucks to be 22 and that, the real world, which I am now inhabiting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Either way, I like my job and I’m slowly gaining my footing and learning to budget and not flip my shit when the Pepco bill is $200.

Most of the time I hate everything I write, but then there are those few moments when I really don’t give a shit. I can be mean, sarcastic, pretentious and bitchy; and though I probably deserve it, please don’t be mean back, because I’m also sensitive. I believe strongly in the power of Coach, Aveda hair products, Lush and a good pair of size 11 shoes from Nordstrom (you know, if you’d like to buy me things). I talk a lot about my mom, exhaustion, the gym, how much I spend at Trader Joe’s and alcohol. If you don’t like any of those things, well then you’re shit out of luck. I also swear a lot and enjoy using the term “asshat”.

No Pasa Nada, is a Spanish phrase to mean nothing is happening/everything is copasetic. Much like “Hakuna Matata”, it means no worries, and it’s something I strive for everyday, even when I’m crying over my Coach bags. I feel like my 20’s might be the longest decade ever, and as much as I complain now, I will inevitably be sad when it’s over. So for now, I’m just trying to enjoy the ride, without completely falling off.

I encourage emails ( telling me how awesome I am and that I am the greatest thing since sliced bread. Or if you‘d just like to de-lurk and say hi, please do. Other than that; enjoy!

site designed by BabyJewels. Though she may hate you, she loves me.

A Moment of Clarity

"Anxiety and distress, interrupted occasionally by pleasure, is the normal course of man's existence." ~Joseph Wood Krutch

When I first realized I was depressed, it was after I had disappeared for a weekend and had started putting cigarettes out on my arm on a regular basis. I was also crying and moody and threatening to jump off metro platforms. Then there was this sudden epiphany, like hey dumbass, this is bad. I subsequently began seeing a therapist for the low low price of $120 per session, twice a week. Several hundred thousand dollars later, I was ok enough to go only once a week and to leave the country without flipping my shit. Of course I still flip my shit on occasion and will cry for no reason, except because I’m just sad. The worst is that in college I could be incapacitated due to depression and take a few days off from class. In the lovely real world of which I am now residing, I can’t take a day off of work because I’m really fucking sad. Instead I have to go in, because I have to have money. And instead of being ‘haha everything is funny’ Heather, I tend to become moody, ‘oh my god, I might cry because of the dumbest shit ever’ Heather. When I get depressed, every little thing will bother me to no end, to the point where the apocalypse might be coming if I lose a sock.

I waver between not caring about anything and keeping to myself and then being completely normal. It’s like a constant battle between me thinking that the world will end with every little problem and it being ok, that I overspent at Aveda, because that’s what parents and/or a savings account is for. And this is how it’s been for the past few weeks. I’ve been really fucking bored and full of malaise about everything in my life and I take pity on anyone who came within 10 feet of me; I was a bitch on wheels. Then suddenly, everything was ok. As in I didn’t cry when I hated my outfit on Friday night or when I was running late. I was able to enjoy dinner with my favorite people, during which we reminisced about college, which feels like forever ago. Saturday, I could’ve cared less when I looked like shit, but I made that trek out to VA and enjoyed Sex and the City and a few red stripes and stella’s.

I think what’s most important is that things are rarely the ‘be all end all’ in life and that there will always be times when things fucking suck. But I’ve finally learned how to say “Heather stop being a piss ass bitch and calm the fuck down”. It also helps to be girly and have a little SATC in my life, as ridiculous as I think it all is; and there is always alcohol and the friends that brag about you to their roommate’s parents and a few rounds of yoga. Suddenly everything is copasetic and I can check my bank balance without becoming ill and write like I fucking mean it; so for now, it’s all good.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Tell me a story

Peg used to tell me a story every night before bed; my favorite being the one about the day she almost drowned and then went home and got hit by a car. I’ve been bored lately. Bored crazy in everything that I do, though nothing is actually wrong. I wish there was some tangible reason for why I am so bored and full of pity for myself. Yeah, I’ve been going to the gym, but of course it takes 21 days for something to become habit. So give me 14 more days, and maybe I’ll be in the best mood ever. But until then, it’s nothing. Just me and a whole bunch of bullshit. I need someone to tell me a story. Something good, bad anything. Because, I feel like I’m fresh out. The only story I have now involves a giant sized man in Bank of America who didn’t know who Brad and Angelina were. The other story should be good, but it’s bad because it’s disappointing and unexpected, but mostly really disappointing. Now I’m not only disappointed, I’m annoyed and on the verge of tears about something that most wouldn’t be crying about. But alas I am very close to tears. And well, this just sucks. Really fucking sucks.


"Laundry is the only thing that should be separated by color." ~Author Unknown

“I think this year; I’m going to seriously contemplate getting a boyfriend. Not get a boyfriend, but really think hard about it”

“Well good. Does it matter if he’s white or black?”

“Nope. Just as long as he’s not a Republican. I don’t date Republicans.”

“Are you serious?”


Watching Jungle Fever makes my head reel. I can find myself enjoying the occasional Spike Lee joint, but the premise of that movie makes my eyes roll so far back into my head that they hurt. I hate that movie. I’ve watched, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it annoys the shit out of me. And really, who gives a fuck? I sure as hell don’t care, what color the future Mr. Heather B is, but if I see a “Bush/Cheney Rocks My World” bumper sticker on the back of our Mini, I’m going to flip my shit. There will be no joint memberships to the NRA. And if the man utters “Alito is my Hero” within 14 feet of me, I’ll cut his ass faster than he can say “Evil Doer”.

I've always been perplexed at the lists of reasons for not dating someone that people come up with and a lot of times race is on that list. Not something important like one's stance on abortion or the over taxing of the middle class, but race. It completely boggles my mind. And of all things, why should it matter?

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Morning Glory

"Be pleasant until ten o'clock in the morning and the rest of the day will take care of itself." ~Elbert Hubbard

It started off at 5:30 AM actually make that 5:20 AM when I hit the snooze. I’ve been waking at this obscene ass crack of dawn hour to go to the gym everyday this week. That is except for Saturday and Sunday when I got up at 8:30 AM. I think the word you’re looking for here is ‘motherfucker’.

I couldn’t find my bra. At 8 AM not being able to find one’s bra already blows, but at 5:30 AM, I’m as disgruntle as a postal office worker five days before christmas. Wandering around my room saying “fuck”. Bra Least favorite bra, found. Least favorite workout pants on, because the others ended up soaking wet when I decided that being outside in the rain at 6 AM was a swell idea. Hair. Oh god, my hair. At night, sometimes I twist it, so it looks less afro-y and more curly. Strange but true. Last night I did it perfectly and this morning, things were still intact. That is until I realized that I’d have to be in public with my hair in little twists all over my head. Spend 8 minutes attempting to rearrange twists and find acceptable head wear, as to not come off looking like someone’s Mamie.

So at 5:45 AM, lunch packed, gym bag, fail proof outfit (gray pants, purple cashmere sweater, white cami, fuck me boots), and my work shit, I’m out the door; with my crappy ass sports bra and yes, I do look like someone’s Mamie. Spend the 15 minute walk to the gym, swearing that if anyone looked at me funny, they’d have my foot so far up their ass, that when they opened their mouth, people would see my perfectly pedicured toes. Also think about Zach from American Idol last night. Zach who is a boy, but looked very much like a female. Laugh the rest of the way to the gym.

Best. Workout. All. Week.

Fuck yeah.

8 AM work, with fail proof outfit and perfectly formed coif and in a perfectly wonderful mood. I’m giving it until 10:15 AM when I will turn back into disgruntle post office worker Heather, who has no problem rolling her eyes and giving the finger.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

I haven't played 'tag' since 1998

4 jobs I've had

Girl Scout camp counselor (kitchen and lifegaurd)
Hostess at Houlihan’s in Crossgates mall
Waitress at an assisted living facility
Hill Intern (House and Senate)

4 movies I'd watch over and over

Garden State
I Heart Huckabees
Bridget Jones’ Diary
Old School

4 place I have lived

Albany, NY
Washington, DC
Madrid, Spain
Martha’s Vineyard, MA (ok, I never actually lived there, but my mother has a house there and I didn't have a fourth for the list, so technically I could say I live there. But then I would have to say I technically have lived in Butler, AL)

4 TV shows I love

Law & Order (the original)
Law & Order SVU
Law & Order Criminal Intent

4 places I've been on vacation

Mallorca, Spain (my mom, brother and I went to Mallorca in the spring and it was full of British people. And they couldn't figure out why weren't somewhere warmer, like Cozumel)
Marrakech/Fez/Casablanca, Morocco
Rome, Italy
Las Vegas, NV (I've been to Vegas 6 times and haven't been back since I turned 21. Though I have drank and gambled while there, it just has never been legally)

4 favorite foods

Cheese (manchengo, brie, cabot chedder...whatever, I LOVE cheese)
Grilled Salmon
Tortilla Espanola (I freaking love tortilla. Like I could eat it all day everyday and the thought that I can't have it anymore ie the homemade version, kills me. Look, see dead now)

4 places I'd rather be right now

My bed
My mom’s house
Martha’s Vineyard

4 websites I visit daily

Bank of America (ok that’s a lie, I only check my bank account on pay days, because then it won’t look so paltry)

4 bloggers who are now IT!

Ummm anyone else who has nothing to write about today is more than welcome to do this in my comments section or on their own blog.

*Just so y'all know, this is my first tag. And finally I feel like I'm bloved...

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Love and Happiness

"The trouble with most people is that they think with their hopes or fears or wishes rather than with their minds." ~Will Durant

Not that it’s ever happened, but I am afraid of not getting something that I really want. This leads to me spending days or weeks, acting like a freak with a shit eating grin on my face, attempting to hide my excitement over some news. I’m afraid that if I share the news, then it won’t happen. Something will inevitably go wrong. Thus that has been my stance on marriage and children. As a child, I proudly proclaimed that I wanted to have children and get married and my future daughters (it was always a girl) had names as well. Then at some point I stopped speaking of it and when the subject came up, I was quick to say that I neither wanted to get married or have children. I always used my parents divorce as an excuse and not being married automatically meant no children.

The thing is, that despite my proclamations on the former, I have planned out when and where I would have my wedding and my children have names and I know how I would like them to come into this world or rather into my life. I’d rather be safe than sorry, you know, if it ever happens. Or as I have put it, ‘If I accidentally get pregnant, I want to be prepared’. I know where my children will go to school if I live in DC and if we end up in Northern Virginia or Maryland, then there are schools picked out there as well. Sometimes I truly believe and prepare myself for having a child alone. And to be honest, I’d be totally on board with the whole thing.

Then something, I’m not sure what, but something hits me and suddenly I think that I really don’t want to be alone. I don’t want it to be an ‘if’ I want it to be a ‘when’. As in, when I get married, xyz will happen. The fact that I don’t date doesn’t hamper my occasional, now nagging thoughts, it just makes me think about it more. This in turn makes me feel like an uber- girly girl who spends days planning her wedding and the house with the white picket fence, just because she wants to get married. I don’t want to get married for the sake of getting married. I’ve been asked why I wouldn’t want to get married. I’ve done a lot with my life, so why not share it with someone else. I want to get married because it’s true, I want someone to share my life with. I want someone who will enjoy me being me and is interested, if not whole heartedly, but open to things that I enjoy doing. And I want for him to introduce me to new things as well. But to reiterate I just want someone to share things with and that makes me happy.

There, I’ve said it. I’ve admitted to myself that I want to get married and have children. And now I will go off in fear that it won’t happen. But then again I am 22 and this all could be part of my quarter life crisis. Why can’t it be like a mid life crisis for males? A new car and a mistress? Why do I contemplate men and babies instead of the color of my corvette? Why do I overanalyze and make things so hard? Why am I so afraid to say things out loud?

Everyone say 'What Up' to Pam...

subtitled: Babyjewels may hate you, but she looooves me; sucka!

Edit to Add: Thought for the day...

Does anyone else get their W2s back and see how much they've made for the year. Then sit back and think "huh, so where did that many many thousand dollars go???" Then, sit there frustrated and remember the $85 spent at MAC and the fact that going to Trader Joe's three times a week, might be a serious problem oh and the random trips to Whole Foods and the very necessary gym membership. When I have this problem, I quietly bang my head on the desk thinking how I must learn to budget. Hello, My name is Heather B and I am a dumbass who spends way too much on groceries and make up.

HOLY motherfucker.

I went into a 10 AM meeting and when I got out, this was here.

It’s so pretty and lovely and Pam Greer is even on it. And I LOVE IT.

So everyone can come and look and tell me how awesome the new design is and then go over and thank the very awesome BabyJewels for doing this for me. Seriously, it's hard not to love someone who enjoys toilet humor and can do this.

And it also keeps me from having to write anything substantial today, because no one will give a shit what I write they’ll just be too busy thinking about how AWESOME my new blog is.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Tiger Does the Plank

"Our bodies are our gardens - our wills are our gardeners." ~William Shakespeare

I’m sore. Very sore. Despite this, my newly acquired, debt increasing gym membership, has led me to get all ‘rah, rah’ about working out. I’m looking forward to having Monday off and going to Pilates. Here’s the deal, I’m one of crazy types who loses weight when most others are gaining weight. College for instance, I weighed considerably less and instead of putting on a Freshman 15, I lost 20lbs. While this could’ve been attributed to a number of things, like people flying planes into buildings just 5 miles away and the stress of having B-52 bombers hovering about; I will attribute it to the Jacob’s Fitness Center being on the other side of the sprawling American University Campus. Thinking back, I don’t understand how people actually gained weight, because for me it was quite simple. We’re paying for that shit (on top of Ben Ladner’s foie gras of course), so why not go? It’s like 45 feet away. Anyway, during sophomore year, my drug of choice was Xenadrine and there was that sniper thing. So, more stress, drugs, and the gym. Now if that doesn’t lead to weight loss, I don’t know what will. Then in Spain, while many friends had gained weight during their semester abroad, I lost weight again. Really I don’t know why, since the only stress I endured was deciding where to go out at night. But whatever. Coming back, I gained weight, because Hello! Chipotle. I missed that place almost as much as I missed my mom-a lot (but a lot of a good thing will inevitably make you ill or want to punch things).

Anyway, for months I had planning on this gym thing, because I needed it. Not wanted. Needed. Gym time, cures boredom and keeps me from watching countless hours of the O.C. It’s $70 per month well spent. There’s yoga and pilates and ellipticals (Oh My!). It produces those wonderful little endorphins that make us smiley little fuckers and promotes general conditioning and well being. And if that’s not enough, I read an article that said that regular workouts help to improve one’s golf game. As of late, golf game blows and my father’s dreams of me being Annika Sorenstam have been dashed to the wind.

So there is no real weight loss goal, just the ability to drive my topflite XL such that I don’t curse my father, the air, my golf club, the direction of the grass, whatever, for my faulty game. I say aim low and that way when I lose 20lbs in the process, it will be like a nice little gift.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Quirky McQuirkison

"Individualism is rather like innocence: There must be something unconscious about it." ~Louis Kronenberger, Company Manners, 1954

Today as I sat enjoying my scheduled cup of ice, someone came up to me and asked if I was pregnant, because apparently pregnant women chew ice. Not only is it something that pregnant women do, but also it’s bad for the teeth and my poor little jaw. But I can’t help it. I have to have my ice. I crave it in fact. Sometimes, it’s the highlight of my day. Yes, I have strong feelings about ice. At fast food places, I ask for a lot of ice in my cup, as opposed to little ice, lots of diet coke.

After further contemplating my intense devotion to frozen water, I thought about other weird things that I do. For example, there’s this game to enjoy on long bus/car rides, where the first person names a movie, the next person names an actor in that movie, and the third person names another movie that that actor was in and so on. So if I were to say Garden State, the next person can say Jean Smart, and the third person could say I Heart Huckabees…and so on. The point is that I can play this game and not only beat everyone else playing, but I also play this game to lull myself back to sleep. I am an IMDB whore. And I like it; almost as much as I like my ice.

And finally, once I get a song I like on my ipod, I will play the song over and over and over again. The current song of choice is the I’ll Cover You (Reprise) from Rent, maybe switching to La Vie Boheme after the 13th time. I wish I were kidding. I really do. I do the same thing with movies. If I watch a movie that I enjoy – right now my current poison is Garden State – I have to watch it over and over again. So last night/this morning when I was afflicted with insomnia, I watched it for the 7th day in a row.

Actually, this will be final, sadly, I write how I talk. Which means if I’m writing about one thing, I’ll need parentheses and asterisks, as another thought – maybe on the same topic, maybe not – pops into my head. I digress like a motherfucker. And you know what, I kind of like it.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Heather Full of Blah

Oh it’s just one of those days. A day followed by the wonderful JB’s birthday and night four of HB sleep watch. In which HB gets about four hours of sleep per night. A day where I have been irritated by multiple things like scheduling difficulties and I am left feeling like a pain in the ass, when in reality I am not. My irritability of the day has led me to roll my eyes multiple times about others sheer amount of narcissism and claims as to how wonderful they are. While part of me is a huge bitch; the other part of me may very well be jealous that others are able to display some sort of confidence in themselves and I sit and stew and wonder why I let others walk all over me. But fear not, I have a newly acquired membership to WSC and tomorrow night begins my restaurant week weekend with DC Coast and then Zengo (for churros and chocolate) on Sunday evening. I’ll even do yoga on Saturday and pilates on Sunday. Here’s to hoping that the gym kicks my unmotivated, procrastinating, super bitch ass, into gear again; lest I blow up on some poor undeserving soul because I didn’t have my third cup of coffee. Oh, and please feel free to berate me because of a power outage in California. Obviously that is my fault.

Also, word around town is that it's national de-lurking week. Obviously I beg you to de-lurk all the time, so you know, do what you will. But this time, I shall step it up a bit a la Boozie, ask me a question. Anything your little heart desires. Go on, do it. I dare ya. I'm going to sleep...or more coffee...mmmm. Folgers.


Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Breaking Point

"Do not keep on with a mockery of friendship after the substance is gone - but part, while you can part friends. Bury the carcass of friendship: it is not worth embalming." ~William Hazlitt

Needless to say and I suppose unfortunately, it comes with the territory that when one part of your life ends, there is a good chance that some of the friends that were part of your life will go as well. Though often no one wants to admit it, it’s the truth. There are some people that after a certain period, you just won’t be friends with anymore. To be honest, I’ve never really minded such things as there are those that I know I will be friends with for years to come and those who I have always thought to be the biggest asshat fuckers in the world and I will gladly bid them good riddance. In college, I had my very own Julie Cooper. You know the type, the girl who no matter what will always get her way. No one likes her, but will put up with her because getting on this whore’s shitlist will only deepen your desire to be shot or at least graduate. The bitch just won’t go away. No matter where I go, there she is. Like a god damn pariah. I swear if it came down to it, she’d eat me alive or nip at my toes.

Over the years, it’s been my experience that I hold out on to the duds for friends, far longer than any normal person would. It’s like I’m hoping that maybe if I stick around long enough the culprit will change and become somewhat bearable. But alas, this has never happened. So I essentially am fucking myself over and over and over again, in hopes that someone else will change their behavior. For a smart girl, I can be a real dumbass sometimes. That said, admitting that there is a problem is the first step to regaining my sanity after years of being belittled and being lied to. Of course now that I have had this great epiphany and I’m all ready to throw in the towel, I can’t bring myself to just say it to her face. I can only sit and whimper about it to others who have already been enlightened. They just nod and smile and say “there there, I hate to say I told you so”. Maybe one day I’ll get some balls.

Monday, January 09, 2006


"Leisure: A fancy word for people who don't want to admit they're bored." ~Gene Perret

I really was going to write a post with actual sentences and profound thoughts about my weekend. Really, I swear I was. But now I’m just way too above that crap. I mean really, who the hell wants to read a coherent sentence that proves that at one point in life, I did pass English with an A? I’m starting a new trend-ok, not really-of saying fuck it to the literary Gods and my English teachers. I’m not writing in actual sentences, I’m going the bullet point* route for the day and if they (or you) don’t like it, you can kiss my….ok, moving on now.

My weekend went something like this: Vidalia, Spank with the wonderful and lush duo of Namaste and DC Cookie (and DCB was there too) where the grey goose was flowing and I was pretty drunk by the time I saw them, but as I recall, I had a good time. Saturday was surprisingly hangover free and a trip to VA to hit up trader joe’s where I spent a grand total of $9. Sunday included another trip to VA for La Tasca with Kimber.

Do you see the excitement of the weekend…? I’m just a regular party animal.

Now it’s Monday and after viewing pictures of myself courtesy of Cookie, I promptly became a member of the Washington Sports Club and had to re-budget my life, but that’s ok because if you saw these pictures you’d beg me to lose 20lbs as well.

What else have I got for you…hmmm…oh, I realized (on my own) how much a particular friend of mine completely and utterly sucks and I am quite literally the last person to realize this and ahhh I feel so much better now. Oh and it’s restaurant week and I get to go to DC Coast for the low low price of $30.06 and it also means a good amount of babysitting for the weekend because I’m broke and I just have to go to Paris. Not want to, but have to.

So um yeah, maybe things will pick up and I’ll get an exciting life that doesn’t involve budgeting and trips to Trader Joes as sources of entertainment. Now please tell me that your weekends were considerable more exciting (save for the Namaste/Cookie part) than mine.

And one more thing, I was nominated for a bloggie. I'll try not to forget about you when Simon and Schuster call ::ahem::. Thanks Kris!

*notice that there were no actual bullet points.

Friday, January 06, 2006


"Oh, wouldn't the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at? " ~W.S. Gilbert

Holy hell, I haven’t had anything to bitch about for the past two weeks. Really nothing, save for boredom, but really there’s nothing to complain about enjoying 60 hours of Peter Gallagher (well almost 60 because I couldn’t watch American Beauty after seeing Kevin Spacey in the Usual Suspects. Creeped. The fuck. Out.) Oh well I could bitch about being sick, but no one wants to hear about me puking so that leaves the fact that I was being so responsible with my money only to find out that it’s all been in vain. The money I’ve saved for Paris will have to go towards getting my car registered in DC and paying a parking ticket that has since doubled because Hey! I forgot to pay it in the first place. The money will also go towards the credit card debt I accumulated last year (Nordstrom is evil). Which means that until I get a raise, there will be no gym membership; so gone are my grandiose dreams of being (almost) hot by the beginning of summer. Sad, so sad. And I think I might have to wave goodbye to shopping on the Champs Elysses. Of course while I’m bitching about how unfortunate it is that I will not be able to go to Paris or run like a fucking hamster on a wheel at the gym, I could be thinking about more important things like being umm homeless or being trapped in a mine or I could think about certain people who shall remain nameless who will have no money for several weeks. And here I sit bitching about how I really don’t want to dip into my savings account and how will I ever be able to make twice weekly trips to whole foods. My god, how will I survive?

So, I should mention that I wrote this post yesterday (Thursday) and since then I’ve been able to think of ways to come up with $66 per month for my gym membership, because really I want one more than anything. Like perhaps shopping at Trader Joe’s instead of Whole Foods and trying not to look directly at the starbucks when I pass it. I swear looking at that place draws you in, it’s hypnotizing.

Anyway and on a totally unrelated to money subject, which one of you lovely wonderful and kind readers of mine would like to design me a new template? I’ve decided to not move to typepad, but I’m getting sick of the dots. So if one of you really fantastic and truly great and witty and brilliant people who knows what the hell HTML means would like to make my blog even lovelier, holla!


Thursday, January 05, 2006


Lately I’ve been checking my sitemeter more often than I have in the past and without going into why I’ve been doing so (it’s more embarrassing than admitting that I check sitemeter religiously), I will say that at times I am perplexed as to how people find me. A few weeks ago, I looked up the meaning of ‘no pasa nada’ in google and I’m number four of the results. Some one in Spain looked up the same as well and went to my blog, I feel like this person may have been less than impressed, but I digress. Lately I’ve noticed that people have found me by googling “fuck the babysitter”. No, on so many levels no; also by googling “Kelly Rowan acting” and my personal favorite “dumb bitch”. But mainly it’s just the same people day after day (somebody in Alabama really loves me) who obviously have a taste for terrible writing and incessant complaining. Though sometimes I think I should expand my blogging horizons which I have been doing little by little, but really I am just comforted by reading those that I regularly read and having those same people read my ever brilliant self everyday. So as my I’ve-been-mad–delayed- with- being- sick –and- didn’t- even- know- about – the- miners- until- today- tour, this is a way of saying delurk* (motherfuckers! Which I mean in the nicest kindest way possible) and thanks for making the last few months of 2005 some what bearable.

*in reality, I like it when people delurk as it makes me feel better about myself and it also adds to my blogging horizons when I really need to be working at work. Minor details.

Pity Party

Over the years through different things that I’ve been involved with, I’ve found that I easily go from speaking to someone on a daily basis to speaking to that same person at about the same frequency that I clean my bedroom, which is about once every few months. Then it inevitably (at least for me) gets to a point where if I haven’t spoken to a friend for months, then I’ll do anything in my power to avoid the ‘hey how are you?’ phone calls, as I know that those calls will last an hour easily. There will be stories to tell about the inane and random randomness of my life. And, because I am me, those stories will lead to digressions into other stories that will then lead us to be asking “so wait, what were we talking about?” That’s just how it goes. Updating feels like a chore, which is the sad and honest truth and I always feel guilty. That’s how I’m feeling right now, I’ve been sick (not dead) and I am still sick. The unfortunate part is that I had all of these things to write about swimming in my little head and now writing about not writing is taking up way too much time and energy. Let’s not get into the fact that with vacation and having the flu, I haven’t been to work in literally two weeks and the thought of checking my messages seems like a most daunting task. Perhaps I’ll save that to later today, we’ll see. So now I feel craptastic in more ways than one and I have a holy mother fucker amount of work to do. Woe is me, I’m sick and now I have work to do. I should also point out that the past two days calling into work left me in tears (ok, almost), because for once I actually cared that I was out. It’s not like last year, if I was sick, no one cared and I’d just miss class but it wasn’t the apocalypse or anything. Now I’m sick and my very first thought is what if I get in trouble for being sick (which would NEVER happen)? I’d be fucked. See there? A digression and another inane thought about how ever loving ridiculous that I can be.
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