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Friday, April 28, 2006


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

For lack of a better phrasing, actually for lack of a better education and vocabulary, my Claritin has got me all fucked the fuck up. I’m jittery yet tired and I’ve been chewing ice like it’s my job (kind of like the way I use the ‘C’ word. Ahem.)

On the real though (On the real? The hell?) a lot of things have me twitching lately, like say people at Ben and Jerry’s, which totally deserves a post of its own. As in, your children may get injured if you sit there and have them take an hour to pronounce ‘Chunky Monkey’. Junior needs to hurry his ass up, because there are disgruntle PMSing adults behind him, and I can’t be held responsible for my actions if held up.

Then there was yesterday morning when I hadn’t gone to the gym because I overslept and I knew I would be able to go Thursday evening because I had to go out and then my eye seriously started to twitch. Because ohmygod I need to run because if I don’t run I won’t do well at the race and then I’ll die. Or some such shit.

Also during the past few days I’ve randomly been outside in the middle of the day or even when I leave the gym at 7:30 AM rushing to get home…the question is, who are these people with nothing to do all day except for frolic around in the sun?? Again with the random eye spasms and such.

And finally, I’ve been rather OCD about checking my sitemeter lately. It’s become this strange obsession about finding out (A) who I know in Denmark, NY and (B) there is such a place? Who the hell knew? Which is probably a sign to slowly back away from the sitemeter hands on my head and so forth, but I can’t. Instead I’ll try to figure out who the hell loves me in Amsterdam and if that person loves me so much, why can’t s/he hook a sister up with some Maoz??

There was something else, but alas and most fortunately for you, I cannot remember what it was. But this all only shows that I am très random and that I should probably get this eye thing checked out.

I remembered the "something else": Andy Card at Oceanaire. With Secret Service. Seeing that shit made me thank the Lord that I'm not epilleptic nor have tourets because who knows what I would've done. It also made me think how happy I am to see my tax dollars hard at work. Awesome, indeed.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Expect the Unexpected

“Anger is short-lived madness.” ~Horace

Well fuck me…it’s mighty difficult to write anything while upset or depressed or feeling like someone has just stomped all over your stomach, ripped your insides out and then tossed them against the wall. You can thank me for that lovely visual later.

That’s how I’m feeling right now. So crappy that yesterday during free cone day I went twice, we’re talking rough people. Getting into it will only make it worse. The hardest thing is that when I was younger and someone didn’t like me, naivety took over and I figured I could win that person back by begging and or doling out dollars if she (it was usually a female) needed one during lunch. I thought I was being nice and in hindsight – like by the next year – I realized that I had the words “Use me” written on my forehead in bold. At 22, my expectations of people and how I react to how others treat me has gotten fairly better, though I suppose I’m still somewhat naïve. I am an adult and I associate with adults. That said, I expect for other adults to treat me with the same amount of respect with which I treat them. Period. If you don’t like me, that’s fine, but at least give me some sor t of idea as to why.

Now I’m regretting bringing this up. The more I think about the current predicament, the more hurt, upset and angrier I get. I didn’t expect to be treated this way and now that it’s come to this, where I’m hurt and the offender probably could give two shits, I don’t know what to do with myself.

For now I will sit here and fume and try to figure out what exactly I did wrong because right now I have no fucking clue. No explanation, no nothing. It’s like it is what it is and I should just accept it and move on. That’ll teach me about my expectations of people. But no one expects a fucking adult to behave in the same manner as a 7th grader.

Then again, this might just be a case of Pot. Kettle. Black. Who the hell knows…actually I do know one thing, I’m upset and I’ve been to Ben & Jerry’s three times in 24 hours. Not. Good.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Because nothing says Spring like a tour bus from Iowa

“April prepares her green traffic light and the world thinks Go.” ~Christopher Morley, John Mistletoe

While I wholeheartedly feel that you wonderful perfect people deserve a recap of the weekend events that lead to said table dancing, I fear that right now will not be that time. So you might end up getting this recap Friday because everyone should hear about the fucking tree frogs and why I suddenly love Canadian bacon and all things maple.

Instead there is a much bigger problem out there right now. A problem that involves a leader with a bright red umbrella and 25 preteens from Duluth Christian Academy all compulsively clad in bright orange t-shirts.

And now, a few open letters…

To the 8th grade class from Duluth Christian Academy,

While I appreciate your excitement of being in the same city as Norm Coleman, who I’m sure many of you scantily clad girls gush over at a moment’s notice, it is not appropriate to (A) be scantily clad on the metro, because I for one, do not need to see 8th grade boobs. Been there, done that and (B) it is not appropriate to scream at the top of your lungs at Sarah and Bobby who are a few seats down about their “like awesome kiss, like on the way back to the Holiday Inn on Capitol Hill” last night. I don’t want to hear about it and neither does the older Burberry dressed man sitting next to you. Also know that the poles situated at the center of the metro are for holding so that you don’t fall on your ass. While it would be most entertaining to watch you keel over every time the metro stopped short, you hold the pole and stand up. Why you’re swinging around and attempting pull ups is beyond me and I’m sure your parents and the Almighty, would be ashamed of your horrid public behavior. While we’re at it, if you stand in the middle of the fucking sidewalk trying to capture that perfect shot of the Supreme Court, I reserve the right to give you the finger. And if you yell one more fucking time in my ear, I’ll punch you in the mouth so fucking hard that you’ll no longer need those blue and red braces.

Peace, Love and Paul Wellstone,

Heather B.

Also, tell your teachers that wearing bright orange is tacky. And emblazoning it with “Duluth Christian Academy 8th Grade Spring Trip 2006” will only attract the kidnappers and people who can’t stand stupid tourists even more. I’m just sayin’…

To the Jones Family of Little Rock, Arkansas,

First and foremost, Mr. Jones, I seriously love the fanny pack and your hairy pasty white legs. Nothing says spring in the nation’s capital like a throwback to 1987. Since, we’re speaking right now, I should also let you know that while I’m sure you are also so very eager to have dragged little Joe and Beth to the Air and Space Museum (though the rest of their friends are enjoying fun in the sun in Orlando, but nice choice on the trip), it is not all that good of an idea to (A) stick your arm in the door when you fear it may leave, that is unless you aren’t all that attached to your right arm, then by all means feel free to have it removed by way of WMATA and (B) scream at the nearly catatonic commuters at 7:45 AM whether or not this – the red line – goes to the Smithsonian. It would help if you were literate and then you could learn to read the very complex metro map that the 8 year old I babysit for can navigate. I should also mention that your wife has lipstick on her teeth and again, what’s with the loud talking with the fucking southern drawl and holy hell, your children look like they might jump off the platform if you don’t stop with the “White House is so exciting” shit.

Peace, Love and common sense not to stand in the middle of the fucking platform,

Heather B.

To the tour bus full of senior citizens that swarmed onto metro,

Love the blue hair, Ida, really I do, but if you don’t move your octogenarian ass to right side of the escalator, I might have to push you. And that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.

Peace, Love and FDR forever,

Heather B.

To the people driving down Constitution looking for directions,

It should be needless to say, but apparently y’all aren’t too hip to the obvious body language that is the ipod and cell phone. As in, if my ipod bud is in one ear and my cell phone is to the other ear, that most likely means that I’m not interested in speaking and/or paying attention to you; because something serious is going on like a debate of what color I should have my toes painted. Also? When I told you – in a half assed, exasperated manner – that the White House was just down the street and to the left, I really had no fucking clue what I was talking about. No really, I don’t know how to get from the Hill to the White House. I also have no clue as to where the Tidal Basin is, but that’s another story for another day. And for fuck’s sake, learn how to drive.

Peace, Love and you really drove that ’96 pick up truck all the way from Oklahoma?

Heather B.

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Sucky, but in a good way

"Just living is not enough. One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower." ~Hans Christian Anderson

Really exciting plans for today included, the Dada exhibit at the National Gallery (my first foray into a museum since the 8th grade) and then a flight to Austin for a five day vacation.

Really exciting plans now that I've determined that someone up there hates me? Crying silently at my desk and making vacation plans for Martha's Vineyard (me? pretentious? nooo.)

Oh and as a super added plus bonusy thing...It's free cone day mofo's which means that I'll be crying silently over a cone of oatmeal cookie ice cream.

And you?

Monday, April 24, 2006

My sincerest apologies

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

I'm on hiatus until I can think of something more acceptable than "I got super drunk on Saturday night and danced on a table" or something with more depth than "I love Roary and Kris" or you know, something a litte more clever than "crickets, cicadas and motherfucking tree frogs. I love them Canadians." Or maybe something a little more in the realm of reality than "You people need to stop having babies because right now I want one too!" So, until such time, you're stuck with this unfortunate post that makes very little sense and only proves the severity of my randomness. I apologize immensely. Please don't hate me.

Oh and running while seriously hungover is fucking hard, so don't do it. Speaking of running...

And your weekend?

Friday, April 21, 2006

Oh Misery

“The trouble with jogging is that the ice falls out of your glass.” ~Martin Mull

Yesterday there was apparently some talk of preparing for beach bodies. You know, rock hard abs, a tight ass and arms that don’t do that crazy jello jigglers thing. Though I was not part of the conversation, I was told that it was said that I’ve been “looking good lately”. Apparently losing 14lbs doesn’t go unnoticed and neither does the four lbs gained over the past week.

My reaction to this statement was an “Oh…but I haven’t been to the gym since the Neolithic period”. No one wants to hear that they’ve been looking good when they’re depressed. I want to hear that I’m getting paunchy and that my ass is looking mighty flabby.

So I did what any self-respecting woman would do, I went to Five Guys and gorged on ye old veggie sandwich (for future reference, they melt the cheese with the mushrooms and then they melt in your mouth and you praise the good Lord for fungus) and some Cajun fries. When I had finished stuffing my invariably chubby face with my food, I moved onto the chocolate Teddy Grahams and capped it all off with a glass of Shiraz, so that by the end I could be confident that I would be puking. But thankfully, there was none, but instead a stomach full of crap and one little chocolate graham arm lying next to me. Poor little bear.

Despite all of this there was a dark cloud looming above as a few days beforehand I had already pretty much sold my soul for a good cause. I’m sure that when I did it, I was being inhabited by someone else because when it comes to a good cause I’m all about shelling out the doe rather than actually doing something. I actually once cried while doing Habitat for Humanity because it was hot and I was tired and oh…I’m going to HELL. Apparently all of that didn’t matter the other day and my fingers and brain were doing the walking and my body – specifically my legs – wasn’t in on this conversation. A conversation in which I signed up for a fucking 5K… this 5K to be exact.

So you know what this means right? It means more time at the gym and less time stuffing my face with Cajun deliciousness and red wine. It also means putting this misery holding pattern that I’ve been in, on the back burner. Though perfectly capable of running 5K quite smoothly, I’m not about to embarrass myself in front of a few thousand people. I just look at it this way, hopefully this will keep me out of hell after the whole Habitat thing and I’ll probably lose like 10 lbs in the process. There's also that whole I fucking hate cancer thing that makes me want to do this oh and this minor detail. Let the running begin.

And of course all of you wonderful, kind, witty, pretty people can contribute right HERE.

As an added incentive, for all you local kids, if you donate the most, you'll get a little something from me...besides my undying love and affection that is.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

With Sadness

"Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind." ~Seneca

In the midst of searching around for my work ID, I came across my planner from 2004-2005. In it were such trite things like due dates for papers and presentations, final and midterm dates, random highlighted stars that signified who only know. On November 3, 2004 it says “Best day Ever or Worst day ever”…it ended up being the worst day ever. The 2005 part of my planner starts off with a bang. January 15th, I left for Spain. Mid-February there was a trip to Andalucia and Portugal. Barcelona, Toledo, and Segovia were sprinkled in there as well. Looking at April was the hardest though. For spring break/Easter I went to Mallorca (sorry Majorca). Two weeks later we took an extra special, holy motherfucker-worthy trip to Morocco…there was camels, the desert and camping to boot. Then a weekend jaunt to Malaga and Gibraltar and finally to Salamanca. So as you can see, I busy April indeed.

This April falls somewhere between that time I dropped a bowling ball in my pinky, thus rendering it broken and that time I threw up on the school bus all over myself and my clarinet, in the grand scheme of things that suck hairy balls. I am technically scheduled for a fun filled four day jaunt to Austin, TX. I say technically because due to circumstances beyond my control out in the realm of more things that suck a whole hell of a lot, I may not be making this trek. Now, I’m no doctor or anything, in fact I once failed biology, but the prospect that I may not be able to go has rendered me rather despondent, because people NEED to get away. I had these grandeur dreams of margaritas, delicious food, bars on Sixth street and getting to see the lovely SK. I NEEDED this vacation. I NEEDED to go somewhere that wasn’t on fucking 95 and didn’t involve a coffin. But instead I’m trapped here and I NEED to get the fuck out before my head explodes. And from what I hear, exploding heads and decapitation is not very high up on the meter of fun.

My lugubrious state has also left me cranky and ornery (as seen above) where even going to the gym has turned into a difficult task. Of course that will only last until tomorrow given that I’ve watched the numbers on the scale slowly creep up high enough to scare me back into 3 sets of lunges every other day. I’m bummed and I’m just a tad bit pissed and holy hell I’m being exponentially more whiny than normal. Even Coach and Five Guys won’t make it better (trust me, I’ve tried both. NADA.). But have no fear dear readers because despite being a melancholy ball of blubber, I have been inspired. Though if I tell you all about my future plans that may or may not involve depleting my Orange ING account and losing about 20lbs, then I’d be jinxing myself. And beyond missing out on a fun-fucking-fantastic vacation, jinxing myself is a close second to things that will make me cry, freak out and possibly throw shit. As a former shot put thrower, I can definitely throw things and I doubt you want to see me try.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

This is the story that never ends: Quatre

Read parts one, two and three

In Threes

Ok, so where were we? Ahh yes. Thursday, well Friday now. But Friday is altogether forgettable, but in a good way. Sometimes I need average to appreciate things. Remember the curious incident of the fuck me boots? Well this is better. These are fuck me peep toe heels, that compliment my outfit and every outfit in my closet, quite well. A purchase that makes me praise the DSW Gods and not mind wearing a size 11. There was also a requisite trip to Friendly’s. And more visit with family that discouraged my liberal ways of being a vegetarian, who likes gay people, and believes strongly in the Democratic Party. I even have a donkey as a keychain. Word.

As you see, wonderfully mundane. And Saturday follows suit, except for a trip to Friday’s and a visit with a former AP Public Policy teacher. But once again, that’s something that I cannot discuss, lest you want to hear about that time my mother said ‘fuck’ and ‘asshole’ in the same sentence. The best part though would be the fact that I got my ass kicked in golf by a man with a heart condition. We’re talking about a man, who spent all of last Golf season bed ridden and strapped to an IV. My father beat me badly and in a way it brings tears to my eyes. Not because I only hit the ball like 30 yards at one point, but because last summer he almost died (like panic calls from my brothers, almost died) and now he can make a birdie and enjoy happy hour in the club house.

Now, the say bad things come in threes, but I feel like I’ve already hit the three marker and so now I might be headed towards double doses. But, I’m no punk and I can handle it. If you’re keeping score at home, so far my uncle has died, my aunt has been diagnosed with breast cancer and my grandfather has died. So that’s three right? You see three bad things there…but of course, what’s life if you don’t get thrown the occasional loop? My great-aunt, who was 95 also died. So that makes four, if I’m counting correctly. Which totally defies the laws of bad shit happening and like I said, I’m really fearing that we’re heading towards the number six.

Anyway, despite all that, I’ve come to the conclusion that I wish I had been home longer. I’ll probably never admit such a thing again and apparently after this admission hell will freeze over, but two days were certainly not long enough. I needed more time to veg and get my car interior and exterior washed for $15 and appreciate the wonder that is my mother’s strawberry delight and baked macaroni and cheese and to just sit around and get fat(ter) and lazy. It’s nice.

I guess that brings us to today (er, Monday) and my tiredness and the reason for why I limited myself to fruit and water. Because if you noticed, I went to Red Lobster, Friendly’s, Friday’s, Cinnabon (on the way back), macaroni and cheese, potato salad, pizza, a strawberry/cool whip/angel food cake concoction and oh yeah, a visit to the arch nemesis on the way up; and nary a gym visit in sight. So really, I spent a weekend trying to become an eating contest contestant and wondering how much it takes for me to gain back 14 lbs. Let it be known that if I were to enter myself in such a contest, I would totally kick ass.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

This is the story that never ends: Trois

Read Part One or Part Two


Having recently received some flak from a family member about something wholly innocuous written, I feel pretty limited at this point of the story, for this is the best part. The crème filling to the Cadbury egg if you will, but sadly you will not be partaking in much of the crème. Most especially since my father has recently discovered ‘the Google’ and this little internet party over here and has subsequently decided to inform his brother and sister in law of my blog (Or website or internet thingy or whatever those crazy kids are calling it these days). When he told me this I rolled my eyes and he questioned why. “Because it’s weird.” He replied; “I told you so.” Touché (Heather: -10; Father: 233).

Though admitting my father correct is a rare occurrence, it is not the crux of this story, and as wholly entertaining as it is, it’s not something that can be written here. Thing is that my older brothers are considerably older than G and I. They were also raised in Long Island quite close to my father’s side of the family. Their mother still lives out there as well. So growing up they were often around my cousins etc. At my grandfather’s funeral, there were people there who I had last seen in 1989. It was pretty much me and G, sitting together listening to my cousin’s and other family members having these vivid recollections of the time that they spent with my grandfather. That is not to say that I haven’t spent time with him or anything like that, but they just had more. My last visit with him was December 23rd. He was a patient at an assisted living community, due to alzheimers and a stroke he had recently had. He asked about the Giants and my golf game, which only proved to me that we were very much related. The previous visit with him was years ago in Fresno, in which he explained algebra to me. So there are memories, not a million and one of them, but they’re there.

Actually I should say that it was just G and me sitting there until Ty decided to show up out of nowhere; thus turning the three of us into an uncontrollable bunch of heathens who demanded alcohol and to be taken to Carnegie Deli immediately. Instead we got Red Lobster, an institution that I had previously ridiculed because it’s not the Oceanaire Seafood Room. But the Oceanaire Seafood Room doesn’t have cheddar cheese biscuits. You also can’t question your waitress’ ethnicity there (for the record she was Puerto Rican not Mexican), or be obnoxious and you probably can’t say “kiss my ass” or “I’m going to fuck his shit up” in the parking lot.

Next up: There’s a strong possibility that I may never be Aree Song.

Monday, April 17, 2006

This is the story that never ends: Deux

Read Part I here

A funny thing happened on the way to the funeral

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Like, I set my alarm for 7AM with the intention of going to the gym before I left for Long Island. Did I go? Nope. Was I a little upset by this, yes, because I hadn’t gone Wednesday either (Heather: 0; Heather’s waist: 457). One day without the gym, pisses me off; two days, make me think about a colonic. I also intended to leave my apartment at 10AM thus giving me plenty of time to lounge around my Aunt’s condo for three hours, prior to my Grandfather’s viewing and funeral service. I left at 10:11 AM. Perfect.

Now, let’s play a fun game called Guess who got a flat tire on I-95 and doesn’t have AAA, a map or a clue as to where she’s located. Ready? Go! I mean I knew I had hit some bumpy road, but then I had the all too familiar feeling of rim on pavement and the smell of burnt rubber. Deep breaths, this will only put me an hour tops off of the projected course. All is well (have I mentioned how anal I can be when it comes to driving times, but when it comes to being at my desk by 9AM, I find that a wee bit difficult?). So um yeah, again I call my mother who tells me to call 911.

When I first learned how to dial 911, it was in the age of Rescue 911. I always envisioned my first time to be to save my mother after she had a horrible injury. Or maybe to save Garrett after he fell in the (fictional) pool. But alas not, as my first time calling 911 was because I’m an idiot who doesn’t have AAA. Long story short, I called, they came and put my donut on and I was informed that no, I wouldn’t be able to drive the 3 hours left to NY and that the next exit was a mile away. Ok. Fine. In East bumble fuck Delaware. Like, I expected cows and shit in them there parts of the state. I had to stop at three different places before being price gouged for a quality BF Goodrich. I got the tire and then left on my merry way…

Like I said paved to hell…I started back onto I-95 when my mirror. The busted mirror that was precariously held to my car with clear duct tape, was flapping in the breeze as I was doing 80MPH. Convinced that I was about to be mirrorless and/or pulled over, I decided to get off at the next exit (this time in New Jersey). I figured that like in most cities, there’d be a CVS near by, but then again, this is New Jersey. So instead of a CVS, I happened upon a Walmart. There’s something to be said for reapplying silver duct tape to your car in the middle of a Walmart parking lot.

I’ll spare you the inane details of the remainder of the trip, which included – but are not limited to – traffic, a 45 minute wait to get gas, pouring rain, the brief second where I contemplated leaving my car sitting on the Belt parkway and walking from JFK to Long Island, and when I decided that chocolate teddy grahams are the best fucking thing on earth. Lesson learned: Get ye some AAA and always use the silver duct tape.

Next up: It’s all Relative

This is the story that never ends

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

(A story in four parts because I’ve got shit to do)

I’m limiting myself to special K, triscuits, and a banana today. I feel as if I eat anymore I might explode/I haven’t had a ‘good’ work out since last Tuesday; thus making me ornery, fat and lazy. This is a long time coming I would say, I should’ve known that after Wednesday things would just be shit and I’d be left feeling quite complacent, but at least I now know the root of the complacency and boredom.

Pukefest 2006

Wednesday evening Noah (as depicted here and here) was not his usual happy go lucky-shower me with hugs, kisses-slobbery self. Instead of sleep, he decided to test out his Linda Blair in the Exoricist type moves. The first time he puked and the subsequent screaming that was involved, I felt terribly, because (a) his parents (as depicted here and here) were going to kill me and (B) he’s such a sweet baby and his teeth were driving him batshit crazy. The second time he puked – after the first changing of the sheets – I actually could hear from the living room. This was about the time that I started to tear up, because he was so upset. I needed to call my mommy, who was wholly unhelpful and told me to quite being a pussy; though not in those exact words.

The third time he puked was positively priceless. I had just picked him up, when he decided to perform the aforementioned Exoricist type moves. The similac and pears that he had just eaten shot the fuck out of him, on to me, my pants, grazing my face, onto the floor and crib behind me. I swear on my life, that his head may have spun around a few times after that. I gave him a look of “Holy mother fucker” and yelped a little bit. He gave me a look of “Man the fuck up, why are you screaming like a little bitch?” Then I yelped some more and brought him to the sink to rinse him off, where he happily frolicked with the water and smiled. I contemplated getting my tubes tied and smiled back. After which he smiled some more, while I tickled his tummy and then promptly fell asleep.

I thought about what to tell Amy and Jason about why there were no sheets left and prayed that they wouldn’t hate me. For the record, prior to Pukefest 2006, he put him on the floor next to the exersaucer and he fell into the exersaucer and screamed bloody murder. The only remedy for this was a bag of frozen spinach to keep the child from bruising. If you’re wondering, Amy and Jason do not hate me and I was sent off with pictures of Noah to use against him on his 16th birthday. Noah, I love you dearly, especially the hugs and kisses, but don’t think I won’t show your first girlfriend pictures of you in a pot.

Next up:
In which I’m quite tempted to walk from Maryland to Long Island

Friday, April 14, 2006

Oh how lovely

Upon seeing this eye sore, Peg proclaimed "God that's Ghetto." I feel this deserves it's own 'say no to drugs' commercial. As in "This is your car. This is your car on crack" or "This is your car after you've busted the fuck out of it and you've had to resort to using duct tape." Thoughts?

For you duct tape connoisseurs out there, the silver duct tape works about 150 times better than the more eye friendly, clear duct tape. You know, just in case you were wondering.

Tired doesn't even begin to describe my state right now, but you'll be happy to know (or at least I'm pretty stoked about it) that my car is becoming a little less ghetto-fied as we speak. A big whooot! for the mechanic Gods. But have no fear, for upon my return to you party people there will be stories that shall include-but not limited to-the consistency/scent of puked up Similac formula, what exactly happens when you call 911, why it takes 6 hours to drive from DC to Long Island, more stories about my flipping fantastic brothers, my Grandfather's funeral (fun for the whole family), my new found appreciation for Red Lobster's cheesy and delicious biscuits and what happens when my father discovers 'The Google'.

For now, admire my poor car, which seems to test my will to live, more and more each day.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Das Randomness

“God made everything out of nothing. But the nothingness shows through.” ~Paul Valéry, Mauvaises pensées et autres, 1942

My Super Sweet 16 premieres tonight. I haven’t been this happy since the end of last summer. Remember last summer? Full of Laguna/Pretentious adolescent goodness? Ahh summer, I cannot wait. It all kind of makes me yearn for a Benz of my own. Once Laguna premieres it’s so on.

Anyone – or maybe I should rephrase this – any of y’all from Austin? Because in case I’ve neglected to mention this, I’m going to be there in a few weeks for some R&R. Why? Because I’ve been to Marrakech, Casablanca, Lisbon, Sevilla, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Rome etc. etc., but not to fucking Texas or Connecticut for that matter. So any cool things to do in Austin would be greatly appreciated and you may even be handsomely rewarded. How does my undying love and devotion sound to you?

And since you all did so well with the whole suggestion of the books (but you know I’m now forced to replace one of those titles with some Rushdie), I’m now looking for new music. Over the past few months, I have become a 3hive whore and I’m damn proud of it, but more suggestions are welcome.

Gracias mis amigos. And once again, enjoy the honeybaked ham and/or brisket.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

An ounce of stupidity

"You can swim all day in the Sea of Knowledge and still come out completely dry. Most people do." ~Norman Juster

Ok, so don’t tell anyone I’m telling you this, because it’s a tad bit embarrassing; but sometimes I wonder how I made it through 17 years of schooling, four of which at a fairly decent private institution. The point is that though I can fully comprehend American Public Policy , I can speak Spanish fluently and I have also learned to swing a golf club immaculately, I am none too bright. Take for instance the painstaking operation that was translating One Hundred Years of Solitude from Spanish to English. Painful like someone tried to rip off my left nipple kind of painful. Like I seriously cried at 1 AM while simultaneously thinking of near fatal diseases that I prayed I would succumb to before my 12:54 PM class. For years I thought this hellish experience was reserved for my Spanish class and that no one had actually written such a terrible ass book (magical realism is rather hard to comprehend or give two fucks about when you’re 15), I was utterly convinced that Gabriel Garcia Marquez was some made up person. Imagine my surprise upon learning that this was an actual book and that people, including Queen Oprah herself, appreciated this book.

Fast forward to my obsession with Bridget Jone’s Diary over the past year and a half (another tribute to my Spanish fluency is that I can understand this move in both Spanish and English. Brilliant!). At one point in the movie there is a cameo by some author - Salman Rushdie. Ummm, sorry, who? Today while reading a Slate article, I happened across his name and was convinced that Salman Rushdie may in fact be important or some such shit. I decided to Wikipedia him and read all up on his back story and the controversy then banged my head on the desk a few times because holy hell Salman Rushdie isn’t just some Bridget Jone’s character, but he’s a real live boy and I am a real live idiot.

So to recap, I can tell you all about European history and can comprehend it in both Spanish and English, I can name a few hundred members of Congress, but I only recently have discovered that Rushdie and Marquez are actual people. Dear readers, you have just stumbled upon a bumbling idiot. Lucky you.


Monday, April 10, 2006

A Numbers Game

"Remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That's why it's a comfort to go hand in hand. " ~Emily Kimbrough

In the spirit of Monday, my laziest writing day next to Friday (at which point you’d question why I write on either of these days. The answer being I don’t know and because I can), I am going to post a list of sorts that I feel truly brings together the craptastic-ness of my weekend.


The number of Five Guys gift certificates received: One. Amount? $10 Reason? I left for 15 minutes to go to CVS and they accidently gave my food to someone else. Was I upset? Nope. But it got me a free meal and a gift certificate. Everyday, I love them more and more.

Number of trips to Five Guys: Two.

Number of alcoholic beverages consumed: Five at karaoke. Plus one bottle of wine Saturday evening.

Number of hours spent watching DVDS: Seven

Number of times Walk the Line was viewed: Three (that’s in addition to the seven hours of DVD watching)

Number of times “Because you’re mine, I walk the Line” escaped these lips o’mine: 27

Number of times that I professed my undying love and affection for Phil Mickleson: 14

Number of years my baby brother has turned: 20

The age on his ID: 27. hmmmm

Number of Grandparents that died on Saturday: One.

And finally…

Number of times I contemplated poking my eyes out with a knitting needle due to the fact that I’d be driving to Albany later in the week: 349

That said, we shall see how the remainder of the week goes. I’ll keep you posted as to the state of my eyes and whether or nor I’ve decided that poking myself with a knitting needle is a most excellent idea.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Tis Friday

“Life is not long, and too much of it must not pass in idle deliberation how it shall be spent.” ~Samuel Johnson

I had this spectacular post planned on why I love women, especially women in politics and that everyone should love politics and women as well. Also hanging out with my two favorite women has led to a strange ‘I can do anything’ euphoria and I might explode and share with everyone that I am a political science nerd. But alas, all of that sharing has been superceded by a nasty hangover, which only goes to show me that (a) I’m not a Freshman in college, so Miller Light for dinner is not acceptable and (b) martinis and an implausible amount of red wine, do not bode well for an empty stomach. But if you fill said stomach with sushi roll upon sushi roll, then you’ll be in the clear.

Anyway, Friday’s always go like this. With me knowing full well that I should have time to write a wonderfully worded and acerbic post where I can use words like ‘acerbic’ but instead I end up lethargic and ordering shoes from Nine West, while intermittently banging my head on the key board. Though this Friday, my thoughts are consumed with the whole women thing, but I wish I could come up with more than “Women! Politics! Alcohol! Wheee!” I’m also grappling with another bout of the Ennuiparapsychosis, as everyone who has asked me what’s new with me lately, has received the same ‘nothing really’ response. Thing is that I’ve been too busy contemplating what to do next, so technically I’m left to give any response I damn well please. Next time someone asks what’s new, I’m going to reply that my class in quantum physiology is going really well and that next week I’ll begin reading the Kinsey Reports and studying sexology. I’m also thinking about getting into cock fighting.

If any of y’all have indolence reducing exercises or other witty responses to the standard “what’s new with you” question, then please feel free to let me know.

Happy Friday!

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Hi! I'm boring!

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

And I’m going to try not to use the following catch phrases: Claritin, burning eyes, death by cherry blossom.

Thus far today, I’ve been traumatized twice. The first by my own mother who gave me some heart breaking news that I am still unable to speak of, it just saddens me that much. I mean really! How could you people go so low as to vote for a skinny southern rat faced man with mangy hair that looks like it’s been washed with $.99 shampoo?
After that incident I went to fill my mug with some French vanilla black tea and found a long blonde hair on my shirt. I do not have long blonde hair. This shit freaked the fuck out of me and my coworker actually had a mini convulsion. I'm not unable to use the index and thumb on my right hand without shuddering because they actually touched the offending hair and I might as well cut them off now.

Oh, then I designed some new Chuck Taylor’s * which I will probably purchase next week. Because everyone needs pink and magenta Chuck Taylor’s.

Also, I have a very important question for most of you. I would say that there’s no right or wrong answer, but I’ve been thrown that bullshit before and then filled pages upon pages of blue book, only to be told that my thoughts on the Protestant Reformation were wrong, I shouldn’t be in AP European History and that I would grow up to be a failure. No, I’m not bitter about this at all.

ANYWAY…the other evening Mrs. Sarsgaaaaard and I were discussing our super secret, piss on myself with excitement plans coming up and also discussing those that blog for a living. She stated that if paid to blog and read other people’s blogs for life, then she would do so. While I’m sure most would jump on this bandwagon, I like to get a little crazy and I stated that I enjoy my job and if I could do my job and then be a pseudo dork on the side (much like I do now), then that would be alright with me. Bonus points for paying me to do so. Now I bring this intriguing debate to you bloggers (or lurkers or whomever): If given the opportunity to blog for a living (or read blogs for a living), would you do it? Would you quit your current job to do so? Like I said, there’s no right or wrong answer but don’t get pissy with me if I fail your ass and call you stupid.

*for all of you furiously clicking on Chuck Taylor's (a) what kind of person doesn't know what Chuck Taylor's are and (b) you're not going to be able to see them because I couldn't save them as a picture.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

She's Come Unhooked

“Soul-mates are people who bring out the best in you. They are not perfect but are always perfect for you.” ~Author Unknown

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Ok, let me back up and preface this all with something I’ve been pretty adamant about. I don’t like to date. Call me crazy, but I just do not enjoy it. It’s nerve racking and riddled with drama and I have always felt that I have enough drama in my life. My last relationship couldn’t have come at a more unfortunate time and after that experience I almost started in with another suitor and was smart enough to stop myself. Which, thank God, because the latter person ended up being a liar and an asshole, so now I think of it as a preemptive strike of sorts. Since then – 3 years(ish) – I’ve pretty much shied away from those with an XY chromosome. I’ve continually said that until I have my shit together and have done what I really want to do, then I’m not going to add another person to my life. By this I didn’t mean to say that if the right person were to come and sweep me off of my feet, then I’d kick his ass to the curb, but I’m less inclined to throw myself at the mercy of some male and beg him to hook up with me.

For the most part my crushes have been few and far between and mostly reserved for the extra special. Not short bus special, but I would give anything to marry him special. But this isn’t about that person, who does in fact exist. This is about now, while my friends are in some pretty serious relationships, I feel like the last man standing. In a Darwinian world, I’d probably be dead because my chances of procreation right now, are pretty slim to none. That said, my perpetual single status never really comes into play, at least not until recently. So when Larissa suggested The Unhooked Generation: The Truth about why We're Still Single by Jillian Strauss, I scoffed at the idea. But when I was told that it would be free, then who the hell gives up free shit? Though there was still much scoffing and incredulous beliefs as to what this book would actually do for me.

In short, the book did nothing. It consisted of chapter after chapter of reasons why people in their late 20’s to early 30’s were single. The use of IM to make relationships turned one woman off, detailed lists as if made to interview someone for the Pentagon were being used as guidelines to find one’s perfect mate, general stupidity of one gentleman who wanted a pseudo date before the real date turned another woman off…on and on and on. I didn’t need 200 pages of someone telling me what not to do; I know what not to do. The fact that people go on dates with such an exhaustive list of what their perfect person must have is what irked me the most. Half of the time, as Jillian Strauss pointed out, the items on the list were contradictory. One man wanted a woman who needed him, but was also independent. He wanted to feel like ‘the man’ in the relationship but wanted her to be able to pay for things herself. Half Carol Brady and half Murphy Brown. Even if one believes that women can be both (though I’m not saying whether or not I can agree or disagree with that), the fact is no one can live up to such meticulous standards.

My standards for potential mates are pretty simple: goal oriented, wants children (and not adverse to the ideas of adoption and/or midwifery), must be willing to be supportive of whatever I would like to do, College educated (Though I would make exceptions for this)…and that’s all I can think of for now. But honestly, I’m not too picky. Part of me thinks that my cynicism and dubious attitude toward this book was because I’m just now contemplating throwing myself into the dating gauntlet. With the interview type questions and the doubt and worry to whether or not I’m choosing the right person.

JB tells me that one day I’ll just bring all of my friends together and introduce them to my boyfriend and say “This is Joe, we’ve been dating for three months. The end.” There will be no questions from them, but JB says that I’m the type to be sure of who I find. I’m not too sure how correct that is, I know that part of the dating ritual is to go through the jackasses before getting to the Prince. But then again, we’ll see about that. The one thing I’m damn sure of is no more dating books. I’m already insecure and unsure about dating as it is, I don’t need a book to keep me up all night wondering if I’m dating correctly. But then again, that’s just me.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006


A few weeks ago, during one of my forays into New Jersey, I was driving around with my aunt and we saw a woman walking across the street who was just a wee bit out of it. Rachel pointed out that this woman was in fact a crack head, in which I responded with a hearty laugh and a “how do you know?” I suppose Rachel can just sense a crack head like a dog can sense bacon. I wonder if she can sense me now, all riled up and semi spastic, from 250 miles away.

My body has developed an aversion to cherry blossoms – horrid motherfuckers that they are – and so now I’m reduced to a sometimes manic, sometimes not state of Claritin. The goodness cannot be denied though, because breathing is truly a wonderful thing and my eyes don’t feel like they might burn up in their sockets. Nevertheless I’m sitting here rocking and last night taught me that drugs and alcohol don’t mix. Who knew?!? I’m also wavering between giddy super happiness for trips and decision making and also an eerie all too familiar feeling of dread. But I think it’s just the drugs that are making my chest feel tight. It’s like something bad is going to happen, but I’m not sure what.

I was thinking of going to get a Latte, but I feel a latte might knock me the fuck out or I might knock someone the fuck out. The first person to knock me off of my high gets one to the face. But I swear, that’s just the drugs speaking. I’m already begging forgiveness for later when I’m half assed on the floor at Lauriol Plaza in a pool of swirly margarita goodness and the after effects of Claritin.

I wrote this an hour ago when at the peak of my high and now? Now, the Claritin has turned me into a lethargic little girl who is currently having quite the difficult time with this whole typing phenomenon.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Just can't fight that feeling

“The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.” ~Jim Davis

Being a child with no friends turned an adult with a substantial amount of friends, can lead one to develop an acute case of Sociophobia as well as a deep fear of making friends. One minute things could be just fine and the next kapow! Everyone hates me and probably wants me dead. Call be crazy, neurotic, psychotic, whatever, that’s just how I feel and I’m growing perfectly OK with it. Ok, not really, because if it were perfectly ok, I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to come to grips with it via the written word. Because that’s what happens right? We’re more apt to write when something really good or something really bad happens. When trying to work something out, it’s easier if I get it all out in writing first and then get to tackling the matter at hand. That’s just what works for me. Regardless, I’m still completely neurotic and will inevitably think that someone hates me even if how that person feels is far from that. I need validation and the occasional “HB I heart you” to make me not feel like the worst person in the world.

To this day, I have no idea what made people dislike me through the 8th grade. It’s not like I was the most hated person at Farnsworth Middle School but probably just Jr. High politics, but that was bound to happen as Cheerleading wasn’t exactly my forte. Instead I played the clarinet and soccer and pretended that a particular group of girls were actually my friends. This included bribes of gum and doling out the occasional dollar just so I could say that Jane spoke to me that day. So very sad, yet so very true.

All of this came up because I’m awaiting a response from someone I had emailed this morning about something pretty fucking minor and insignificant, and yet I’m sitting here thinking that this person probably dislikes me. Because obviously this person doesn’t have a job or other more important things to think about and it’s all ME ME ME! So yes, I’m crazy and yes I need to get a grip and yes I need to realize that my neuroses is getting the best of me. Also? No, I cannot really understand how I went from the girls in 7th grade hated me so now everyone hates me, including the mailman. It’s just a sad and pathetic truth that you and I will both have to live with. And if you hate me, feel free to tell me.
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