The error of my ways

“A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you've been taking.” ~Earl Wilson

Things started to go down hill around 3 PM when my allergies suddenly went into full drive. Spare me the ‘What the fucks?’ because I don’t even know. Who the hell gets allergies in the fall? FALL. Fall is for happiness and apples, not an allergy to dying leaves and humidity. And then I got all obsessive, natch. And then I went home.

Upon my arrival home I attempted to open the door quickly and in a huff and lo, the door, it was not only locked but dead bolted. While I appreciate the gesture for someone to come through and fix the walls, light fixtures and bulbs in my apartment, I have no dead bolt key. Which as you can see, would be a most excellent thing to have at that moment because no one wants a pissed off, obsessive woman locked out of her apartment. But like I said, I appreciate the very nice gesture of protecting my favorite IKEA mirror and Smashbox eye shadow from burglars. Of course in my haste and generally sour demeanor I called Peg and may have used a few choice words – because it’s all her fault, everything is, even when it isn’t, it is – and then hung up on her.

We are on a roll here people.

Here would be an excellent time for us to play a fun little guessing game: Remember the time that I wrote a few not so nice things about my leasing office? Did I mention that that first paragraph, with much of the not very niceness, was in the WaPo Express*? Did you know that the people who work in my leasing office read the WaPo Express? Did I ever let y’all know that while in San Ho, the head of my leasing office told me that from that point on I could only conduct business with them from outside of their “shabby offices”?

Yeah. Oh yeah.

Did you know that most people on the planet are considerably nicer than I? And that when I called the head of my leasing office – who is very nice and has pretty hair – about being locked out, she was nice enough to drive back to her office at 7:30 PM (DC traffic is also a bitch, and driving four blocks can take upwards of 20 minutes)? Then she was pleasant to me. PLEASANT! While I stood in her office gnawing on my nails and silently praying that she wouldn’t call me an evil whore with poor sentence structure. Then she gave me my keys and I cried. I fucking cried my entire way home because she was nice and I wasn’t and I deserved to be locked out and possibly punched in the head.

Earlier today, I was informed that I can be intimidating and scary. Or at least that’s how I can come off; as if I would jam a pen in someone’s eye. I was slightly taken aback by that statement and became mildly annoyed, though thankfully the person who brought the latter to my attention, called me on my bullshit and I felt sheepish and departed the conversation. What I’m saying is that I can be mean. Really mean and a straight up bitch, especially via the written word. Honestly though I’m not. You can even ask actual real life people who can tell you that I’m not at all mean but instead shy and quiet and rather pleasant and fun to be around. I suppose that now that I know that people think me intimidating and scary, I feel terribly. Especially when those that I’ve made vitriolic remarks towards and/or about are nothing but nice in return.

In short: I suck. A lot. Annnnnnd now would be a fantastic time to head on up to Martha’s Vineyard where I will be until Monday evening. I promise to return a little bit nicer and a lot less bitchy. Well that is if Peg allows me into her house, cause you know I like to share the bitchiness with all.


*It's a shorter version of the Washington Post. It's also free and given out by all of the metro stations. I don't read it, because I walk to work in the morning.

A little bit dramatic

If you're craving some new material: Go here

***
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” ~Alfred Hitchcock

Contrary to what might across via the written word, I am not all that dramatic. Unless that is I’m alone and well, we’re just not going to go there right now, point is; I don’t do drama. I do not like drama, I do not like to get involved with drama, and if one so chooses to give me any sort of gossip pertaining to potential or ongoing drama, I get my gossip, smirk, and then move on.

In some ways this is most fortunate. It means that I’ve spent a majority of my life only worrying about myself and really not giving a fuck about others. The bad part of this is that I’m always the last to figure shit out and am usually found walking around aimlessly. I’m often the last to discover that Jane is sleeping with Joe or that John just seriously fucked up. I have a friend that compares me to Massachusetts Avenue: At times moving somewhat quickly, but far more often than not, at a stand still where nothing. gets. through. I’ve been compared to the slowest fucking road on the planet and far from the information super highway that I need to be in order to succeed.

What can I say? It’s just that at times, I don’t care. Whatever drama that so happens to cross my path is usually brought on by my own carelessness and stupidity or that I’m mildly interested in why Beth is fighting with Sara because I enjoy being entertained. Period. Lately on my adventures in perusing the interwebosphere, I’ve read interesting things of various events that have transpired thus some caustic and somewhat vitriolic language used to describe one’s feelings about themselves or others. On the one hand, I’m scrunching my brow and thinking ‘What the fuck did I miss?’ and then I – at times – inquire. On the other hand, though it doesn’t involve me, should I also feel this way? Or really, should I care. Obviously if it has nothing to do with me, I shouldn’t, but still there’s a slight pang of wondering what the hell is going on.

I’m pretty sure that Peg spent much of my childhood wanting to beat me due to my incessant nosiness. Everything was for adults only: Little pitchers, big ears and all that bullshit. I suppose I can understand it now. Most things going on that have nothing to do with me so I should stay out. Furthermore, I just don’t deal well with the drama. And honestly the thought of dealing with more shit than I already have to deal with gives me hives. So that’s it. I shouldn’t get involved in other people’s shit because I’m too selfish and have my own crap to deal with. But damn, a girl does need the occasional nugget of gossip to keep things going, because entertainment at the expense of others is still good entertainment.

Cortland, Macintosh and Tweed

“You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right.” ~Maya Angelou

I’m homesick, ridiculously so at that. Another one of those rarities that tend to just sneak up on me and much like my current infatuation, it’s been eating at me and bumming me out. The last time I felt this way, I was standing on a street corner (in my best clear heels, no less) between Goya and Sol, crying to Peg that Cortes – motherfucking – Ingles didn’t sell shoes above a size 10 and what kind of motherfucking store, doesn’t sell shoes above a size 10. That pretty much sums up the conversation in which I was adamant about being brought back to a normal fucking place that has shoes above a size 10, a fine place called AMERICA. Of course I stuck it out, learned my lesson and was cliché as hell about leaving. But at the time, I was in pain and the task at hand seemed daunting. In hindsight I can say “Who was that girl? That girl who felt forced to be in a beautiful, wine friendly country? The hell?!”

I don’t feel nearly as strongly about it as I did then. I’m not across the Atlantic and technically, I could go up to Upstate New York this weekend if I really so desired to have my will to live sucked out of me, via the New Jersey Turnpike. It’s ridiculous how I feel so close to it now and please don’t believe the bull shit that I have always loved Albany, NY with every soul of my being. But it’s like that with most people and their respective hometowns. While living there, I wanted to kill myself every other day and what kind of God makes Winter last from the beginning of November to May? Of course the second I left, I was all ‘Upstate NY is the shit and winter rocks my world.’ Umm, yeah.

It’s just that it’s Fall. Fall means tweeds, apple picking (the title up there are my two favorite types of apples. You learn that sort of shit when you live in Upstate), Adirondack foliage, hot chocolate at football games, long underwear under a Halloween costume, Woodbury Commons sales, apple cider donuts, newness and that smell. The smell of fall gets me every time. It makes me weepy and longing for my mother’s house and hiking and the simplicity of things. And though it rarely happens, right now I’m aching for that, yearning for just a solid week at home.

Come November when it’s a balmy 67 degrees on Election Day and this winter when I don’t have to think about shoveling a damn thing, I’ll appreciate living here and knowing that I got exactly what I wanted, so really, can I complain? During my next venture home, I’ll be slapped with the painstaking reality that I can’t just go out and enjoy four glasses of wine and get home via my own two feet or a metro and that there’s not a damn thing to do while you’re there. But for now, until I can finally get home again, just allow me to miss it.

The one I've always wanted to write

"I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions." ~James Michener

It always drives me crazy when people write posts obviously stating a secret or exciting news of some sort and then say that they can't discuss the excitement until later. These people seem to think that their lives depend on witholding this information or perhaps they are CIA agents? Perhaps they have a secret potion to transform my Bobbi Brown lipgloss into a solid so that I wouldn't have to fear losing it with my luggage? Who knows? It's just infuriating. Loathsome if you will.

But God, wouldn't it be great if I had something that I wanted to share? Something that's making me smile and go a little overboard with the Malbec. Yeah it would be. Maybe I do have such a thing, maybe I don't. You'll just have to stay tuned, sucka.

***
And before y'all start to play guessing games, the object of my amuesement is aware of my existence but still thinks I'm pretty much nothing, hell, he probably hates me . And anyone who suggests pregnancy must be a big believer of immaculate conception.

***
In the event that you don't get enough of me already: Huzzah!

Sexual Cache ™

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” ~Sylvia Plath

A while back I used the term “Sexual Cache ™” when Sweet asked if I had anything to contribute to a story she was writing. Of course when the time came for me to put out, I came up short. I’m only reminded of it now because I’ve been stricken with the ennuiparapsychosis again and while the doctors do expect me to make a full recovery, right now it’s pretty bad. Therefore sex! Sex always makes people happy! Sex is exciting! Sex will make me less boring!

In fact many months ago, someone else mentioned that a lack of writing about Sex! makes for a boring blog. I commented that I never speak of Sex! and questioned whether or not that made me boring and insignificant. Thankfully the answer was no, though some might disagree. Since this email exchange I’ve often thought about whether or not it’s something I want to get into on here, given that I’m not anonymous and it’s a hell of a lot more entertaining to hear me discuss it in person. Especially when I exaggerate the word ‘labia’ and then shriek or whisper ‘blowjob’ to my dining companion at TenPenh, because we don’t speak that way at TenPenh.

Anyway reading this over now, maybe I’ll hold off on the sex talk, because a) It’s just not all that exciting and b) Telling the story that involves me exaggerating ‘labia’ for dramatic purposes, is so much more entertaining via the spoken word. So for now, you’re stuck with ennui induced writings and if you’re lucky you’ll get to read about the cat that Peg demanded we get and then she made him disappear. Like one day he was there and the next day he wasn’t and she had no explanation for it, other than “He’s gone.” As you can see, I'm still a little sensitive about the cat issue, but it's either that or sex or ennui. Your choice.

Veinte Dos

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.” ~Mark Twain

Over the weekend one of my favorite people in the world turned 33 and if you are playing along at home, that would make the lovely Marci just shy of 11 years older than I. Obviously, I can over look this, given that she’s already gotten to my list of favorites and to be a favorite of mine is kind of like scoring a 1600 on the SATs: seemingly impossible and yet there are still a few who get it. What can I say? I’m picky (and mean).

To be honest, none of this has to do with Marci’s age and the fact that she looks about 18, even though it’s all spectacular. What it is, is that many years ago, when I was a mere babe, 24 was the magical age. I had envisioned marriage and an actual real life child by the age of 24. I couldn’t tell you how I got that age in my head, I suppose it just seemed perfect and in hindsight it’s beyond ridiculous and makes me want to cry a little bit. Now that I think about it, a lot of things that I thought when I was just a child (HA! Still am one) make me cry a bit.

It’s all apropos of nothing, except to say that now I’m making every attempt to figure out why I was rushing so much. Only now does it feel like rushing because I’m fast upon the magic age and am nowhere near a maturity level where I could actually put forth a child from my womb and raise it not to be an arsonist. In fact any child that I have anytime soon will not only be an arsonist but also a thief for good measure.

The rush to do something by 30 was just there and now…I don’t know…things just feel more fluid. 33 no longer feels “old” and 22 makes me feel like a baby. Thankfully my friends of the over 30 set, love me and I love them and they’ve honestly all taught me to be more grounded and to not stress about that next step. They might read this and think that I’m making backhanded comments about their age and that I have some misconceptions about getting older and that it may not be as easy as they all have made it look. Or maybe I’ve just developed grandeur notions of what getting older really means and it certainly doesn’t mean rushing into things, but more accepting things as they come at you.

I wish I could tell my 10 year old self to rethink things and that 19 – 22 will suck so badly that the thought of doing anything but being entirely selfish and spending way too much at Nordstrom, requires way too much effort. I should also tell her that she’ll end up being the laziest person on earth and will fail biology, so she will never be a doctor. Sad, but true. I would be remiss not to tell her to be really appreciative of everything and that the friends she will acquire are flippin’ fantastic. I mean they must be, to deal with someone who has the maturity of a baby seal.*



*originally I had planned to post a picture of myself - protruding clavacle, oily skin and all - giving Marci the finger at her birthday happy hour. But umm yeah. No.

Adventures in spinsterhood: Part the 485th

“Solitude never hurt anyone. Emily Dickinson lived alone, and she wrote some of the most beautiful poetry the world has ever known... then went crazy as a loon.” ~ Lisa Simpson

While being of the tender age of 22 doesn’t necessarily resign me to a fate of spinsterhood. And yet what would you call two solid weekends in a row of “Make it work” and “Carry on” with a dash of vino on the side? Indolence perhaps or sheer exhaustion or maybe I just need some solid alone time when I’m not completely depressed and talking myself from throwing myself off of a metro platform. Been there, done that and am over it. But still spending much time alone with my pals Melky and Robinson (they're in Boston and I am here. They also are completely unaware of my existence) and then the driving range, which is solid time alone but with a large metal stick: Much better to hit people with, my dear.

Who am I kidding though? What I’m really doing is relishing in the finale of my two months of complete solitude in a spacious two bedroom condo. It has been two solid months of putting off doing the dishes for days and leaving my mail strewn about and…well…walking around the apartment SANS CLOTHES a glass of wine (or coffee, depending on the hour). It’s GLORIOUS, friends. I think that in my mind I’m gearing up for The Midterms and the onslaught of a new roommate who will return to red wine splattered all over the kitchen. Note to self: Be careful with the cork, lest you want it floating around in your precious Malbec. Sadly, the roommate doesn’t drink and who I doubt, will be empathetic towards a lost cork. She won’t understand how devastating it is to the wine.

See? I need to get out more.

The above statement couldn’t be more true. All this time indoors with the second season of Tim, Heidi and Co, finds me thinking that Tim Gunn at Red Lobster is the funniest thing ever, even though it’s from like 1858 or something. Second note to self: Get thee out of the house. Stat.

Eight legged freaks

“Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.” ~Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson, 1894

Though I try to limit my beliefs in the intangible to He who resides up above, I would be remiss not to note a fascination with astrology, particularly my ever so present Scorpio tendencies. Because they are so blatantly there, staring me in the face, daring me to be a vindictive little bitch; just accept it and move on.

And I hate to admit it, but I am a scorpio to a ‘T’ and truly believe I should come with a warning sign tattooed across my chest (You know, for all those times I go around flashing people): Beware: Quick to achieve ferocious anger if fucked with. I also have the passion, the drive, and a propensity to be withdrawn, when really I’m just watching everyone and everything like a hawk*. Passion and drive and intensity aren’t necessarily bad, it’s the obsessive nature, continuously hurt feelings from nothing, and a tendency to do everything to the extremes that I worry about. And of course, I don’t mind an overly sexual nature, which I tend to keep hidden to myself; because do you really want to hear my thoughts on sex every other second of the day? No.

I’ll always tend to put myself out there and yet fear being hurt. I’ll always wonder whether or not someone actually likes me or if I’m just annoying that person to death. I’ll always be a fierce friend but the second things go sour, will be quick to jettison those that cross me.

It’s part of my character to be (woefully) intense but then again, it makes me severely empathetic/sympathetic and compelled to help when I can. I’m over my jealous, compulsive, resentful and secretive behavior and thank God, I have friends that are well aware of these things and have yet to push me off the Sears Tower. That’s because I would be too determined and forceful and woo them with some deep dish pizza that they’ll forget all about me being a raging bitch.

What I hate, and what I’m dwelling over now (SEE?) is the obsessive nature of things. Why I have to be overly introspective and why for the life of me I feel so compelled to make a big deal out of something that is so not a big deal. Ergo the reasoning for why I hate being in the ‘throes of a crush’ even if that crush is purely derived from nothing and thankfully not hardcore doodling and debating to go with his last name or to hyphen my name; but instead a slight interest in another who I am attracted to and would like to get to know better. Though there are plenty of other things to over think that just happens to be at the top of my list.

Though I feel better now that I’ve gotten that out there and I’ve accepted my emotional and sometimes caustic behavior; friends of mine might shake their heads with dismay and question “Sexual? What sexual?” And well maybe we’ll touch on that one day, but not today.

*Which means that I’ve kind of been a tad untruthful**: I’m not really all that shy or socially awkward, I’m really just watching intensely, I only use my glass of wine for a cover.

**So now you know that I’m a bitch and a liar. Wanna be friends?

So I've heard

“When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old I know that it is.” ~Oscar Wilde

I’ve recently been enlightened on this new fangled – to me at least – thing called ‘saving’. Or at least I think that’s the proper term for it. From what I understand, when one receives money for completing a service, instead of spending every last cent of said money on random objects of desire, one puts some percentage or predetermined amount of the full amount tendered into a separate account which then garners – gosh, what’s the word?, Oh yes! – interest. Over time, the premise is to accumulate enough money that in the event of emergency, be it natural disaster or of one’s own stupidity, s/he who accumulated this money and the additional interest, will not have to resort to groveling or begging. At least I think that is how it works, but then again I’ve never been to sure.

Because of this new(ish) phenomenon of ‘saving’ I have succumbed to the demands of my parents, jesus, my own foolish will to budget. I don’t budget. I’ve never budgeted. Hell, I have a problem making a table to use for the budgeting. We’re on a roll over here. This budgeting idea came up after an incident last week known in these parts as Apartment Hell 2006 (t-shirts to come next week!) And let me tell you it was a doozie and really fun. Especially fun when I had to ask my parents, not once, but twice for $1000 from each of them; because I did not have $1000. I did not have $1.

I just don’t know where it goes. I don’t. I get paid, I babysit, the money goes into an account and then two weeks later, I’m trying to spend my last $8 at Whole Foods. Though part of me realizes that that may be part of the problem as well as a little something called alcoholism, wine is not cheap. Well, some wine is cheap, but life is too short to drink cheap wine, so I do not.

This whole budgeting thing has put a bit of a kink in my normally wonderful life where I spend way too much time at Nordstrom. Ahh times were good then. That’s how I would make myself feel better: by purchasing countless pairs of shoes and then proclaiming that they were a necessity and well shoes always fit, clothing doesn’t. Though the budgeting didn’t stop me from professing my undying love for Jeff Tunks last night. In fact he is my crush, so there, now you know.

Anyway, there that is. I’m on a budget and not a damn soul feels bad for me. Not even my mother. My own mother does not feel badly for me, when I have to make a decision between this hoodie or these shoes. A travesty people.

A crush

“That’s why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they’d call them something else” – Sixteen Candles

No matter how I word it, no matter the eloquence I attempt or the wittiness I try to portray; there really is no other way to say it than to blurt it out: I have a crush.

(Insert girly screams here)

But actually don’t insert the girly screams, because I am not a girly screamer. Instead of blushing and wooing and awesome amounts of flirting. I retreat and think “oh fuck” because I loathe crushes. I detest the word ‘crush’ even more. But is there a better word? A potential interest? God, I sound awful and woefully pathetic and nothing sounds pretty because it is, what it is, and it’s unfortunate.

I actually get these pangs of wonderfulness toward the opposite sex once a year and we’re being real literal here. Once. A. year. Other than that, I live my life in peace and relative normalcy, not giving a damn about what I may say or do or act, because I only have to think about myself (I’m selfish like that). But when that feeling hits, instead of becoming giddy, I cower and wait for my personal feelings to abate. Because they must eventually.

Why I do this could be accredited to dozens of things from general fear to “daddy issues” but if another uses that term, well, I’ll just have to cut you. Now I find myself sullen and full of blah, because as with the past, it will most likely need to a vast amount of nothingness, but that’s just how these things work.

Now would be an excellent time to cue up reasons for why HB is still single, but then this would be a stunning 275 page novel of why I am so painfully cynical and pessimistic, with annotated footnotes to boot. And we wouldn’t want that now would we?

*And for all of you playing at home, noticing that this is the one and only time in 315 posts that I’ve mentioned any sort of relationship type anything, it’s because lo I am relationship inept and can’t get past the ‘crushing’ (seriously find a better word) phase without going into “HB failure overload” and then the blue screen of death and BOOM.

A little random never hurt anybody

“Brain, n. An apparatus with which we think that we think.” ~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Normally the problems that I may project are not really problems, but more like expanding on the banal and making things far bigger than they actually are. If I were to inflate every other problem that came across my path, then last week would have been full of ‘shits’ ‘damns’ and ‘fucking bitches’ because that’s what I was feeling. I would have exploded with vitriolic and caustic phrases aimed at one person who probably deserved such but not in such a public manner.

That was last week and my god, while I try not to go off in hyperbolic clichés, I’m a bit annoyed and annoyance that I must talk about because it’s driving me batshit insane. I’ve lost something. Not just any something, but something that I love and adore. A beautiful faux crocodile pink clutch that held a pot of Nars lacquer and my portable makeup brush.

Though to many – specifically the men – this may seem banal. But to me OH MY LORD I love that clutch as much as my prized Kate Spade. I adored both the clutch, in all its pink glory, but also my NARS people! My Nars! And it’s so close to fall and would have been the perfect color, but alas it is now missing. Somewhere in the bedroom that time forgot where a dresser is situated smack dab in the middle of the room: A perfect spot for little piggy stubbing.

So there you have it, I’m annoyed. Really annoyed and disappointed.

In the spirit of all things random, I keep pulling what I will now affectionaly call a ‘V’. In which I see things or read about them and suddenly decide that YES! I would make an excellent fashion designer. Pay no mind that the only thing I’ve fashioned is a felt bag and a pillow case in home economics in the 8th grade. I would also make an excellent book reviewer, perhaps for the New York Times and an astronaut. Did I ever tell you about my days of watching A Baby Story and how I was convinced that I would make a most excellent Ob/Gyn even though I failed biology? No? Well there you have it.

HB: dissecting the banal by day, Vera Wang protégé by night. Oh, my next life.

Loverly

“This is serious. Serious high fashion. And I made a tinker toy.” – Bradley B.*

Everything was lovely. Truly lovely; though I’m headed straight towards spinsterville with my flake out on Saturday night, I wasn’t nearly as upset and distraught as I’d normally be with such a cop out.

But who cares? There was that sense of ‘Ahhh. All is well’ in the air. ‘Ahhh all is well. Perhaps I will run 15 miles and limit myself to less than 2,000 calories.’ And then I woke up from my apparent dream state to a true reality: One that no longer consisted of fingerless potheads traipsing through my apartment in hopes of becoming my new roommate (In case you were wondering, that dude will not be celebratin 4/20 in the confines of my living room).

On Thursday I had made a list of everything that I needed to accomplish for the weekend:

(Ahem)

Procure Silk soy coffee, watch Project Runway, eat French fries, go to the gym, sleep all day, drinks with Kimber, make like an illusionist and escape from helping new roommate move in, read, become mildly inebriated, get carpets cleaned, attempt to live off of $52 for the course of the weekend (including a trip to Whole Foods to procure the aforementioned silk soy coffee), seriously think about going to the gym, do not watch anyone else's children

And lo and behold, I managed to do everything on my list, save for the drinks with Kimber. But who cares? There was forward movement, with progress.

Hell, I managed to be NICE people. NICE. For an entire weekend. I didn’t even swear once. (Did you not see the headlines? ‘Hell feezes over! Pigs fly!’ ) I didn’t even refer to the cops that hit on me on Sunday morning as dumb shits lacking both brains and balls. Nope. Didn’t dare. I managed to just roll my eyes and keep walking.

I think all the niceties may have come about when the nice group of Christian** boys (For real Christians, like just came from church and then one said “Well in High School, when I became a Christian.” So yeah, I am sure…) who decided to sit with me at Cosi (there were like 2 tables and mine happened to be a larger one in the shade…) when another somewhat socially inept guy came up to them and started chatting they just smiled and made small talk and that was the end. They didn’t even turn to each other, with saucer eyes, and mouth ‘Awkward.’ Nope. They were just nice. And that niceness apparently rubbed off on me.

And when I came home! To my apartment! (Can’t stop with the exclamations!) It looked glorious! And there was a dining room table! With slip covers on the chairs! And a cake dish thingy! With a cake recipe that wasn’t from Betty Crocker! Amazing!

We’ll see how long the exclamation points! And the niceties, will last. Sadly though, I doubt it will be for long. Especially since my religion involves praying at the alter of Tim Gunn, with a glass of Cab Sauvignon at my side.



*I might get cable, solely to watch people make outfits seemingly made out of tin foil.

** Please don't take that as a slight to Christians. I am a Christian. Just at some point my religious learning went a little askew and I tend to say "Holy motherfucker" a lot.

Blogiversaries: like birthdays without the presents or money

OR: A year ago today I lost my mother fucking mind.

“If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

Last week I received an email (or maybe a comment.) from someone claimed to be “addicted to [my] blog”. Which made me tempted to change the tagline to No Pasa Nada: Just like crack or something equally as unfunny. I can see where the addiction might come from; all of those times I discuss random shopping excursions, having sex on an ibook, a dependence on McDonald’s, why Meredith Gray is an evil whore and MC Hammer – yup, addictive indeed. I can picture this woman sitting alone and looking forlorn, tears streaming down her face as she stares at the monitor, saying between sobs “I wish I knew how to quit you HB”. No Pasa Nada: Like your favorite gay cowboy.

There’s really nothing funny about graduating from College. There’s also nothing remotely amusing about having $5.45 in your savings account or contemplating writing erotic literature for money because you have a “flare for the written word and an active imagination.” (someone actually said that to me. Seriously) So terribly unfunny but sadly one of those things that one must go through. It’s inevitable, right up there with death and taxes, so is being forced to pay your own rent. Of the very few things that I enjoy about myself, I can say that I enjoy my ability to see reality for what it is and to (sometimes) rationalize the absurdity of things right now. It’s so fucking trite. Everything right now is trite bullshit that will get better in a few years. It won’t ALWAYS be like this. But then again I also have a flare for hyperbole and am convinced that when things are fucked in my little world that that is how it will be and I should probably toss myself off a balcony. The point is to make the very unfunny, into something close to mildly amusing, because everyone goes through this period of life and while it sucks, it’s nice to know that I am not the only one.

My dramatic outbursts and my amplified statements as to why things are going to Hell in a hand basket are precisely the reasons for why my parents sent me 400 miles away: Because they could not deal with the talking and the drama and the endless hypothetical situations based solely on irrational thought. Thus the reason for why when I say thank you to you all and want to hug and maybe lick you, I really truly mean it. Despite the endless prosaic rants and the fact that I use the word ‘fuck’ no less than four times when speaking of small children, means that you all are either hardcore sadomasochists (Good for you!) or you have been here before. Here in this place that I affectionately call purgatory when one is always dangling precariously awaiting the next bad thing to happen: The ‘bad thing’ which always ends up being that ‘stupid thing that happened and I really can’t remember why I was crying and threw a wine glass on the floor’. It’s times like that when I realize that this is just how it is until one turns 25.

(And please don’t use this moment to tell me that things do not get better because then I’ll kick you.)

(Oh and thanks for helping me work through my propensity for violence)

I could say that I do this because it’s cheaper than therapy (and closer) and that I just love the internet with every fiber of my being. Though the story is that I am an eternal narcissist and read an article about Stephanie Klein and it snowballed from there: Into emails to random pregnant women about babysitting their unborn child and slight indiscretions against my leasing office and a 72 hour jaunt to California. What I’m saying is that it’s been fun and sadly for all of you I have no intention of quitting at anytime in the near future.

So if you all continue to wait with baited breath about my awful life of visits to Martha’s Vineyard and new Kate Spade bags, then I will keep writing about them. Just don’t blame me when you tire of this crap and want to stick a sporksteak knife in your eye, for you’ve been properly warned.

Issues

“I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.” ~Jane Wagner

I think it might very well be the heat. Yes! That’s it! The heat has turned me into a slimy slithering slug that has found itself sticking and holding on for dear life onto a rather precarious surface. The heat! That’s what should’ve been the answer when I announced “I’ve never had an asian/white republican male/hippy looking republican female for a roommate. I wonder what that will be like?” Yup, the heat. Not the fact that I’ve turned into a bigoted slug creeping around getting closer to the edge. Peering down and possibly letting go because of exhaustion.

Yes, the heat. Which is why I just spent much of my time crafting a post as to why there are no fucking forks anywhere in the free world and why I threw out my ONLY fork for the day. And the heat will be to blame when I explain why I’ve just spent the past two hours of my life watching the movie that brought little Shiloh Nouvel to all of our lives. Crap ass move that it is, seeing Adam Brody and Vince Vaughn almost make up for the crap ass acting skills of Shiloh’s parents.

So, yes the heat is why I have some serious issues today. I’m going to go cry and/or nap and/or watch Harry Potter now. I do hope you kids are having equally as wonderful (If I’m miserable, everyone should be miserable) days.

And you?

“Politeness is the art of choosing among one's real thoughts.” ~Abel Stevens

Leave it to my cynical and pessimistic ass to question the legitimacy of whether or not someone actually means it when they ask how my weekend was or what I am up to for the weekend, but there it is because I would really like to know. It’s one of those standard things that is polite to do I would imagine. But it’s also polite to do a lot of things, like say, telling someone that they have a little something hanging out of their nose, but then again, I am mean. And unless I really like you, I might just let that person go on with their bad selves and a little boogie off their right nostril, for my own amusement.

But really, when one asks how my weekend was or went, does that person actually care or is it just because their Mom taught them manners and I was raised by heathens? Do you really care that I took a three hour nap on Saturday in between viewings of A Clockwork Orange and Chasing Amy? Or that I had to resist the urge to laugh at a four year old for screaming about the small cut on his toe, because my God, a small scrape does not a staph infection make. Are these things that you are really waiting with baited breath to hear about?

I will admit that I do ask how one’s weekend went if I know that the person I am asking had an interesting weekend filled with a ménage a troi and a visit to TenPenh planned; because those are two things that I might actually be interested in hearing about. But then again, I am mean and also can be somewhat polite because them there heathens that raised me (they actually adopted me from a pack of grizzlies)…well they done taught me to be polite and endure conversations about how a normal trip to the beach took like 8 full hours because of the traffic. Because I would never bore anything with such a thing. Ever.

So a question for all of you: Is asking how the weekend went or what the plans for the weekend will be an act of politeness or do you really care or are you participating in some social experiment on how long it takes for one to be bored to actual tears?

Mecca

“A man may be a pessimistic determinist before lunch and an optimistic believer in the will's freedom after it.” ~Aldous Huxley

I once had a blow out – a diaper blow out that is – in the middle of the frozen food section of Edwards in Latham, NY. At 6 months old, my mother had to abandon ship and run me home or risk cute baby girl poop all over the supermarket tile. There were also numerous occasions where either I or G would decide that the produce section, somewhere between the oranges and bananas, would be high time to throw a tantrum. Because my god! Grocery shopping is the idea of the Devil himself!

Apparently at some point over the past 21 years, I found Jesus and purchasing my $9 blueberries from Whole Foods is the highlight of my weekend. Do not disturb me while grocery shopping. I talk about how glorious the frozen foods are at Trader Joe’s “My, greek pizza or frozen pad thai? I cannot decide. I’ll get both” I get into a grocery store and suddenly I have a need for capers and 100 calorie oreo packs. Never mind that I eat capers if Michael Richards himself will be putting them on my braised salmon. I abhor oreos, but only find 100 calorie packs nifty. People! I go to three different grocery stores every weekend, mostly because I’m terrified of what the cantaloupe at safeway has on it, but trader joe’s doesn’t have fresh cantaloupe, but they do have cheap frozen Alaskan salmon, and whole foods does have cantaloupe but $20 salmon. Do you see the problem?

I’ve had many a conversation with family members as to why I must go to Whole Foods. Despite the fact that I grew up on Cheetos and chicken wings from Price Chopper and have apparently made it through the past 22 years unscathed. But no, now? Now, I need my organic watermelon and tomatoes that are nice, red and plump and won’t give me scabies.

So imagine the surprise of Mah and LB when I announced that I had never been to Costco. I, the grocery store lover of all grocery store lovers had never been to Costco. We don’t have them in upstate NY. We have BJs and Sam’s Club, but no Costco nor do I have a membership*. At the suggestion and evite of Mah, I went to Mecca:

Kid in a candy store would be the most apt adumbration** for such a thing. I was wide eyed and cruising around that place as if Jesus Christ himself were to emerge from the 3lb box of Healthy Harvest Pasta: Because that would have to happen at a place that sells a case of Yeungling for only 15 dollars. I had to start deciding between a 42 pack of toilet paper (I use it daily, so it might be useful) or a giant wheel of brie (bake it for me and spread it on a cracker and I’ll fall deeply in love). I decided against both and bought a giant sized bottle of cabernet sauvignon – shiraz mix (I will use it daily and it’s necessary. And let’s be honest, you can steal toilet paper from anywhere).

In a word: beautiful. And yet I was sad. Not because I spent an excessive amount on 13 flavors of qaker oatmeal or because I didn’t get the giant wheel of brie, but because I began projecting. What if I end up with a child who was like me? Tantrums and massive poops while I try to enjoy my shopping experience? What if I have to start going with a list because little HB Jr. throws hs or herself in a fit of rage on the gorgeous orange display? I cannot fathom the thought.

And yet another reason to never have children: They will no doubt ruin my grocery shopping experience and I just couldn’t handle that.

*Feel free to take me with you of course if you have one.
**That's what studying for the GREs gets you...remember that kids.

Tsetse Fly

*Warning: contains lots of 'fucks'*

"You know another class I took at Harvard? Business Ethics. I don't steal other people's mother fucking clients, but in your case I'm going to make an exception. I'm going to take everyone; your B-level sitcom stars, your reality-TV writers, when I'm done with you, you're gonna be repping sideshow freaks. You need Jo-Jo the Dog-Face-Bitch-Boy? Call Josh Weinfuck, the lightweight pen-stealing fuckface." – Ari Gold

An open letter to Ari, Vince, Drama and Turtle:

I had to return you boys and Ari back last week. I didn't have to, but I know that there is more out there. But it wasn't without trepidation and a little sadness. For there is something that you do to me Ari …hell, something that Vinny Chase and Drama do to me that make my heart flutter and want to take y'all on some extravagant meal to Koi. We could be friends, I seriously do believe. I would laugh and bat my pretty eyelashes at Vince. Drama and I would play 18 holes and I would be gracious and let him win the front nine. Because I am nice like that. Ari could make stupid jokes about being calling him Helen Keller because he is a miracle worker and I would laugh maniaclly – as I already do – and repeat everything he said. Our first introduction would be a hug and a whisper of "tsetse fly" in his ear. We'd laugh at my Exodus reference and I would lament on how awful Terrence is. And that Melinda Clark! what a bitch. Then dear sweet Turtle: I'd be sure to bring him some lox and a little corn beef on rye…maybe an 8th if I feel so inclined. Because that is what nice people do.

You boys, oh you boys. You all bring me up when I'm down and are always there for me, except for now of course, but only because I'm too stubborn to let you in. I can't yet know that Aquaman does well and that Ari starts his own agency or that Sloan and Eric have a threesome. No. Not quite yet.
For now, I will sit and dream of a visit to the Ivy with my boys while Arnold sits and stares longingly and I'll feed him table scraps and tell him what a good little Rottweiler he is. And for what it'sworth, Vince, darling, Mandy was so not worth it. And Ari, loveable crass Ari, though you are wholly un-PC, every time I heard you say "Listen, Lloyd, I want you to put all my files, folders, binders, *everything* into a box! If you find a used condom, an executioner's mask, and a fucking spike paddle, don't think, just pack that bitch! Chop suey!" I fell in love with you just a little more.

Y'all rock my fucking world and don't you forget it.

Love,
HB

This little piggy

"Some days are like that. Even in Australia."- Judith Viorst

There is a bruise and a piece of skin scraped off of one of the piggies. The piggy that went to the market if you really must know. That piggy didn't throw a fit and spark a revolution in the name of mutiny, but instead is attached to an owner who ran into a suitcase left in the middle of the foyer. Which as we all know, is the proper place to keep a suitcase. So off the little piggy went, limping along to a room that resembled the aftermath of Hiroshima.


So, the little piggy did the best it could to tear it's owner away from the scene. In the process it's owner felt strong and powerful enough - maybe due to psychosis brought on by exhaustion and stupid people - to remove a large bed through a tiny doorway. Though it's owner tried with all her might to leave both door, bed and little piggy unscathed; the little piggy - the one that only wanted to go to the market - was once again hit by a flying metal object. It's owner's cheap ass bed frame then cracked to shit.

And while the little piggy surveyed it's new surroundings; its owner whimpered and cried and cursed the Swedes for making stupid cheap ass furniture. For the piggy's owner had been sucked into the trap of a furniture mecca where beds still left money for plenty of wine. As the piggy's owner swore, he - the little piggy - looked around and couldn't help but notice how it's new home held a striking resemblence to an 8 x 10 cell at Attica.

There was little sleep for the weary and the next day the little piggy dragged it's fitfull owner to her responsibilities. Where finally, she consumed several miniture brownies in her consentrated effort to make both herself and the little piggy feel better. But it is a well known fact that the little piggies would much prefer Shiraz to 12 brownies and so the owner did as the little piggy wished. And this little piggy, who went to the market is now an inebriated little piggy with a lovely little bruise.

The end.