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Thursday, June 29, 2006

2 Legit

“What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.” ~Cynthia Ozick

It was Mother’s Day and in honor of my mother, my father took Peg, G and I to a hotel restaurant downtown for dinner. Despite my parents divorce years prior, I was never one of those children who wished for my parents to reconcile and live among unicorns and rainbows, so I took it for what it was and enjoyed the meal and the ‘surprise’ that both of my parents had planned for after dinner.

We were enjoying our meals, when my father tapped me on the shoulder and told me to look over there. I looked up and saw nothing. He pressed on and told me to keep looking. He pointed, I looked around and went back to my chicken fingers.

Exasperated, he grabbed my hand and made me move away from the honey mustard and brought me over to the other side of where we were seated. I noticed nothing – NOTHING – out of the ordinary and removed myself from his grip and went back to salivating over my food.

To this day, I don’t know how I missed ‘it’. The ‘It’, the man that he was trying to show me. Because then the man walked up to our table…completely nonchalantly, as if he and my father were BFFE. How do you miss a man with that unmistakable hair? Shaved on the sides into multiple lines and a little bit left on the top. And those pants?? I should’ve seen the pants from a mile away. They were HIS trademark pants. Gold Hammer pants. My father had been trying to get me to see MC Hammer, but I was too busy being transfixed by the golden fingers and French fries.

He and my father chatted for a bit, while I sat in utter silence, because I ran away from MC Hammer; I ran away like he was going to kidnap me and take me to the great Hammer Mansion where I could have all the chicken and honey mustard my little heart desired. Afterwards we left dinner for our surprise – Boys II Men of course. And on the way there my dear, wonderful father proceeded to stop every other person on the street to inform them that his daughter had just run away from MC Hammer. This is something that I have yet to live down, along with that time that I peed all over our rental car in Orlando.

A few months later, which I would presume to be the end of my Hammer hey day, G and I decided to put on a little show for all of our friends. We donned our very own Hammer Pants – G’s were denim and mine were some strange cotton type thing with neon flowers – and did my personally choreographed moves to 2 Legit.

And Lord, I thought I was hot. HOT: Because there is nothing hotter than a boobless eight year old rolling her non-existent hips and singing ‘Can’t Touch This’.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Roomie, sweet roomie

“History: gossip well told.” ~Elbert Hubbard, The Roycroft Dictionary


Other than parents and brother, I have had six roommates. Six people to (un) successfully adapt to. Six people to drive me batshit insane and contemplate taking out a small loan in order to live in peace, quiet and nakedness. I’ve been thinking about the string of poor and unsuspecting individuals that have been my roommates, over the past few days. At times smiling and remembering the good times and other times recalling the days when I really thought of how I would look in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, because I swear on my life that if I hear you and your boyfriend fucking in our dorm room, that I will shoot the both of you. What follows is a brief account of my time with each. I swear that in each case the roommate was at fault and that I was a pleasure and a wonder to behold. Honest:

Name: Amber

Dates: August 2001-January 2002, Fall Freshman year

Most Memorable moment: She was sleeping in the next bed when 9/11 happened. She was the person I looked for during the bomb threat two days later. Needless to say it was a rough month.

(Their) Batshit insanity: One day things were cool, we used my fake ID to buy Tenley Vodka and have 422 Anderson parties. She watched me puke on unsuspecting plants/showers on numerous occasions. The next day, she informed me that she was moving out and I said, alrighty then.

In the end: I was friends with the girl she went abroad with. Apparently she and this girl, Rosie, were supposed to be roommates for Senior year and then Amber disappeared off the face of the earth. No address, calls made to her father’s house were not received because the number no longer worked. She dropped out of school apparently. I was like, whatever dude, I knew she was weird and forgot about it. At the beginning of last summer, I saw her on the AU shuttle and put sunglasses on and used my purse to cover my face. She was wearing a Ruby Tuesday’s uniform. Haven’t seen her since.

Name: Kenya

Dates: January 2002 – May 2002, Spring Freshman year

Most Memorable moment: The time she took out my braids and blow dried my hair (This is fucking huge. Seriously.) Visited her family in ATL over spring break. Went to visit her in Rome, where we fought on some random Italian bridge and she ripped my new Euro-chic coat.

(Their) Batshit insanity: Ok, this one was my fault. We were cool, I went to visit her and this girl Alexis that we were friends with over Spring Break sophomore year and we had a bit of a fight, that involved me being drunk and screaming obscenities on an Italian street corner and threatening to go home. I am a shameless whore. After that we were fine I suppose and were supposed to live together Senior Year but I decided that living alone would make me less homicidal.

In the end: Kenya and I are still buds and now that she’s in GA permanently I fucking miss her man. She was my movie going buddy. We would sneak into movies all afternoon. And SHE TOOK MY BRAIDS OUT. I will never have a friend like that again.

Name: Robyn (with a fucking ‘Y’ even though it was really Robin, with an ‘I’)

Dates: August 2002 – May 2003. Sophomore year. The entire fucking year.

Most Memorable moment: The time she called me an ice princess. Also the weekend that her boyfriend was going to come stay overnight (which she only informed me of 24 hours prior to his arrival), but instead her grandmother died, so her bf couldn’t stay over and I ended up hosting my bf* after a night of jazz and five martinis. Oh, to be young, stupid and in love again. Also, that little sniper incident.

(Their) Batshit insanity: Lordy, where to start. The all black ensemble? The time she cut off all her hair in our room, so that her hair was on the fucking floor? The Hedwig and the Angry Inch poster? Her over dramatic ways? The fact that she called me a princess? Or the rampant, loud sex?

In the end: I used to see her in the Quad and contemplate throwing shit (not actual shit, but things) at her. I am mean.

Name: Kimber

Dates: May 2003 – January 2004. Summer/Fall Semester, junior year.

Most Memorable moment: Our first meeting over a trip to IKEA. Everything since then. Things that I really can’t speak of in a public forum because the Feds/my coworkers read this shit.

(Their) Batshit insanity: Now, I can’t speak poorly of Kimber, because she’s Kimber and she means a lot to me. But I will speak of her poor choice in friends (not me of course) that lead me toward the homicidal route once again. She had (or still has) this whorish friend who I hate the fury of a thousand suns for a very good reason that I cannot speak of, but still, HATE. RAGE. HATE. Kimber and I had been friends way before this other girl came along and then Kimber started to ignore me and hung out with this other girl 24/7. I was jealous and hurt, which she knows about and has since apologized for. But if you knew what this other girl did, you’d want to kick her in the shins and crash her precious Benz into Tiffany’s.

In the end: She’s still my best friend and I’m still her ‘B’. And we both think that the Chef Geoff’s downtown deserves the finger.

Name: Teresa and Victor

Dates: January 15 May 6 2005. Spring senior year.

Most Memorable moment: When I got food poisoning and didn’t let her take care of me. She called my program supervisor concerned. That time she paid $60 for a Brita (a luxury in Spain). She used to iron my underwear. (re-read that last sentence please)

(Their) Batshit insanity: Though she meant well, Teresa was overbearing and always up in my shit. She also thought that because I don’t eat pork, chicken or beef, then that means that I eat rabbit and lamb. Duh (the hell?!) She was just lonely and wanted to take care of someone since her children were adults and didn’t need her anymore. Woman could make a mean tortilla and paella.

In the end: Lord knows what she thinks of me now, since the last time I saw her I had thrown up all over her bathroom and then mumbled something to her in a drunken stupor, while she shoved me in a cab to the airport. Hope she’s doing well.


And the reason for this post in the first place, for he is leaving me at the end of the month to move to greener pastures known as Jersey

Name: Jam*

Dates: September 2005 – August 2006.

Most Memorable moment: JK-JE 2004. The revolving door of girls were always a good time. Never could remember their names though.

(Their) Batshit insanity: Save for a minor incident with Pepco, he was a pleasure. He cleaned when needed and always got me into great clubs and bars. He was quiet and it’s so true about da boys; They hate the drama.

In the end: He’s like my brother: My older cooler, hotter brother who likes to get me drunk with expensive drinks. He is a player and I love him for it.

Ok fine, I’m not perfect, but I swear I’ll try with the next one; especially since I don’t have a grand to blow on a two bedroom condo. I’m guessing now wouldn’t be a good time to ask if there are any takers…


*Edit to Add: So, this morning around 2 AM, I hear Jam yelling something about how he can't handle this shit, then in the background, I hear some girl talking to him. I get up, to tell him to shut the hell up (but I would've been more polite. Maybe.) And when I open the door, what do I see? A tall, skinny, blonde (at least I think she was blonde) in nothing but her bra and panties.

I'm not sure if I was more disturbed by the lack of clothing (who the hell walks around someone elses apartment without clothes on??) or by the fact that this bitch was hotter than me? She was probably judging my hotness, or lack thereof. Or at least that's what I thought at 2 AM.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Hostile Negotiations

“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” ~Franklin P. Jones

Say there are two countries vying for a mutual space. One country is bigger than the other country and has more allies in the fight, yet still attempts to make concessions. For all intents and purposes, one country is Canada, the other is the U.S. Canada would like some of the Pacific NW. The US is willing to concede to Alaska and parts of Washington, which is fine by Canada because that’s what they had requested in the first place. Then Canada decides that she doesn’t really want Alaska and Oregon; instead, Alaska, Washington and part of Idaho. The U.S. says ok and gives into Canada, with full knowledge that the Canadians had requested something else, but fine. Then Canada still isn’t happy with Alaska, Washington and part of Idaho, she then requests, all of Idaho, but none of Washington. The U.S. says, wait a second, you asked for this, I’m giving you what you want, and so what the hell is the problem? The U.S. is irritated and rightfully so. The U.S. is unable to give in to Canada’s demand and politely requests that it accepts what has been given. What does Canada do? Canada decides to blow up part of Alaska in retaliation. The U.S. gets irritated and tells Canada that if she doesn’t take what was offered, then there will be hell to pay. Canada knows it’s smaller and weaker and lacks the allies it needs, so finally, after much confrontation and whining, Canada accepts, but not without sulking and poor behavior for the next 50 years.

Now, replace the U.S. with someone over the age of 18 and replace Canada with a three year old.

Except in this case, the three year old requests milk in a blue cup. So the adult gives the three year old, milk in a blue cup. Then the three year old changes his mind and requests milk in a Dora the Explorer cup. The adult, says ok, fine and gives the three year old milk in a Dora cup. Apparently, this is isn’t acceptable to the three year old. Even though he requested milk in a Dora cup, he doesn’t want that. Instead he wants water in a Madagascar cup. Fine, says the adult and obliges with water in a Madagascar cup. Here is where something happens that the adult is unsure of. I mean, the adult can hear and is willing to give into most things, but for some reason the three year old still isn’t happy with the choice of beverages and cups. The three year old now requests water in the Madagascar cup, but the cup given isn’t the right cup, so the cup of water gets thrown across the kitchen only to land somewhere in Jupiter’s orbit.

What does the adult do? The adult has tried to meet the demands of the three year old and has been really fucking patient up to this point and yet the three year old still isn’t happy. The adult decides to pick up said child and give him a time out until he’s 18. After the time out is over, the adult sits at the child’s level and proceeds to tell him that if he ever dares throw water at her again, so help her God, he’ll end up somewhere in Jupiter’s orbit. She puts the fear of God into the child (all with the parents consent, because the adult has taken up a vow of celibacy after all of this nonsense). The child responds with a solemn ok and is then required to apologize to his parent for being a pain in the ass.

Of course there are the times when concessions and the talking won’t work. That’s when the child doesn’t get what he wants and instead of requesting something else, the child proceeds to scream and writhe around in a car seat for 20 minutes, while the adults take bets as to how long it will last and try to figure out the physiology of a person who is able to both scream and hold their breath at the same time. Amazing, I tell ya. Truly amazing.

On my mind

“It is sweet to let the mind unbend on occasion.” ~Horace

Because randomness is perfectly acceptable for a Monday morning…

1. So, this has been driving me crazy. So much so, that I spent a solid hour thinking about it the other evening. What is it? You ask: I have spent the past two (!) weeks, trying to get through Fight Club. After the first hour, I end up passing out. A few nights ago, I passed out after about 50 minutes, and woke up at a crucial moment involving Tyler Durden’s identity. Then I was all ‘fuck’ and have been trying like hell to get through this stupid movie, because I’m the LAST PERSON ON EARTH to see that movie. I even tried watching it all the way through yesterday, in broad daylight, wide awake, while boy wonder was napping, and I fell asleep. Finally, last night I gave up on watching the damn thing in one sitting and started where I had continuously left off. By the end I kind of wanted to just shoot my own damn self in the head because, holy hell, that was pointless. And yes, I do realize that I broke the first rule of Fight Club by talking about it, but then again, the second rule should be, “We do not talk about Fight Club, because it may bore you to death.”

2. Between Saturday and Sunday, I went outside to be with actual real life adults, twice. But had four conversations about why one isn’t being a “good listener.” Of course on Sunday when I promptly went to Chef Geoff’s downtown to eat and get drunk, I ended up having the worst service EVAH! This only made me think that being around someone who is three feet tall and can easily be persuaded to act like a normal person with the threat of a time out, may not be so bad after all.

3. The Chef Geoff’s downtown is the Bermuda triangle. If you order something, do not expect to get it at any time in the near future. In fact, your server will probably forget about it as well. Also, don’t be expected to get served a damn drink while you are waiting for your dining companion to arrive. Be prepare do take your ass to the bar and get it your own self and leave the bar tender a lovely tip, while leaving your pretentious, attitude laden server with a tip of $3.00 and a note that says “Get a clue, bitch.”


4. On Saturdays, back when I had a life, I used to run my errands and listen to “Wait, wait, don’t tell me” on NPR. This was the highlight of my week. I am not in my mid-50’s and I enjoy the hell out of NPR. I also listen to Market place so that I can get a feeling about interest rates. Once the Fed raises the interest rates again, I intend to put the money I’ve saved into a high interest savings account. I only tell you this because Savage looked at me as if I’d lost my damn mind when I told her this the other day. I also contribute to my 401K. My parents still don’t know that I got a raise and I have no intention of telling them, because I’d rather spend my earnings on a new camera, a trip to Belize and Anthropologie, than giving it to the crap ass conglomerate known as Verizon, which has the same worthiness of BofA, but a pinch more of incompetence. Those people still don’t know the difference between their head and their ass.

5. Oh, and my roommate is moving out. I am roommate-less. If anyone has an extra $750 lying around, that would be most awesome.

6. Almost forgot, the MLK Auction at Sotheby's that I was so freaking excited to go to, has been canceled and now I am sad and now I have no reason to spend the day in NY.

Friday, June 23, 2006

X and Y

“All men are not slimy warthogs. Some men are silly giraffes, some woebegone puppies, some insecure frogs. But if one is not careful, those slimy warthogs can ruin it for all the others.” ~Cynthia Heimel

I rely heavily upon dictionary.com and as such, I decided to take a stab at looking up the definitions for Boy and Man, respectively.

Boy

Noun

An immature or inexperienced man, especially a young man.

Man

Noun

An adult male human.

A human regardless of sex or age; a person.

Informal.

  1. A husband.
  2. A male lover or sweetheart.

First pointing out that there were more definitions for Boy, but the others had equally as unhelpful description and one was an offensive one that described a male servant or valet.

That said, it’s an age old conundrum and debate as to what really defines a Boy versus a Man. And given that I have never had any interest in debating these merits, it comes as somewhat of a shock to myself that my interest has suddenly surfaced.

My experience with those holding an XY chromosome is pretty standard and rather uneventful, gay male and future seer sucker wearing nitwit, not withstanding. Which is why the general surprise for suddenly being interested in anything that men do (or do not) do. But thinking about it now, I find it quite simple really: I know have some sort of comparisons to make.

You see, I have acquired two friends. Two deliciously wonderful friends, Jorge and Bri. Neither of whom have discovered that I am in fact, an awful friend who gets jealous and doesn’t know that sharing means caring. But they’ve accepted my lush status and so, so far, so good.

Nevertheless, both are men. In the age sense and in the ‘so this is what a man should be like’ sense. Or at least, this is what an actual man should be like if he went so far as to remove his head from his rectum.

What amazes me about both of them is that they are both truly wonderful people with nary a harmful thing to say. Jorge is a self proclaimed fierce friend, who has gone so far as to prove that. And well Bri and I are nothing a like on paper (which shall be attributed to him) and yet I can spend hours with him drunk and suddenly everything is hilarious, even though neither of us can ever remember what we were laughing about in the first place.

With both men, it goes beyond the fact that they make me laugh and compliment the shit out of me, it’s the way they both speak of their wives. There’s an air there; these are women that they love the spit out of and have nothing but admiration and respect for. I had the pleasure of seeing Jorge with his wife one weekend and there were those little moments that an observer rarely notices, that can send a heart a flutter. Though I’ve never met Bri’s wife, he couldn’t stop speaking of her or of his children. While some would find that annoying, I found it endearing.

It’s like a punch in the gut, when you realize that there are actual men out there who can be sweet and thoughtful. These are the men that have no qualms about telling me how they really feel about the person that they love most in the world. That punch in the gut is an awareness of wanting that same thing for myself. Both scary and utterly natural.

The only sad thing now is an understanding that I live in Washington, DC. Where the boys are actual frat boys who think that Mr. Smith’s is a good time or men, who believe that being on a crackberry all damn day, makes them holier than thou. But it’s nice to have an understanding that there is life outside the beltway and know that there is a some day.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

A Quickie, but not in a good way

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

People who do this sort of thing, deserve to be punched in the face. No one wants to read about how you’re soooo overwhelmed and just soooo busy and how everyone else is just sooo inept. Why don’t you worry about your own disgusting ineptitude and how you procrastinate like it’s your job (oh, wait a minute). God. Annoying much? Umm yeah. Quite annoying.

Don’t mind me, I’m busy imagining my life as a sommelier with a thriving non-fiction short story business of some sort-esque on the side. Or something like that. Although part of my problem right now is that (A) I haven’t slept 8 full hours in about 9 days and (B) due to the horrible lethargy, I haven’t been to the gym in exactly one full week.


The sad part is that I’m complaining about being busy and the like and I’m sure that there are people equally as busy who come up with something coherent with a singular cohesive thought that doesn’t look like shit run over by a MACK truck.


Am awesome. I know.


In the meantime my parents are getting older and therefore more forgetful. Which means that the check I gave my mom a few weeks ago for a plane ticket, may never be cashed, though this is quite ok because I spent $70 on flowers and roses are fucking expensive. On that note, Peg is 51 today and el padre will be 61 exactly one week from today.


Feliz
Cumpleaños, Peg.


And I hope you all faring far better than I.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Leave a message

“I like long walks, especially when they're taken by people who annoy me.” ~Fred Allen

Hi, you’ve reached HB.

Unfortunately I am unavailable right now as I am too busy reeling from the ineptitude of postal workers and Bank of America employees. But given that dealing with both is a necessary evil, that closely resembles the fifth circle of Hell, I am making every attempt to not call said employees gauche halfwits because (A) that would be terribly rude and (B) It would return a response of “what is a gauche halfwit?” Then my head may spontaneously combust. I would also like to take this time to mention that these are the exact same feelings I hold towards the Transportation Security Administration, but being annoyed with any entity and/or person that may be helping to thwart terrorism is looked down upon by Fox news and Rick Santorum, both of which I would like to keep monumentally happy.

In the event that this is an actual emergency, you can reach me at (202) USPS Can Kiss my Ass and await the standard message system that will not lead you to an operator but to a series of automated answers that will be wholly unhelpful and make you want to remove a part of your anatomy with a butter knife.

Have a great day.


*beep*

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Smorgasbord

"The camera can photograph thought." ~Dirk Bogarde

Friday


In the event that you ever need to give someone a quick fastball to the head; a pocket sized Mariano Rivera should do the trick. 99.9% effective.

Saturday


Contrary to popular belief, there are people out there who find me none too humorous and pretty damn boring. Here our subject plans his eventual escape.

Sunday


I have no clue as to the location of my phillip's head screwdriver or a hammer, but I sure as hell know where I keep my bottle opener.

Monday


God Bless Mommy and Daddy and Garrett, for being lovely and Kate Spade for making beautiful and functional bags. Amen.


*props to Marci for attending the game with me. Also props to Amalah and Jason for their awesome kid.

Labels:

Monday, June 19, 2006

The other half

“I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks.” ~Harper Lee


It’s how one would expect it to be. ‘They’, with their 1.5 million dollar homes, compulsively clad in J. Jill and Lacoste. The women debate the possibilities of National Cathedral versus Sidwell and the men discuss Democratic politics and the green at some exclusive golf course in
Chevy Chase. They all drive luxury vehicles while their 12 year old daughters compare Tiffany’s bracelets and discuss summer vacations to London.


Then there’s me. Compulsively clad in champion shorts and a St. Lawrence t-shirt. The butt still wet from time at the pool. I rolled in looking like the help and that’s exactly how I felt. I hadn’t had a pedicure in ages due to a hectic schedule. I wasn’t wearing jewelry because of the aforementioned pool time (pearls and chlorine do not mix). Then I was forced to attend a garden party at some upper
NW DC proper home with the aforementioned lot of people. It’s not exactly the most diverse neighborhood in the city.


Of course I don’t know exactly what they may have thought about me upon my arrival. But I know that I was sweaty and dressed in my pseudo-gym clothes and wholly unprepared for such a thing. I felt like I was being looked upon with pity and that they thought that I would only assume Caravaggio was some sort of venereal disease.


I hate the assumptions that people may (or hell, may not) get when they see me under dressed. Not to mention that I actually saw someone at this party who I had worked with before and I knew I would be working with again in just a few short months. It’s not like I try to assimilate or anything, but I know when to wear my Polo and carry a Coach bag and when to wear my mesh shorts. They assume things just by looking at me, because that’s human nature; to judge. They didn’t know that I went to American, that I’ve lived abroad and that I have a real job and that maybe I babysit because I have a lifestyle that I became accustomed to and I’d like to keep that lifestyle.


Anyway, people judge and when you show up looking like hell to a garden party in an affluent neighborhood, trailing behind the perfect little family (who will be sending their child to Sidwell), then you feel like shit and like the help. It’s like being punched in the gut and the entire ride home I spent on the verge of tears.


It hurts. And it’s just another reason go get home and enjoy my wine. Sweet, sweet wine.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Jumping

"You can be sincere and still be stupid." ~Charles F. Kettering


Peg had bought me brown Coach boots, and since she rarely buys me anything without putting up a fight, I took it as a sweet gesture: A mother's love for her daughter despite her addiction to expensive leather. They resembled Tims on crack with the infamous logo all over them. I swear that they are the ugliest things known to man, but I wore them because they were from Coach.


I decided to wear the boots one night while babysitting. Three kids, 4 year old twin girls and a 2 year old boy.



Right before bedtime, the kids were watching television and so I went upstairs to use the little girl's room. I went into the bathroom and noticed that the door knob had been broken, which the parents had informed me of prior to leaving (Actually, the crazy mother mentioned it in an accusatory tone to the complacent father who scoffed and rolled his eyes. Love is such a beautiful thing.) So, instead of completely closing the door, I left it slightly ajar and went about my business.



While mid-stream, the little boy – Colin - came upstairs sniffling and crying while looking for me and I told him to wait two seconds until I was finished. And what pray tell do you think she-boy did when discovering his babysitter in the potty? He shut the door, with the broken knob, that promptly fell off into my hand.




My heart stopped. It seriously stopped fucking beating and once it started up again, I could hear it in my ears. I was locked in a bathroom, while three children, under the age of five were roaming about the house.




Shit out of luck.




What does a 17 year old do when locked in a stranger's bathroom? Do you kick down the door? Well, no, because these are strangers, who would probably like to come home to a bathroom door still attached in its rightful place. What did I do? I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands and felt the tears well up. I then stood up and tried to yell at the little boy to open the door: “Colin” bang, bang “See that handle? Turn it.”




Colin cries.




Little girls downstairs; Mesmerized by Barbie DVD.




Heather; prays for a bottle of Shiraz




I turned around and noticed the window and a synapse snapped, for that is the only thing that could have happened to result in a turn of events: Synapse or perhaps a lack of oxygen due to claustrophobia. At any rate, I turned and peered out the window. Noticing a large tree immediately below, but other than that a short drop, which could be well executed by propelling myself over the tree, because no parent wants to come home and find their babysitter in a tree.



After clearing all of the windowsill knick knacks from their dusty homes, I opened the window and said a quick prayer and climbed out. First one leg, then the other until I was holding on the ledge of the window, using every bit of upper body strength to keep myself holding on. I turned my head once more to look out past the tree and quite literally flung myself past the tree and landed with a thud on my feet, arms outstretched, tibia and fibula still intact. I swear on my life that those boots saved my precious size 11 feet.



When I jumped I ran over to where the girls were sitting and started banging on the glass door, but to no avail. I found out later that it was so dark out, that one couldn’t see anything outside from inside. I went over to the neighbor’s house and received the spare key and a look of pity. And when the parents arrived home two hours later, I was sitting in the living room reading up on homeopathic remedies (their book, not mine) and explained the situation that their crappy door knob fixing skills had produced. They laughed and apologized and gave me $5 extra dollars.



$5 dollars, for jumping out the window, though it was of my own volition, it was because of their doorknob.



I was reminded of this situation awhile back during a trip to CVS, when, while with a friend of mine, I saw the mother roaming around the beauty aisle. I was drunk, she said hello and I gave her the magic finger and gave her five dollars back. Though neither situation was none to brilliant, I still found it hilarious all the same.

Wanted Ad

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

SBF seeks M or F with html knowledge for Blogger, Tickets to tonight’s Yankees/Nationals game, Medical Doctor with access to Ambien.

Likes: long walks on the beach, golden retrievers, thai food, ABBA, Grey Goose and being a pain in the ass

(I’m serious about the first two and if you really can get me some Ambien, I’d have to kiss you because until I sleep a solid 8 hours, you’re going to get shit like this.)


(Ok, so now I have tickets. Two. Wheeee!)

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

In your eyes

"The rain on my car is a baptism, the new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd, my assault on the world begins now."- Lloyd Dobler

Dear Diary,
My name is HB (like you didn't already know). And today, for the first time ever, I have discovered the magic and eternal optimism that is Lloyd Dobler. My only excuse for this sad state of affairs is that I spent most of 1989 as a five year old attempting first position in ballet and proper way to eat paste.

But now, I am schooled. I think I may even want my very own Mr. Dobler who deserves the same salutation as Mr. Darcy, because he's just that awesome.

Despite that fatal flaw of my upbringing, I would like to take this time to mention that today I also made great strides in my social phobia. I managed to have a conversation, at a table, with actual adults in which everything I said didn't come out like "skaislkjfusklityslkhfi...like...yeah...akdifhltish." A conversation at a table with adults that I barely know and who most likely think I'm some crazy imposing child. But who cares? I smiled and was nice.

So, as you can see, today was a big day. Tomorrow? Dear diary, I have a crush and would like some new jordache jeans.

G'night,
HB

Franklin Covey

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


Bri came to visit for work and to lavish me with alcohol. A well prepared young woman would have established a place to bring a visitor for some Grey Goose and conversation. I am not nor have I ever been a well prepared young woman.

I instead will frantically search WaPo express for a restaurant/bar lounge anywhere in the vicinity, close my eyes and point. Wherever my abnormally long finger happens to land, is the place to be. Because, I said so.

I live a rather humdrum life as somewhat of a recluse. Though I do go out, it’s usually to the same few places that are just there and good enough. Without the advent of open table and dc foodies, I would have a going out diet consisting of Chipotle and Chef Geoff’s. See? Ho hum.

There seems to be a bit of misunderstanding among those who don’t know me that because of what I do, that it automatically means that I know people and I know places. I hate it to break it to my many admirers, but I don’t know anyone and I shrug my shoulders when it comes to being decisive about where to go.

Sticking to what I know is what I do best. When I do diverge off the beaten path, it’s usually after strong suggestion from numerous knowledgeable individuals and extensive research into what I’m about to get myself into.

Come to think of it, I do this with everything that will take up a substantial chunk of my short lived life. I was the girl who had picked out a major and knew the exact colleges I wanted to apply to – with a spreadsheet and copious notes to boot – well before I took my PSATs. Peg’s only role was to write a check. I knew I was going to American before I applied to American. If (when, God willing) I apply to graduate school, I already have a concentration, the exact schools picked out, needed GRE scores, application dates and a thesis topic.

I plan quite well for future events and things to happen in 2009. But given something that is to happen tomorrow and I flail around like a baby bird and wonder which way is up. You can always tell when I’m unprepared for taking immediate action – which is like 99% of the time – I tend to get all panicky and then realize my ridiculous ways and say ‘fuck it. Don’t care.’

I let Bri do the pointing and maneuvering and we ended up at Ceiba; where I once again professed my love for Netflix and reasons for why I babysit more than the average person has ever babysat in their entire lives.

Yes, I know. I need to get out more.

Monday, June 12, 2006

Laissez-faire

“It takes about ten years to get used to how old you are.” ~Quoted by Raymond A. Michel in The Leaf

In a momentary lapse of sanity and judgment and forgetfulness that I still had not started contributing to my 401K* and therefore might end up both alone and broke in about 40 years; I bought a Kate Spade bag in a sample sale.

While men may not give two shits about Kate Spade, unless say she started making beer, women know who she is. And women dress and accessorize for other women**. Which is something that I have no problem admitting: I could care less about what some guy thinks of my multi-purpose black leather Coach bag, but women can judge, so judge they will.

So, I bought the bag, but prior to buying the bag, I had to call Peg to get her advice. A $70 Kate Spade bag is ridiculously cheap and it was an investment of sorts. It’s a good and functional spring/summer bag that would be considerably nicer than the aforementioned black leather bag. It’s also cute and charming and screams “Hello world, Summer is here.”

Given that Peg regularly ignores my calls, when she finally phoned back, the bag had been purchased via check card because Credit cards are the product of the Devil and an evil capitalist society.

I told her the reason for my very important call and she asked whether or not I had seen the piece on the Today Show or some such shit and I said no. “Well today’s younger generation are too molly coddled by their parents. Why do you need my permission to purchase something? You all are too needy…” Blah blah blah, you get the point. Us Gen Yers (or whatever the hell we’re referred to now. I once heard ‘spoiled’) are too dependent on our parents.

My response to this was two fold. First, sophomore year, there was an incident involving a Platinum card and several shopping trips to Lucky Brand because new jeans are an emergency. Come to find out that new jeans are only an emergency if the ones you are currently wearing are packed with explosives and/or are currently on fire. Anyway, since that incident I’ve been cautious with how I spend. Two, and within that same vein, I just like to have my mother’s opinion sometimes. Is that wrong? I like the reassurance that something is an actual investment as opposed to frivolous spending. This is a woman who once yelled at me for not having a perfect coif and not having my eyebrows perfectly arched, because those are apparently necessities; even if one's daughter cannot afford such necessities.

Ok, that may not have been the greatest example ever in life, but you get it. I ask because I MUST KNOW, because I’m unsure sometimes and I just want my mother to say “Hey, it’s ok to spend on yourself. Especially since you spend much of your time being puked and pooped on by children that aren’t yours. It’s ok to spend $70 on a bag”

I need affirmation on things. I need to know what’s ok and what is not. I need to know whether or not I’m writing well, if I’m doing a good job or if I should just stop asking. I need to know that it’s perfectly acceptable to spend my own damn money, however I choose because it’s MINE. ALLL MINE.

The other reason I ask my parents if it’s ok to do things? Because I’m just a wee bit afraid of letting go. I like having that safety net there and relying on someone who is a bonafide responsible adult – with like a mortgage and shit – to help me, even when it comes to the little things.

Of course one day, I’ll stop, but for now it makes me feel better. Is that so wrong?

*before I get emails and comments about how irresponsible that is, I did it today so everyone calm down.

**this leads to further discussion as to why someone on the metro stared me down, when she saw my bag from a ridiculously over priced shoe store as if to say “why would YOU be buying shoes from there?!” And yes, I am so over this. Or not.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

In the Queue

Disclaimer: Word on the street is that in a year or so, I’ll want to kick the people at Netflix in their respective baby making parts, because I will no longer be a valuable customer to them, and they will in turn start sending me crap movies. Until then, I am basking in the glory that it is and have turned it into a lovely little masterpiece (HA!) for B4B. And Dagny just gave me this idea, bonus points/love/undying affection/whatever else you can think of, goes to the person who can name all of the movies that I have alluded to.


“Through the magic of motion pictures, someone who's never left Peoria knows the softness of a Paris spring, the colour of a Nile sunset, the sorts of vegetation one will find along the upper Amazon and that Big Ben has not yet gone digital." -Vincent Canby

I once owned a TalkBoy, which G and I would carry around religiously. We even brought it to Manhattan, the scene of Kevin McCallister’s latest caper, and carried it through FAO Schwartz. On that first trip to FAO Schwartz, I tried to play Heart and Soul on the floor piano like Josh Baskin but minus the creepy fortune teller machine to turn me into a 33 year old overnight.

Come to think of it, I never thought that I could turn a beast back into a prince, be a live pawn on a board game or that mermaids could learn to walk (but I did believe in mermaids). And yet, I will admit to clapping so that Tinkerbell could fly and seriously deliberating what would happen if my father shrunk us in a science experiment gone awry.

Garrett and I forced the padres to purchase a tree house, so we could conjure up imaginary meals and scream ‘Rufio’ at the top of our lungs. Our neighbors? Well, they were rarely seen and I’m quite sure that their eldest son was the perfect likeness to Sloth – bald head, giant fucked up eye and all - but finding him would never lead to any lost treasure. And sadly, Corey Feldman – hunk that he was – wouldn't be there either.

To this day, I have a serious and unrelenting fear that a clown will murder me and that a psychotic, red headed doll will come out of its package and bludgeon me to death. If I could look those two up, I would, but I would like to sleep with the lights off tonight.

I was even most certain that my father, with the aid of latex and a body suit, could turn himself into a convincing – yet ass ugly - female nanny to care for us while my mother worked.

Just last night, my ice cold, tar black heart turned into a giant pile of mush; my eyes welled up with tears as I got that all too familiar lump in the back of my throat. If Noah and Allie could find each other again, then surely there is hope for me. Next week? I’ll believe and begin praying for a guy with a boom box (or I suppose an ipod or XM) and an ugly trench coat to stand outside of my window and profess his undying love for me.

Therein lies the beauty of a movie…that magic and power to make a small child believe that a baseball team will come out of a corn field (I was totally convinced) or that every girl will find her own Lloyd Dobler and live happily ever after.

Friday, June 09, 2006

The best policy

“Boundaries don't keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy...that's how we're made. So, you can waste your life drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them.” – Ellen Pompeo

As a child I lied a lot and as I grew into adolescence Peg would lament on my pathological state and continuously banish me to my room. Over the years, I’ve gotten considerably better with the lying about stupid shit. Did I use your AmEx without asking? Yup. Did I eat the last cupcake? Hell yeah…and so forth.

Now it’s only the bigger things that I purposely lie about, but I suppose they’re not all lies, but rather things that I don’t want to share out of fear that I’ll be chastised. And let’s be honest, it’s not like it’s some great fantastic shit that I keep to myself…well…save for that one time with the substance and customs…(Spanish jail cells are none to pleasant).

I was speaking with a friend of mine the other day about different therapy options given that my former therapist is (A) too expensive and (B) clear across the city, in a land far off and away. This friend disclosed her apprehensive of ever mentioning it and I questioned why. In my drunken, slurred speech, I explained and rationalized to her that every fucking person and their mother gets depressed but since for any depressed person, realizing this about his or herself is a painful and arduous process, it makes it all the more difficult to disclose this to a close friend or family member, without feeling like you’ve done something wrong or be excommunicated for it.

Thinking about this conversation last night is when bright lights and stars and shit went off in my head to make me become conscious of the fact that I am none too honest about a lot of things; not just with others but also with myself. Thus maddening me and turning me into a ball of prickly fun. Because if and when I don’t disclose things, all I do is overanalyze inwardly, write hyperbolic hypotheticals and subsequently drink myself into a Malbec stupor.

So I guess the goal here is to divulge more…to take down the boundaries and get to this. Less hyperbole, more reality. Less Malbec, more Grey Goose.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Remember When

"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us." ~Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"

Remember all of those times that I suggested that in the event of Holy rapture, the people at BofA should be the first to go into the fiery gates of Hell? Well last night those fuckers almost redeemed themselves, by way of providing little tiny cards with all of their big cards so that if you’re a moron who tries to return a skirt that makes you look like a member of Juniper Creek, without a credit card; rest assured because you have a tiny card on your keys which an be used in these emergency situations. And yes, being dressed like a wife of Roman Grant is a severe emergency.

Remember that time I started going to the gym solely to improve my golf game and not because I had an extra 20lbs hanging around? Well, it apparently paid off as I ran a 5K in less than 35 minutes and then went to the gym later on in the day. Of course my right leg blew the hell off later, but that’s ok! I’m 18 lbs lighter and can run like someone’s chasing me without dying. Yippee!

Remember
that one occasion I was deliriously worried – ok, who am I kidding? I mean everyday - but mostly worried about meeting new people because new people are crazy scarier and there’s a good reason for why bloggers do things via computer? Well, now I’m all ‘I’ve exchanged a comment with you? Let’s have drinks’ or ‘Yes! I would love to go to a convention with 400 other complete strangers who will totally hate me and want to kill me after day one! Sounds like fun!”

Remember the other day, when I got wireless and was all excited because wireless and the innernet is a new fangled technology and ‘wow, what a concept’? Well, today I discovered this thing called Netflix, where you can get movies by mail. I love DVDs and I love mail. Who the hell knew that you could put the two together..?!

Remember, many, many moons ago, when mentioned that my brother is possibly the worst conversationalist ever and I hoped that he would learn some god damn manners before answering the phone? Well, that little shit reminded me why I never really completely loathed him (save for that time I stepped on his back or when I put a pool stick in the spokes of his bike so that he would run into a wall – then Peg promptly beat the black out of me with that same pool stick). He informed me of a christmas present so awesome that I wanted to jump through the phone and buy him a new turtle: All of the movies from our childhood. Seriously, that gift is right up there with a gift card from Whole Foods.

And in honor of the way I’m feeling today…remember your days as a college sophomore when drinking on a Wednesday night was the most brilliant thing ever, because no one gave a shit about going to class? Well, Jaeger on a Wednesday night when you have to be alert at 8 AM now makes me appreciate a good 12 step program.

So you see kids, we have progress, which is always a good thing.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Throwdown

"I'll be the in to your sane." ~Numan

Have you ever been wholly prepared for something and ready to lay it all out, when suddenly something comes along and makes you shake your head and say "well, nevermind that one"?
See, I was planning a very redundant really fucking boring informative post about my some odd obsession with both ABBA and Mom/parenting blogs (there was some connection there, honest) and as I was admiring my brilliance and again questioning why I never was allowed to skip a grade, I came upon an entry at another site that made my eyes grow as big as saucers and my mouth fall open. Because, seriously, I don't get it. And without going into specifics, lest I want the mighty hand of Amy Storch to strike down and send me into blog obscurity/eternal brokeness...I just question why in general, women tend to beat each other up about every. little. thing. Not just about parenting and what's best and what's not, but we're talking about shoes, clothing, size, every-fucking-thing turns into a bitch fest, throwdown, drive-by, wherein someone always gets pissed off and no one is any happier or none the wiser about ONE particular issue, than when they started. Mostly I wonder if men have this same problem? Anyone...?

Anyway, that irked me, which it probably shouldn't have because it had absolutely nothing to do with me, but just proves a larger problem at hand, or maybe I'm mistaken. Whatever. On to other things like my perpetual insomnia and the fact that every night this week I've gone to bed at 9:30 PM - alarm set to 5:30 AM, for the gym - only to awake between 1:30 AM and 2AM and stay awake until my alarm goes off then go to sleep until 7:30??? Why? Why? WHYYYYYY God, WHY?

If you really want to see pissed, watch me turn into a trainwreck of jibberish and supreme bitchiness to do a lack of zzzzz's. I promise not to let you down.

Hissy Fit

“I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humor in it.” ~Frank A. Clark

Thing #467 that I dislike about myself is how I jump to conclusions and my ability to bitch about nonsensical stuff that probably makes others believe that I have the maturity of a three year old. Which? I do. So there.

I guess one good thing is that I’ve learned to be fairly general with my bitching and then can wake up the next day and realize how ridiculous I’ve been and to get a fucking grip. So take this as an epistle of my current state of mind: Which is that I’m over it and am now mildly amused with myself and my reaction to some things and from here on out there will be no speak of punching people in the face unless they exhibit some sheer amount of asshatry that must be published. Because a stupid person is far more entertaining than a pissy one.

The Pain and the Infallible One

So often time it happens, we all live our life in chains, and we never even know we have the key.” ~The Eagles, "Already Gone"


As with most things in life, there comes a point where you realize that though most of the time, things are out of your control, yet there is still about 60% of what occurs in life that has totally been made of your own doing. Upon realizing this you can either (A) Cry; (B) comment on your utter stupidity, naivety and ridiculous nature; or (C) All of the above, which a goblet of Cabernet Sauvignon. Never mind that, those choices are rather irrational or that you could actually do something to change the eternal suckitude. Nope, instead you wallow. Wallow in ennui and malaise then bitch, bitch, bitch, because this sucks.


Of course, I realize all of this with all of the great wisdom I have acquired over the past 22 years. It has also taken about that same amount of time to realize that some people are allowed to be self righteous shit heads and it’s ok for them to do so because though they are not God’s gift to the free world, they have the feeling that they may in fact be omnipotent. Long story short, one must amuse them and pretend that in fact they are the most wonderful perfect beings in the world, even while really thinking that they are quite possibly the dumbest people to ever walk the face of the earth. Rinse and repeat.

I’m not happy. I’m ridiculously unhappy, with myself and with others. So much so that I dread most everything because it’s same shit, different channel. But I’m annoying myself and the wallowing and self pity have gotten quite tiresome for me and probably for anyone within striking distance of me. The thing is that feigning happiness takes more out of me than the self loathing, but we’re only talking by a very small percentage. So now that I’ve been reeling enough for all of us, I can make the decision to move on with some modicum of grace or I can gnaw at my cuticles and grind my teeth while perfecting my eye roll. I suppose that now would be a perfect time to choose the former…but it doesn’t mean that I can’t comment on the perpetual stupidity of my common (wo)man and of myself from time to time.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

1998

"Give a person a fish and you feed them for a day; teach that person to use the Internet and they won't bother you for weeks." ~Author Unknown

Many many months ago, my roommate's computer with the free ('free'...'stolen'...whatever) wireless was broken. Since then we've been living in the stone age and I have found great joy in going to work, the internet. Now, many many months later, I have this amazing thing called 'wireless'.
.
I feel like I've just discovered plutonium. Tomorrow, I may check out the wheel and see what that whole thing is about.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Embrace it

“The two most engaging powers of an author are to make new things familiar and familiar things new.” ~Samuel Johnson

As I was surreptitiously avoiding spilling cake all over my shirt, because umm that would totally happen, someone mentioned that they saw my blog in the Express. The last time I read the Express was only after someone else had fished it out of recycling for me, so that I could read about how a former flame was now engaged. He’ll be wearing a seersucker suit, so no love lost there, trust me. Other than that I never read the Express because reading and walking (or driving) could lead to my untimely death. Anyway, one of my blog fears has come true: Going into work and finding out that I’m in the Express. First of all, I’m well aware that it’s not like my blog has been announced in the New York Times (and preceded by ‘signing deal with Simon and Schuster for high six figures’), but it’s one of those things that I’d rather avoid discussing because some people think it’s weird. Let’s be honest here, I’m not exciting, I don’t do anything exciting, and the more exciting things that I do write about involve going to the dry cleaners…whoo freaking hooo. I’m fairly boring and have accepted my boringness and that in general – but not at all times – bloggers can be a bit of a pain in the ass, vain and critical. Hell, I’m not even all that eloquent, and just now I stopped to sit back to figure out what I was trying – very terribly – to say here. So let me regroup…

Ok, what I’m trying to say is that there are bloggers who are expecting to get something bigger from blogging. In the beginning it was because I was bored and now I’m a little less bored but I enjoy the writing and sharing the stupid things that happen only to get comments which show that everyone has the same inane observations about life and people. It’s fun for me. So yes, I am a blogger and yes I’m going to BlogHer and yes I have friends that are bloggers and yes, I enjoy it all.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

I wish I were a clam digger

How tempted would you be to give up your current life for a life of leisure where you can sit around all day and rot your brain with Laguna Beach and fill your tummy with clams and fries?

I mean is it bad, that I seriously contemplate what life would be like as a clam digger?


If I were a clam digger, I could work in the mornings and ride my bike in the evenings. Yes, that bike there. We keep it in the kitchen, don’t you keep your bike in the kitchen?



I could also spend my afternoons being incredibly vain and staring at myself in the mirror. Or I could just buy random antiques and toss them about my house.


Of course there’s the inevitable, many many hours at the beach. I could learn to cliff dive perhaps.

And finally, I could just grow old and gray and sit in my rocking chair for hours while possibly wondering how the hell I’m related to a person who is obsessed by all things Orange County. Whatever, she can complain all she wants, but she totally enjoyed watching Jason being a whore of a man.

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