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Saturday, September 30, 2006


To the only male I willingly give up my evenings for:

I adore you, kid. I hope you grow up knowing how truly wonderful you are; occasional projectile vomiting notwithstanding. Oh and sorry about that little stroller vs. bump in the sidewalk mishap.

Have a very, very Happy 1st Birthday.


P.S. Parents, if you're ever looking for an excellent recliner for your toddler, invest in a Heather. Comes with a soft, plush middle for laying one's sweet head on. Perfect for those evenings full of Blues Clues and Catch that Train. Get yours today.

P.P.S. Read Amy's (if you already haven't of course). And try to keep the weeping to a minimum.


Thursday, September 28, 2006


“Swearing was invented as a compromise between running away and fighting.” ~Peter Finley Dunne, Mr. Dooley's Opinions, 1900

Walking to work guarantees that I’ll be privy to some of the craziest shit imaginable. It’s not like it’s the metro, bus or a car, which all cost money. No, walking is free and most everyone can do it.

It’s normally the homeless people that are scattered about my path, muttering and hollering out to anyone but no one. Also the tourists and the occasional asshat who apparently didn’t do too well in walking school, lest he would realize that taking up the entire sidewalk, will get him a pen to the jugular. But on this particular day, as I turned the corner, I saw two young males who were about 10 or 11 on their way to school.

Both boys were in active conversation about a girl in their class; when in an instant one said to the other, as clear as day “Well then that bitch wouldn’t move.” It was said in the most perfunctory* way imaginable as if a perfectly normal thing. I was utterly taken aback by it and the casual way in which he used the word.

I curse like a sailor. I’ve been reprimanded for it time and time again and have tried to curb it, because it’s rude and totally unnecessary 99.9% of the time. And yet my language is peppered with it, partially because I know that I’m an adult and I just can, but also because a hearty “fuck” just adds a little special something to whatever asinine thing I might be spouting. It’s still rude, though those that I’ve been reprimanded by are family members and one considerably older ‘friend’ who claimed to only be joking, but still I got it. But then again, I am an adult**. Though it is crass and completely unladylike, I am still an adult and I am aware of what I am saying.

I am also aware of the different connotations of the word can mean. Those two boys that were referring to their classmate a “bitch” probably had heard it from some family member or some other adult, who again, used it in such a carefree way that these young boys found it to be the equivalent of the word “girl” or “woman.”

To plop myself on a soapbox and twirl my hair, would be hypocritical to say the least. I just don’t get it. Maybe my uber introspective thought process as of late has me thinking of all the times that I’ve called someone a bitch or cursed unnecessarily (which, for the record is a rather regular thing). All I know is that we’ll chalk this one for the list of things that baffle me and I’ll apologize to my cousin for that time I called her a bitch, in the middle of the mall.

From now on I’ll just use “evil whore.” It gets the point across just the same. No?

*Perfunctory was used in honor of Stacypalooza ’06. Sadly no yahootinis or 650 other women this time, but there will be pictures. Also, because we’re classy ladies, there will be no myspace worthy ass and/or boob grabbing shots. Scratch that, I’m sure I’ll get drunk enough and to it eventually.

**I laughed out loud when I wrote that. ADULT! HA!

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Wee things

"Babies are such a nice way to start people." ~Don Herrold

Over Christmas, Matza and I ventured over to Toys R Us to pick up some items for the family she had “adopted” for the holidays. I’m not one to quickly scamper by FAO Schwartz or the giant sized Geoffrey in Times Square. There’s something about the whimsy and fun of being in a toy store. I like seeing what’s new and sort of rekindling the youth that I know I’ll never get back and yet for some reason like to recall it and some would say reenact it quite often. Regardless, it was just a harmless traipsing through the store.

Now, Matz, is the girl who would like to be married with children within the next three years. She’s the girl who likes to venture over to baby gap while on our daily rounds through the mall. She fondles baby clothes and makes that ‘aww, how sweet’ face when looking at the myriad of things for little people. She’s a baby person and she’s not afraid to admit it, whereas I was perfectly at peace with the phrase 'tubal ligation'.

Matza is the girl who, on this particular trip to Toys R Us, decided to venture through the baby things. The high chairs, cribs, baby bjorns, changing table, walkers. Everything got the once over and a flip of the tag. I’m convinced she was making a mental tally of a future baby registry. For the record, she is a fan of Eddie Bauer furniture and likes hard grain wood. And I’m almost positive that through her perusal, she practiced saying her future child’s name as she fondled the wood grain on the cherry aspen changing table.

The highlight of the entire trip was when she would flip over the tags and say “It’s only $99. It’s not that bad.” As I trailed behind and stopped abruptly upon hearing: “Babies aren’t that expensive.” Now given that I have no ‘fruit of the womb’ or anything resembling such, I am well aware that though each piece of furniture may seem ‘cheap’, it adds up. Not to mention that from what I’ve heard, babies need to eat and since you really don’t want them shitting all over your new oriental rug, you’d want to purchase diapers of some sort. And then there’s schooling, orthodontia, and the first time little Billy rear ends some woman at an intersection. I dunno, it just all eventually adds up.

I was good though, and refrained from pointing all of this little things out to her and allowed her to venture on her merry way thinking about how wonderful little baby things are, while I tried not to swallow my tongue. That’s not to say I don’t like babies or things for little cute chubby babies. It’s just that I’ve never been one of those girls who dive bombs into the baby section at Macy’s while my ovaries spontaneously combust with the thought of procreation.

I’m just not that girl. Not that I have a problem with those girls, but I guess reality rears it’s ugly head and I realize that babies, though quite cute and lovely also grow up. All of this is coming to fruition as I’ve been searching for the perfect first birthday present and yet I’ve come up with nothing thus far. So this weekend, I shall diligently peruse the shelves of baby Gap, Toys R’ Us and Nordstrom, looking for something that makes my ice cold, black as tar heart turn to mush. Or maybe I’ll just buy him a ball and add it to the list of things he will inevitably learn to throw at my head.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Genius Bar

"Life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating." ~O. Henry, The Gifts of the Magi

I had to visit the Genius Bar. I hate the Genius Bar. Not because they do a terrible job, but because it’s one of the few places I never want to experience. There’s nothing exciting about the Genius Bar. It’s one of those things that you know exists but you don’t want to experience: like the plague or Ann Coulter. But I’m handling it really well. I was composed and unlike the last time I didn’t cry, scream or give anyone the finger. I also didn’t have sex on an ibook, so really it was somewhere in the middle. Let’s say that it didn’t end well and it’s something I’ll have to accept.

Let’s talk about something else: Masectomies! Maybe if I say it with an exclamation point I’ll feel better about it, but alas not. Nope. Motherfuckingshitballsdamnit. That didn’t help either. But look! I’ve gone from only being able to say “fucking sucks” and have expanded my vocabulary to include ‘shit’ and ‘damn it’. Progress!

Ok speaking of ‘Genius’ (because I don’t want to see and/or hear the words breasts, boobies, or any formation thereof. The end), though I’m sure that none of the following are Mensa members, I would like to present to you HB’s random list of people (read: Bloggers) that she is obsessed with. Special emphasis on random, because it’s totally just that and really, do you care? I’m not Heather Armstrong, so who gives a damn about my special list of specialness? But let’s say these people aren’t nearly as lame as I’m being right now. So read them. Now. And if you feel so inspired share your favorites as well. Sharing means caring, people:

Mocha Momma: Kelly called me a zygote the first time I met her. Which is ok, because I was a little drunk and I’m pretty sure she may have been too. And yet, I find her awesome. Also very pretty. She also enjoys a little Ari Gold action and Starbucks. She also let her daughter get a tattoo and encouraged it. We won’t discuss my Peg’s reaction when I got mine; just not very pretty.

The Girl Who: Monica can write better than I could ever hope to do. The end. Her husband is also in a band, a fucking fantastic band I might add. Really though, you’ll love her. Promise.

Waiterrant: Yes. Yes I am the last person on Earth to find Waiterrant. And yes, yes you can make fun of me about it. Go right on ahead. Sometimes makes my life look like Heaven.

Que Sera Sera: Again, I am slow. Verrrrrrrrry slow. And quite often I am the last person to find or experience things. People in real life know this, so I figure y’all should know about my particular brand of slowness as well. Enjoy!

If You Read Only One Blog This Year: It’s like the longest title fucking ever. But again, with the fucking fantastic writing. Even better? When you ask Bone how exactly he does it, he just shrugs like it’s nothing, which makes me want to punch him, and very hard. He's so good, that I have totally gotten over the fact that he is from Alabama and thinks that 'General Hospital' is superior to 'Days of our lives.'

Wonkette: While I know that the lovely people over at Wonkette don’t need very much pimping, I still jump up and get a little giddy when they update. Yes, I do realize that they update like 173 times a day, but I still heart them. Check out their Sen. Allen coverage specifically and when you find yourself on the floor in a fit of laughter, you’ll learn to love and appreciate them too.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown: Amy has changed the way I shop for bras and how I put on my makeup. My boobs (damn it, I broke my own rule!) look better and my face looks a little less hellish.

Mighty Goods: Let’s say you’re looking for a perfect necklace or really cute nylon bins (which, HA! Those suckers aren’t on sale anymore, I got like 25 of them for $15 two months ago) or just whatever perfect thing you want, Maggie has it. I swear it’s like Christmas over there every single day.

DC Foodies: I dunno, because I love to eat? Because when I googled Italian Store pizza, his was the first site to pop up? Because whenever I’m looking for a restaurant, his is the first site I go to? No matter the reason it’s fantastic and helpful.

FourFour: Read this and then come back. Now, did you die? Are you reading this from the after life? Was that not some of the funniest shit EVER! It’s also an extra dose of Michael Knight each week. And I love Michael Knight. I’m going to marry him, after he kicks Jeffery’s ass that is. Oh, and there’s not just Project Runway recaps, there’s more, but right now everything revolves around ProRun.

So yeah, it’s random. Really random and duh, just peruse ye olde blogroll because they are ALL far better than I. But sadly that's all I’ve got in lieu of depressing things that I know could be worse. Enjoy and all that good shit. I’ll be over here watching television and trying not to use the word ‘boobies’ too frequently.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Fall girl

"Fall says so many things – all of them whimsically, nonchalantly and punctuated by things caught up in sudden, skirt-lifting breezes." – Heather Hunter

I find it most difficult to write lists. I have grandeur dreams of what I will do with my list ('oh the things I shall accomplish') and then it ends up jettisoned at the bottom of my bag, crumpled up and forgotten. I started a list of the things I wanted to say but couldn't. At first it was dragging and there really was nothing there, then it gained a mind of its own and really, y'all haven't seen acerbic speech, until you've seen this list.

When I read through it I realized that these are my perceptions of people. It was a list of how these 14 (!) individuals make me feel. Really, it's a list of how I react to others. People can't help being socially awkward and inept or vengeful sluts who need to move the fuck on and get over themselves already. Some people are born to be self serving idiots, while others are born to be truly wonderful people who I can't imagine not having around.

All of that was on 'The list.' Because I cannot bear to tell anyone to their face how much I dislike them nor can I tell anyone how terrified I am of losing them. It's just all about my feelings towards people and whether or not I allow their actions to affect me. It's very unlike me I would say, to try and gear my feelings toward changing my behavior and to not become overwhelmed by my neurotic tendencies and realize that it's other people, not me.

It's my favorite time of the year. I have so fucking much to look forward to over the next few weeks that it makes me explode with excitement. Do I really have the time to become caught up in someone else's bullshit? Do I really need to become consumed with the insensitive and thoughtless decisions of others?

I'm training myself to let things go. Do less comparing. If I really have something to say, I usually say it, but there's no point in pointing out deep flaws that cannot be changed without years of excellent health insurance for psychotherapy and Xanax. But then again, I am human and I do have feelings and thoughts and cares, so we shall see. Maybe I'll just try saying the – few and far between – good things on my list. I just need to not worry so much about others, because I am the eternal narcissist and it's always about me. Besides it's fall. Fall means new clothes and perfect evenings with coffee, my kick ass fireplace and the people that really matter. Fall - and I'm particuarly confident in this one - makes everything better.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

On blogging

"No road is long with good company." ~Turkish Proverb

There was a very serious conversation. During which, I said in complete seriousness – perhaps with a sigh, because how could she not know – "Scar is Mufasa's brother. Scar has a gaggle of hyenas that follow him. Scar wants to be the King, but instead Simba becomes the king. So Scar kills Mufasa" so on and so forth, until I busted out in a fit of (Pilsner induced) laughter.

Beyond the earnest talk of what exactly Pumba is (a warthog if you're wondering), there was the usual gossip (you know you do it too), whether or not I should take Robbie's last name or leave it as is (you know that my boys kick ass), and well blogging (which, you know you do it too).

I've met a lot of other bloggers and it's something that I no longer find odd nor do I think that one of them has an intricate plan to off me, including – but not limited to – shoving me in a wood chipper a la Fargo. Most of those, whom I have met, are now my "real friends." Far too often, I put my foot in my mouth and say "well my real friends" etc. But they understand what I mean. The line has been blurred far too many times on my part as to my 'real' life and my 'blogging' life. It's just my life and nothing strikes me as weird about it and yet for some reason I shy away from discussing it with…well…my 'real friends' because I fear what they might think of me and the situation in general. It was difficult enough explaining to coworkers and others why I suddenly fancied San Jose as a vacation destination. Details were needed and yet I could give none. Basically when it comes to discussing blogging, I become elusive as hell and I've run out of excuses for how I know "My friend Joe" from some small ass obscure town of which only residents of that state are aware. It's awkward; mostly because saying that I 'know' someone from the internet, sounds so odd. And I'm odd enough as it is, we really need not throw in that I find meeting people that I don't know, somewhat...gasp...enjoyable.

During marathon babysitting last weekend (which, I'm really not complaining, I adore the kids I babysat for last week, even when they scream loudly in my ear, because the microwave isn't performing as quickly as they would like), one family asked about the other family I babysit for – what they did, how I met them - and as usual I hemmed and hawed and possibly likened the parents to a novelist and food critic. I shit you not. Thankfully it was left at that, and no mention of the lovely email I sent them stating that I would love to babysit their unborn child (at the time) and I know where they live. Which is fucking weird. But we're totally past that and it's hysterical now, but to tell that to a 'regular' person makes me look like I should be wearing a white straight jacket type contraption and/or strapped to a table until my valium kicks in.

There's also the age old persona question. Am I being real or fake? Is my name really Heather? Do I really drink that much and spend that much on alcohol? Real. Yes. And no. I was speaking with another blogger and he alluded to me being of a 'higher echelon' than him, because of my constant talk of wine, Kate Spade or Coach and Martha's Vineyard. Which, HA! Really, do I come off as that pretentious? I'm sitting here typing this in a pair of five year old black gap pants that are way too big and tomorrow I might rock the skirt I bought for my 8th grade graduation. Because hello world! I am so very, very cheap. I buy expensive bags on sale and only because they will last for-fucking-ever. Other than that, I still think that Old Navy is the best place ever. Though yes, I am pretentious about the make up because it goes on my face. My. Face. I suppose I'm harping on that, because I'm always taken aback by what people think of me. Beyond me possibly being pretentious, I am like this – neurotic, narcissistic, annoying, drunk, wholly unfunny, and liberal – in real life. I talk a lot of shit, I say fuck way too much and I call my mother Peg, but mostly in public to get her over the cacophony of 'MOM' being yelled out in Nieman Marcus. Kidding, I meant Saks.

Anyway, there was my drinking companion. If you met Lizzie in real life, she's become your drinking companion as well. Fuck, if you met 99.9% of the bloggers I've met in real life, you'd be moved to lick them and pinch their cheeks as well. They are just that spectacular. And hopefully one day I'll be a little less timid about saying how I met them: Especially when speaking of the bloggers that encourage me to get drunk and then proceed to steal condiments from cheap ass bars.

Seriously, wtf? Who the hell steals sugar? I suppose it's for her little starbucks problem, but really sweetie, I have a full box of splenda at home that you can have. My gift to you.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


"City of dreams, you don't know what it means, to only dream about it, I know" - Marah

My last visit to the National Zoo was on an 8th grade field trip. This is funny, not just because I’ve been living here for five years, but beause I spent four of the past five years, living with in spitting distance of the zoo. And yet, I have not been, not once.

Do you ever forget where you are? There are days when I'm walking down the street only to be stopped in my tracks by a group of Japanese tourists staring at the great phallus symbol in the sky. Oh yes, I remember. It happens more than once, that I look out my window or see David Wu casually chatting with his neighbors and I remember where I live and how much I had always wanted to live here and that people actually pay good money to come to this city only to be accosted for not standing on the right side of the metro. Which: OH my hell. The end.

So, I decided to go out and stand amongst the hoi polloi. Actually, I just really needed a little Tiziano in my life and he and his Venetian painting ass would be gone after Sunday. This leads me to another point - perhaps entire post - about how much I miss
Europe. In Europe I spent hours being touristy and letting the Spaniards know that Uggs are the most comfortable things ever, in life, I don’t care how fugly they are. I spent hours staring at Reina Sophia and Museo Borghese and the landscaping and architecture; I dunno, I guess I’ve been spoiled. Being here after seeing all of that – not that I’ve seen much, of that I can assure you – kind of makes me think “eh” when it comes to traipsing around DC. But that doesn’t stop the kids from Duluth Christian Academy from rolling on through:

Still my favorite building ever. Love it. I'm actually trained to give tours there. I can tell you all about the frieze in the dome.

Look! People in Georgetown who aren't annoying!

Would it be immature of me to say that there's a giant penis right there?

Goya! Where have you been all my life?

In my next life, I'm going to have a little boy atop a fountain in my living room.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Dear Diary: II

"I don't lie. I'm like George frickin' cherry tree Washington, yo" ~ Bone

Dear Diary,

Today was far better than yesterday, thank you for asking. As I was able to successfully practice the art of denial: If I don’t discuss it, it doesn’t exist. Try it! It works!

It’s amazing how much one’s outlook can change when there are things to look forward to, like moving from PC to Mac and new (smaller!) jeans and payday and a savings account that doesn’t look at me with sad puppy dog eyes because it’s so very weak. But it won’t after this weekend because I will be babysitting three times on Saturday! I have no idea how this happened, but alas it is true and there’s my old friend denial. I’ll live.

There’s also a trip to Toys R’ Us in the works, my birthday, midterm elections and a trip to ATL (what you know about that?). By then it will be Thanksgiving and Christmas and I figure that I’ll hold off on stepping out into Dupont Circle with my eyes closed, immediately after the light turns green, to sometime in January. Look! Things are improving!

Most importantly, Stacy is coming. Let me repeat, STACY IS COMING:

(from left: Moi, Swiss Kris, Jurgen's Mama)

Notice how being in the presence of Kris and Stacy makes me do that funny thing where the corners of my mouth turn upward? I think it’s called smiling or something. Actually I think I had already started partaking in the free wine by then. No matter, Stacy is coming and I can share my disdain for all things on God’s green earth with another one of my favorite people.

Here’s to the weekend and thriving liver,


Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Dear Diary*

*This is your brain. This is your brain on very little sleep.**
**No Pasa Nada: Like a 1987 crack commercial***
***No Pasa Nada: Just say no

“You’ve come this far and I’m still here. Don’t look back. Don’t turn around. Don’t be melancholy now” – JST

Dear Diary,

Today was a generally shitty day. In fact every day is a shitty day even though there’s no need to feel shitty. ‘Holy infatuation, Batman’ to boot.

Also there’s this whole mastectomy business that I still don’t know how I feel about. It’s a lot to process and once I’m done processing I’m sure I’ll be a little more eloquent than “this fucking sucks. Why doesn't anything go well? Woe is me."

And finally, this evening I lived my worst nightmare (which is relative given this whole breast cancer thing): See, this morning I went to work in heels because I had a cab take me so I didn’t have the usual flip flops. I had planned to go to the gym after work. When I got to the gym, I realized I didn’t have a shirt with me, but didn’t want to walk home in heels. So what did I have to do? I had to wear the horror or horrors: the dreaded a-line skirt with adidas and socks look that I’ve managed to avoid for the last 22 years and 10 months. Skirt and sneakers. I practically ran down the street. It could have only been worse if I had been wearing stockings.

So yeah, that was my day. Oh and then I got home and choked on a cracker. Seriously, it was pretty bad and scary. Then I played awkward conversation time with the roommate. Fun as always.

It feels like every time I take two steps forward, I take 47 steps back.
Here’s hoping that tomorrow is better.


Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Favorite Days

“’Well,’ said Pooh, ‘what I like best,’ and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.” ~A.A. Milne

Christmas is always a good one. I love it. I love every Carol of the Bells and wrapping paper filled moment. And being selfish inevitably means I enjoy the presents.

My birthday: Again with the presents and the love and being a wino inevitably means I enjoy the (many) free drinks.

While I enjoy pointing out my general weird traits like ice chewing and listening to ABBA, I am reluctant to mention how much I enjoy days like today. No matter how cloudy or gray, the anticipation of today is always lurking and well, it’s just odd. But here goes: Election Day. I fucking love Election Day. Ok, so today is Primary Day, but I still love it.

I’m less than inclined to hop upon a soapbox and give a lecture on the importance of voting and democracy. But will instead say that it’s the anticipation of what will happen and what can happen that drives me to enjoy it so much. Those who know me in real life know why I feel so strongly about it but this isn’t “real life” or a place for me to divulge all, so I’ll leave it at that.

Besides, the excitement and eagerness for an even numbered year makes me seem less selfish, as it isn't just all about me. The first Tuesday in November arrives and my heart pumps with giddiness. For once I look forward to a day in which I really am clueless as to how it will end* and it’s a day that is most certainly not about buying me things. While I know that I enjoy my freedom and stickers that proudly say ‘I voted’, several other million people enjoy the same. It’s a day without presents and yet there is fanfare and joy (and sorrow. But let’s be optimistic here, kids) and awaiting the end. Emotions fluctuate and sometimes there are tears but either way Election Day always drives me to want to do better.

Of course all of this is preemptive optimism and come November 8th I might be the most miserable person on the planet. I might even be forced to use the ‘F’ word more than usual. Think optimism and blue, kids.

*Election Day 2004 will always be my favorite. I got to Peg’s hotel room at 4 AM and proceeded to scream, cry and throw things and then scream some more. Picture me livid. Now multiply that by 147 and the square root of 25. I think pissed is the word that we're looking for here.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Starting over

“The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keeps out the joy.” ~Jim Rohn

It’s lame. I know – Starting Over the show that is. It’s a train wreck though and you can’t help but watch. There have been many a day off where upon capitalizing on my complete indolence, I have found it much too difficult to change the channel between ‘Ellen’ and ‘Days of Our Lives’. So on it comes and I am enthralled.

But no matter, today is the day to do as such; because I’m not the sentimental type nor am I emotional. In fact I have no feelings and my heart is an ice cold black mass, but maybe I should try. Maybe I should start over with someone and this time act as if I know nothing. A tabula rasa that I wish I had had before. Though this time will be better – I will be better - and I will care and be OK and less neurotic and more supportive. I won’t project or worry about something that was never really there and I will exclaim “you’re my favorite” more often and really mean it. I’ll do what I can and open up and be more honest. I’ll tell the truth from the beginning, give what I can and take their words and thoughts without trepidation.

'Pervicacious' is my new favorite word. We know how I feel about words and this is right up there with ‘vitriolic’ on my list. The former describes me to a ‘T’: Too set in my ways and stubborn. I wish I could just let things go and not have a response to everything. Some things just need to be rhetorical and I need to shut the fuck up to put it mildly. I also need to stop being so god damn selfish; and well…at least I’m willing to try. In doing so, I will give my all and hope for the best but not automatically expect the worst. Because inevitably I’ll be OK. We’ll be OK.

Speaking of starting over, Michael Dell and I just had a terrible break up after his machine purged everything from my hard drive including over a year’s worth of writing and fodder. So now I’m cheating on him with Steve Jobs. I’ve said it before; Steve just does it for me whereas Michael makes me want to pour boiling water over my head to forget the pain of losing dozens of documents. Oh Steve, I just gotta let you know that I gotta crush on you.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

The prettiest woman

Because do you really want to hear a fun story about how I was just driving north on 395, I looked to my left at a certain five sided building and started to cry? Cry! Moving on…

“You are my shinin' star, my guiding light, my love fantasy”* – Luther Vandross

Last night (Read: 3:45 AM) I took a shuttle from Love to the Convention Center. If you know DC, you know that thee area between the two spots is shotty at best and you’d be best carrying a can of mace or a .38. Seated a row back and to the left of me was an older man, in his 50’s, with a fedora complete with feather. Other people were also in the seats surrounding us. When traveling I sit by the window and usually stare out and pay no attention and get lost in my own little world.

While doing such, there is a commotion coming from where the fedora clad man – I forgot to mention the zoot suit and red handkerchief in his breast pocket. We’re stopped at a light and he’s scrambling to open the window. He’s clawing at it trying to pry it open as quickly as possible. The shuttle is full and all turn around to see the cause of this man’s angst.

He finally is able to open the window and yells out “Wait right there! I’ll be right back,” while he holds onto the window then a “Shit” .A perfunctory drawn out ‘shit’. Shock maybe of his sheer luck at his find.

We all turn to see to whom he is hollering at and there at the corner is a ‘woman.’ ‘Woman’ is a term that I use loosely because what stood before us was some 6 foot tall person with an obvious weave sporting a mesh yellow mini dress, black undergarments clearly visible.

There’s laughter and then a man at the front turns around and yells “That’s a man!”
To which fedora clad man, pushes his head out the window and hollers, “You a man?!? You got a dick?!? You got a dick under there??” Then straightens his hat and tie and sits back down and announces that that is “I don’t care what she is. That’s the best looking thing I’ve ever seen.”

*There’s nothing like dancing with your coworkers to Luther at 2:15 AM, mouthing “Oh my looooove”. It truly was a lovely weekend.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Freakin' Weekend

“No party is any fun unless seasoned with folly.” ~Desiderius Erasmus

I’ve never been one of those girls who feel it necessary to describe my every drunk moment in detail complete with quotes and shit that is really funny when inebriated but sharp object in an eye socket worthy, when sober. There’s also a pesky memorization problem (Read: lack there of).

Given the above circumstances, please forgive me as I publicly try to rehash my evening. An evening which could best be described as a vodka tour of our nation’s capital. I preferred the Ketel One and Red Bull mix for the record. Very little hangover and far better than the Grey goose and cranberry at Love. Special shout out to Verizon: I already hate you in ways indescribable and even more hate for a lack of open bar. I figured with the $300 you milk from me each month would suffice enough to provide for free booze, but I suppose not.

Despite the lack of hangover, I, being the Peep Toe Queen of the World ™ , now have a busted knee and for some reason no feeling in one of my little piggies. Both of which I deserve as a punishment (hello karma! We meet again) because I returned home last evening to be sarcastically mean – natch – to one of my very favorites. But I guess he should be happy that I didn’t call him 'gay' or a 'girl' like I usually do.

Pictures to come soon because Common and Jamie Foxx are some sexy motherfuckers.

(Also to come soon apropos of the fact that I’m watching right now: Why is Cami such a fucking bitch??)

Friday, September 08, 2006

Summer's End

"Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it." ~Russel Baker

So a little bit of a newsflash that I’ve been seeing just about everywhere: Summer is over, school is back in session and mothers across the country (world too I suppose) are rejoicing and there is confetti and balloons and margaritas. I even received emails from the American University notifying me of Welcome Week activities on the quad and the Container Store is having a back to school sale and…and…nothing. Because this week feels exactly like the other 51 prior.

Here’s another fun fact about working that you don’t really think about when the HR department uses the phrase “And Blue Cross Blue Shield covers everything” quadruple exclamation point: The seasons? They all run together like one giant 365 day blob where you don’t even realize that it’s Christmas until sometime near December 15th and by then you’re ordering maniacally from Barnes and Noble.

Maybe I’m feeling a bit cynical and off kilter because since last year – my first year of careerdom - I’ve had a pang of sadness come August, when I start to feel the changes in the air or I’m driving through the city and I see 47 eager Freshman in brand new Polos traipsing around Georgetown with their parents. Call it jealousy or whatever, but that’s how I’m feeling.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my job and I like working and having a new sense of freedom and the ability to make my own decisions. Though daunting, it can also be exhilarating that I’m doing things that I really want to do and no one can tell me otherwise. But it is also so terribly hard to go from having all the time in the world and vacations and summer camp and a week to just ‘BE’ on a beach somewhere far far away. It’s as if one day I had all of those things – and of course complained because summer camp was just so terribly difficult – and the next day *poof*. Gone.

I’d be remiss not to mention that I did just return from a (very brief) vacation (Read: long weekend) in lovely Martha’s Vineyard. Though nice, I do recall sitting around one afternoon watching MSNBC and hearing that people need actual week long vacations in order to keep from wanting to step out in traffic. The ‘experts’ also made it very clear that a ‘long weekend’ just doesn’t cut it. Upon hearing this I whimpered.

I need a time machine. So that I can be transported back to 1998 – hell, 2003 – and be forced to take a vacation or to nap without having to worry about what I would be leaving behind or coming back to. Hindsight is so very 20/20. It’s amazing how little I appreciated the Christmas break, winter break, spring break and blizzards. If only I could do it all over again, but this time with feeling.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

So hard

"Sleep 'til you're hungry, eat 'til you're sleepy." ~Author Unknown

I've had a long and particularly trying week. Trying in a sense that it is all my fault and I'm getting myself all worked up over nothing. I feel like I need an assistant of sorts to keep me on my 'A' game and to remind me of the little things. Thank God for the Franklin-Covey, though I should probably be using it more. I suppose I like the idea and accessibility of a planner but I never put it to good use.

As 'difficult' as my life has been, what with the driving up and back to Martha's Vineyard (did you know that the I95 corridor is far larger in real life than on a map?) and my general lamenting, I cannot complain. As others seem to have it far harder than I:

Because apparently having someone else bathe, clothe and feed you is so very exhausting. I can see how it can be really hard to live a life that complicated. Hell, some days I feel like falling asleep while eating as well. Life must really be so hard for him. I feel for you man, really, I do.

(Also, another reason for why I probably shouldn't have children as I obviously getting food from container to mouth is a bit of a challenge for me. My children would all starve to death.)

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Third time's a charm

“In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer.” ~Mark Twain

Over the past week, I’ve managed to lock myself out of my apartment on three separate occasions, only the second of which was not my fault because I’ve never dead bolted the door and therefore would never need the dead bolt key and yet someone dead bolted my door and then there was rage.

This evening happened to be the third time due to a mad rush to get out of the house and there was rain and my clothing was strewn about my room and really none of this is all that unusual, I’m just trying to make you take pity on me and trying to find validity in leaving my keys in the kitchen. I departed without them and didn’t realize it until I was on my way to Silver Spring sans car keys and decided to be practical and metro it instead, only to ring my roommate later and learn that she too is slightly flaky yet more prepared than I and thankfully left a spare set at her boyfriend’s home which is just a block away from my very own apartment. Once at his apartment I was instructed to inform his roommates of my identity and to notify them of the exact location of the spare keys. Really easy stuff right there.

Sadly my new equally flaky roommate declined to inform me that one of her boyfriend’s roommates is an uptight frigid bitch who has a stick so far up her ass that it comes to a point at the top of her head. A rather unsightly thing I might add. When I approached the door she looked me up and down as if I were a mass murder and/or gang banger. A Mikimoto and pink Kate Spade sporting gang banger; ya know the type of gang banger that also wears a bright ass lime green North Face rain coat. And while yes, I do live somewhat near the ‘hood, it’s not fucking Anacostia and I’d be much obliged if said frigid bitch had given me my keys in a timely manner before I had to physicially restrain myself from grabbing her stringy blonde hair and telling her to give me my god damned keys. Furthermore, I don’t have time to make up elaborate stories using the exact names and locations of people that she KNOWS in order to procure a set of keys to an apartment that has absolutely nothing of value in it.

OK, I might be overreacting just a tad (rant much? Geeze) and I can appreciate being cautious because this is a city and I was some stranger at their door at 9:30 PM in the pitch dark of night, in the hood, but my God, I so was not in the mood for nor did I require the third degree and NSA clearance to get my motherfucking keys. I swear that she – her name was Colette by the way. A figment of Victor Hugo’s imagination she was not – was about to ask me for a urine sample and a retina scan for the keys. I mean whatever happened to benefit of the doubt? The neighborly thing to do? A random act of kindness if you will. Then again, these things tend to be ‘just me’ and maybe I’m just too nice and willing to take things as they are instead of giving people the third degree.

And for the record, Yes, I did get a mere 12 inches from her doorstep before I broadcasted the magnitude of her frigid bitchiness. And I totally meant it in the nicest most appreciative way possible when I called her a horrid cantankerous wench and announced to the neighborhood that she could kiss my ass. A gang banger with a hefty vocabulary indeed.

Monday, September 04, 2006

The hardest thing

"Oh wouldn't the world seem dull and flat without nothing at all to grumble at"* ~ W.S. Gilbert*

Do you know the hardest thing about returning home from vacation? Besides the messes that were left behind, the random bed frame that needs to be removed, the people and situations that are staring me in the face and I must now avoid like the fucking plauge, because "Hi! I'm an idiot". Besides all of that, there's the bloglines account that looks like someone threw up all over it. Seriously, looking at that thing just now made me cry. Actually no, I was already in distress now that I can add the I-95 North East corridor to my list of things that have sucked me of my will to live.

*asking me to remember who wrote a quote is a little bit much right now**
**I need to have I-66 points when I'm feeling uber lazy. Which would be all the time. But yeah, points for when I can't figure out who said a quote. Remember: We're all about indolence over here at No Pasa Nada***
***No Pasa Nada: Where lethargy rules, sucka!
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