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Thursday, November 30, 2006

More importantly*

“Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” ~Voltaire

Some might see it as some sort of sadomasochist tendency to put myself through a crazy ass hell of driving for seven hours and thusly subsisting on Cinnabon and filet-o-fish and having to merge along with people who find pumping their own gas to be odd (Hello New Jersey!). I do it because on the return trip home I am guaranteed a stop at what might possibly be the happiest place on earth. Woodbury Commons - which I should probably be a spokeswoman for, given the enthusiasm that exudes when saying the words FENDI! OUTLET! – is a shopping Mecca. If I died tomorrow, I’d possibly want my ashes spread somewhere between the Kate Spade outlet and JCrew. Actually if I died tomorrow I’d maybe want my ashes spread around a Trader Joe’s, not that I’ve given this any thought. But I digress.

So, I have fat calves. Calves that are larger than Peg’s, which I know because I tried on her boot collection and none of her boots fit over my fat calves and I have a mother whose boot collection might rival Oprah’s. Thusly I wanted black mid-calf boots to go with my new winter white skirt. And you are kidding yourself if you’re thinking that I should already own a pair of black boots. Which I do, but obviously, semi ankle boots do not look cute with a knee length skirt, but mid-calf would be perfect. Everyone knows this. Henceforth a trip to the commons for boots and a sweater or two and I missed out on the last Kate Spade sample sale, so I should probably hook myself up there and really I do not have much more money than the guy who works the drive thru at Starbucks, so I’m not sure what I was thinking with my grandeur dreams of looking mighty hot and ski bunny like for the winter, but whatever.

Anyway, the words 40% off at Banana Republic, is kind of what led me to wake at 5:30 AM so that I could be to the outlets when they opened at 8AM and then stand outside in the cold that is upstate NY and then gallop into the store to whisper sweet nothings to an incredibly soft black turtleneck. There may have been caressing, but that’s neither here nor there. Because when it comes to caressing, the thing that honestly got me off (How very Vincent Libretti of me) was the pink cashmere sweater at JCrew that was something like $13.50 with a free stock option. Then the boots, the perfect boots, from Nine West that were approximately $12.47 and then they threw in free shoe shine because the people at Nine West are so very giving and into the spirit and then it was time to go home.

The problem that has arisen it that I have such lovely clothing in my closets now, particularly the boots with a cute (wool) black skirt and the pink cashmere sweater are making me tremble. Alas, I once made the mistake of wearing cashmere in 70 degree weather because I don’t know where my head was at and all because it was fucking October and I expected cold. And as you can imagine it is now the final day in November and 70 degrees therefore I am not sporting any incredibly soft cashmere and this is what is bothering me more than anything in the world. Because I am nothing if not hot in pink cashmere and when I finally get around to being able to wear it in like February, you will be the first to know.

And apropos of absolutely nothing else save for the fact that I will be babysitting for the rest of my natural life (you know, before the spreading of the ashes all over an outlet mall); I spent an hour last night saying “Noah, where’s Heather?” so that he would at least point to me and acknowledge my existence. Instead, my dear shmoop, proved that he is considerably more intelligent than I already suspected and he has perfected the quintessential “Are you fucking kidding me?” look and then went back to playing with a sock. That’s my boy.

*I’m the worst hiatus taker ever in life. I am also nothing if not dedicated. I’m a lot of things though, but apparently never enough.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

So not in the spirit

“The best remedy for a short temper is a long walk.” ~Jacqueline Schiff

Warning: I’m about to be Debbie Downer and annoying. Also am about to turn off comments and hopefully this will end my three month stint of being sullen and full of rage.

So umm, yeah…I’ll be back in a few. Possibly tomorrow or possibly a day when I can go without thinking of how positively incensed and hurt I am. Also because other than that my only thoughts revolve around why it’s 70 degrees outside on this the 29th day of November. And why exactly people are playing walking in a winter wonderland like it’s going to snow sometime soon. Really?? Must you do that? With the sun out and the perfect golfing weather?

Anyway, upon my return I’ll be happy*. Or at least I’ll be considerably better at pretending to be in a good mood.

But this here makes me pretty fucking happy...

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Pity party for one

“I can't complain, but sometimes I still do.” ~Joe Walsh

So there was supposed to be a well written post about my progress and how I enjoyed polenta lasagna with fresh pesto and half a bottle of wine and my roommate and I were brought together by the phrase “Fendi outlet” which I’m sure would bring any two people with a sense of bargain shopping together. Alas, there will not be because I just found out that I will not be enjoying Las Vegas with my brothers and my father.

But since I must take a vacation that’s not to Martha’s Vineyard, which while lovely, gets a little old, and every year I (and by ‘every year’ I mean ‘last year when I finally had to start paying for and actually planning my own vacations and realized that I didn’t have $9,000 to frolic around Europe again. And well, I’ll be damned’) I say that I’m going to go somewhere and yet I do not. I go to Martha’s Vineyard and indulged on fried clams and sit on my ass and eat pie. (Of course I’m exaggerating slightly because if I remember correctly in 2003 I went to Rome/Naples/Sorrento/Pompei and in 2004 I went to Madrid/Mallorca/Portugal/Morocco/Amsterdam and in 2005 I didn’t go anywhere because I’m lazy. Minor detail.)

I would like to go somewhere in either March or April. That requires a passport. I’m fluent in Spanish. I could go alone** without being shot or something (though even that is probably not going to happen, but definitely could go alone) and I’ve already been to Spain, Italy, Morocco, The Netherlands, Mexico, Jamaica, Portugal, and if you suggest Canada, I’ll hit you. Hard.


I could suck it up and just go out to Las Vegas a few days early and then meet my brothers and father there and then fly back earlier than they would. But that would require maturity. Which is something we all know that I am genuinely incapable of. So instead, I wine.

The end.

*Lord, I hope you all (sorry, ‘ya’ll’) aren’t taking me seriously. Because this is such trite shit to complain about and do not pity me. Instead offer suggestions of where to go, because now I’m flailing.

** I should also mention that I want to go away alone, not because I have to, but because I’m a misanthrope like that.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Lady of Leisure (Read: Sloth)

“I like the word "indolence." It makes my laziness seem classy.” ~Bern Williams*

Between November 3rd 2004 and January 14th 2004, I lived as a Lady of Leisure. I did nothing except for golf and go out for lunch, occasionally having an actual class to go to. Between January and May, I studied abroad in Spain, which is code for I went on a bender through Europe including a puke fest on my host mother’s toilet after a night of champagne and vodka/red bulls at some posh Madrid club. There was also sangria. When I returned home I did the unthinkable; I baked. Cookies, muffins and a cake and then drank the nights away over a bottle of the Yellowtail while I pined away about not having a job and how I would actually die if I didn’t find a job and health insurance for the inevitable alcohol poisoning.

I’m adept at doing nothing. Really fucking good at it. Right up there with playing the clarinet and listing the members of the 108th Congress in alphabetical order, I can totally sit around and do nothing. It’s my thing. In fact I spent four! Whole! Days! Doing nothing except for eating pie and the occasional filet – of – fish**. In fact when I finally ventured over to see my father, you know that man who is responsible for one half of my GNA, largely the half that says drink the bottle of wine, but also says why the hell can’t you hit par? Whyyyyy. Yeah, well him. When I finally did see him he questioned what I had been doing all day. I responded truthfully that I had been eating blueberry pie and then rolled over on to my back and watched Bamboozled (I told you G was channeling Marcus Garvey) and then actually had a physical altercation (I called him a fucking fucktard and kicked him) with G over the last piece of stuffing (G, being the more mature younger sibling that he is, then offered up his piece of stuffing after asking whether or not I minded a little Frank’s red hot on it. Love him). Thus the reason for why I couldn’t visit my dear old dad. I suck.

And strangely enough, being home in Upstate NY is the best environment for a life where the only necessities are cable television, a dvd player and a mother who makes sure that her babies are properly nourished with stuff crust pizza. There was nothing I had to do. In theory though, being particularly indolent and gluttonous isn’t a good quality to have. Neither is telling your father that you would have come over had your television watching habits been conducive to watching Luke and Laura’s first episode together. But whatever. The point is that right now, LB is enjoying a life of leisure. I phoned her and she’s been busy in Brussels and Paris and is now home and eating chips and she baked a motherfucking pumpkin pie.

Really, you should clearly ignore me now for it’s all the jealousy speaking. And because I could totally use more pie. And cable. And quality time with my golf clubs. And a life.

*Yep I’ve used this quote like 14 times now. I love it.
**I’m paying for this now. It’s called a waistline and it is not clearly visible.


Sunday, November 26, 2006

You must not know

“Oh baby you ever seen Saturn
No, not the car but everywhere we are
You sure to see stars” – Jay Z

I spent several hundred miles doing the impossible; actually it was an experiment of sorts to see whether or not I’d toss myself off the Delaware Memorial Bridge after listening to B’day six times in a row. And you will be happy to know that listening to Beyonce for 8-ish hours won’t actually force your brains out of your ears, though you’ll begin to feel the opening bass of Jay-Z’s voice in your eyeballs after the fifth or so time. No other adverse affects though, save for the fact that I’ve been telling people to the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left. It was somewhere between hours seven and eight though when I started doing my own choreography to Ring the Alarm so I decided to stop and think nice thoughts about the people in New Jersey who can’t fucking drive. Seriously, every time I give them the benefit of the doubt and think that this time they’ll drive like normal people who can pump their own damn gas, and yet every damn time, they cannot. Merging, people, isn’t really all that difficult and doesn’t require much brain power though maybe I’m mistaken.

Now, when I say I’m from Upstate NY, I mean UPSTATE. Like with deer and bunnies in the backyard and cows down the street and a vast collection of Birkenstock footwear for all of your crunchy granola needs. And in Upstate NY, we don’t really do the wireless, we do the DSL and we do it well. Thus every attempt to I dunno make my bloglines not look like something threw up all over it (now I’m afraid to check) was met with a warning and lots of words and jibberish about checking my internet connection and then I ate more stuffing and watched Little People, Big World. Rinse and repeat.

There are stories of course, about how I’ve aged gracefully and how a woman with a hot ass boot collection managed to give birth to a girl who believes that Reefs should be worn year round and a brother – the Prodigal Son – who has been channeling Marcus Garvey, why I don’t have a bed (haven’t for three months now), why I don’t have a new laptop, why I’ll be taking two consecutive trips to Alabama (I already feel real blessed with a hankering for some grits to boot) and well…dwarfism.

My bedroom looks like Hiroshima after the atom bomb and I have new boots and winter white skirt to frolic around in. But really I’m in a semi OK mood and I managed not to kill anyone on the Beltway (from the Latin for ‘parking lot’) mostly because the Whisper Song was on during those last few crucial moments and nothing says it’s the Lord’s day like a song with the lyrics “walk around the club with your thong in your mouth”. Really.

I hope you all had equally thrilling Thanksgivings and I plan to be in a semi good mood until December 26th (ish).

*So as you see, Abigail; Socially Awkward Barbie™ is still alive and kicking.
**Also, While away, I missed you all so much. Tears. Really. Must now spend the remainder of my natural life catching up on your lives.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Exhibiting social graces

“Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble.” ~Samuel Johnson

A few weeks ago, I received an email from a coworker who had recently started asking whether or not I was the Heather who wrote this blog called No Pasa Nada, because she had been reading it for about a year and it cracked her up. After I picked myself off the floor and stopped hyperventilating, I replied that yes that was me and that we would never speak of this again, and umm please love me? Even though for roughly 40 hours a week, I’m really not funny and actually at my most socially awkward, pleeaaaaase love me? K?

And ever since that moment, every time I see this person, I die a little inside trying to be funny and graceful and totally not making awkward jokes in the elevator that aren’t even funny. And then I smile and want to punch myself in the face with all the social awkwardness. In fact I’m pretty sure that I had a conversation that went something like “My this soda is so fizzy. Why is it so fizzy? Heh, ha, ha”. And now you want to punch me in the face as well, non?

It’s my personal resolution to myself to get a fucking grip and not be Socially Awkward Barbie™. To add further insult to injury (though writing this will hopefully alleviate the situation) I’ve totally become That girl, you know, THAT girl. Her. That girl who acts like a girl and cannot make it stop besides years of therapy and four years of university and vast knowledge of John Locke and Erasmus, I am still that girl. That girl who – gasp – can’t get a fucking grip and starts doing things and acting like a fucking psychotic idiot with a little irrational behavior on the side.

I’m driving to upstate in a few hours, where I will exhibit the aforementioned traits and more! I’m a tool. But please be my friend. Please? And send wine and fries. And if there is one thing to be thankful for, it’s that you aren’t me.

Edit to Add: Here’s a little view behind the curtain; I wrote this yesterday and was thinking about it this morning in the shower (feel free to stop and think about that then shudder). Then realized that this weekend I attended a friend’s birthday party and was totally not socially awkward, but instead nice and polite and normal and I HUGGED and laughed and consumed five (weak ass) vodka tonics. So maybe I’m not that bad and doomed to a life alone.


Monday, November 20, 2006

With sadness

“Technology... is a queer thing. It brings you great gifts with one hand, and it stabs you in the back with the other.” ~C.P. Snow, New York Times, 15 March 1971

After five years, including a terrorist attack, a sniper, and general neglect, and that time that I broke the latch while highly inebriated, my laptop, a 2001 Sony Vaio, has succumbed after a long battle with my bullshit rants and the occasional virus and hard drive replacement. Our last moments together were while chatting with my pal and attempting to do a blogger verification. At which point I wanted to kill the fuckers who thought of word verification.

In lieu of flowers, I just request that you all treat your computers and hard drives with lots of love and respect.

I’m both highly devastated, as this is the computer I’ve had for five years. Since freshman year of college. But also a little giddy that I could go to bed and watch movies and clean my room without having to write anything or read a blog. People, I went to bed last night at 10:15!!! It was lovely.

Anyway, it’s time for me to make the switch and to get to know Steve Jobs a little better. So I write this not with sadness, but happiness that I now have an excuse to spend a ridiculous amount of money on a piece of metal. Though know that after depleting my savings account, I will be treating my new laptop with respect, love and tenderness.

Any suggestions for a name for my new baby? (Expected due date November 22, 2006)

Friday, November 17, 2006

It goes like this

“New! Improved! Instant asshole... just add alcohol!” ~Author Unknown

Let me preface this by saying that this is what my inevitable dotage will be like save for the fact that I will most likely be entirely sober throughout the entire thing, which will manifest itself into super psycho HB v. 2.89. Actually I strongly suggest that you have a drink in hand and/or be seated while reading this. Also, try not to want to smack me in the head.

8:48 PM Arrive home after a trip to UStreet for hair product and the gym and Potbelly. Question how I ended up in Anacostia for 7 minutes. Also patting self on back for getting to the wine store minutes before it closes, for a bottle of Vila Malbec. (This will be crucial to the rest of the timeline)

9:00 PM Tear open wine. Begin watching Grey’s. Blind spots, eh? Interesting. McSteamy, yes, I will pick up your dry cleaning. Let’s have babies, yes?

9:30 PM Drinking wine, blah blah blah. George’s dad, blah blah blah.

9:31 PM Bored. Laptop.

9:32 PM Thinking I love my laptop. My shmoopie, baby cakes laptop that has been with me through thick and thin for the past five years and two months. Awwww. Lovey dovey kins doodlebop.

9:33 PM Hear noise coming from the foyer. Presume that it is the roommate coming in. My non drinking roommate who probably thinks that I am a lush, which, ummm yes. After hearing said noise, get up because usually she calls out and says hello. Am being burgarlarized. Contemplate last will. Run over with my wine glass (thinking: Malbec to the eye, will blind the fucker). And lo, it is my roommates boyfriend who calmly says ‘hey’. Like it’s totally fucking normal to be standing in the foyer like a robber.


9:35 PM Laptop status: flickering. Hmmm. Possible seizure? No. Possible flicker due to half of a bottle of wine consumption? Perhaps.

9:36 PM – 9:38 PM Restart laptop continuously. My precious baby couldn’t be dying on me.

9:39 PM Peg calls. Through tears, I say something unintelligible about broken laptop, broke HB. Drunkeness. (All a blur now) Recall that she says something smart about purchasing new Mac book now, as opposed to later, and she’d give me the money now for it. But cannot possibly listen. Too busy throwing temper tantrum to think clearly.

9:40 PM Frantically IMing my pal more non-sensical things about my laptop slowly killing itself. Needs CPR. Tracheotomy, emergency c-section and some sutures. All the while, the laptop keeps with the flickering!

9:45 PM Marlboro (oh shut it, dead laptop! You’d want drugs too)

9:55 PM Lament on how un-cathartic Grey’s has become. It used to be that I’d sit alone on Sunday nights afterwards and cry my eyes out because my god! Meredith was so right, even though she needed a filet-o-fish. Now, I’m all “blind spots? Judgement? Not knowing your child’s blood type? Wha?”

10:00 - 10:30 PM Barbara Walters. I would also enjoy interviewing George Clooney, as well as be interested in humping his leg and general licking.


10:40 PM More frantic IMing to the pal. Rampant use of emoticons to convey the dire need for help because woe! Pray over laptop (seriously) and demand its cooperation. But it’s too stubborn and I’m too ummm…drunk.

10:45 PM Admire reflection in mirror. Purple teeth and bad skin. Question why on God’s green earth, I could still be single. Whimper.

10:50 PM Fall face first onto my bed.

5:20 AM Alarm goes off (for the gym of course). Awake and question massive hangover. Possibly whimper. Possibly sleep until 8:00 AM.

And scene.

If I never, ever get married, I’ll look back through my archives, find this post and realize why, I never found the right man. Because I’m drunk all of the time and alone and rambling around my house with a broken laptop, yelling at it to please work. Also, I think I might have to wave the white flag and surrender to the NaBloPoMo.


Thursday, November 16, 2006

Le chat noir

*This post brought to you by the letter ‘O’ for ‘Oh my hell I need some wine and perhaps a lobotomy’

“There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.” ~Andre Gide

My neighbor has a black outdoor cat. Thusly, every evening it crosses my path on my way home from work and I inadvertently am taken aback. It’s my ever present superstition that makes me do it. That fears that if a black cat crosses my path, then inevitably something bad will happen. And though I try to talk myself out of it, I cannot feel anything but that.

One night it followed me to my car and last night it stared at me while I sat outside. I couldn’t help but think of the bad luck that might come off of it: Like its glare would lead to years of bad luck and that all of the things that I wanted would be thrown to the wayside due to interaction with a black cat.

Though I doubt anything bad that occurs today or better yet, as of late, is permanent. Much of it is self – inflicted bad things and fear of being jinxed, I know that it most likely will not last forever. But there’s that inexorable nagging and the fact that at this very moment in time, it is all so very important to me. All of the things that I want that I fret over, are all very important even though in the grand scheme of things, they are not. Nevertheless and much to my chagrin, there will always be something stopping me not necessarily a black cat or some other superstition, but something – anything – that will cause me to think that I won’t get something. And that fear – a fear of something that I’ve miraculously conjured up based on no concrete evidence – is the worst feeling of all.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006


“Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” ~Voltaire

I went through a white wine phase during which I consumed copious amounts of Pinot Grigio on the daily coupled with grilled cheese or a hearty meal from Steak N’ Egg. When I learned that a glass of red wine is good for the heart, I started in on the Yellowtail Shiraz and haven’t looked back since. I have a Wine for Dummies book and keep lists of the Argentinean Malbecs and the South African Syrah, but you are sorely mistaken for thinking that I should give up my day job to pursue life as a Sommelier. All of this means that I drink red wine with everything, including Yellowfin Tuna which totally deserves a white, and I know better and look classy (sorry ‘Klassy’) when ordering Cabernet Sauvignon with my very light fish. And well, it pretty much goes down hill from there. Hell, I think that a fillet of fish from the good ol’ golden arches is a treat and will gladly talk about how well the flavor of the cheese plays off the tang of the tartar sauce. You’re drooling, I’m sure.

Last week, I went to Olives for the first time. The second I put my fork into the Falling Chocolate Cake and the fudge oozed out into a pool quite near to the raspberry coulie as the vanilla ice cream melted on top and it was all a swirl of chocolatey goodness and I died; well I wanted to write about going to Olives. But then I had the sad, sad realization that writing “The chocolate was everywhere and despite the mix of red wine and the olive and goat cheese pasta, I totally didn’t puke on the table” wasn’t exactly a quality food review. In fact, I’m probably the lamest foodie ever, what with the red wine with fish combo and all, and thus decided that Jason is far better at it than I’ll ever be; for this is a man, who beyond all of his other awesomeness, has a favorite gnocchi and knows about the different ‘notes’ in wine, whereas I only know that the gnocchi from Trader Joe’s* tastes like pure ass and that last night the two buck Chuck, gave me a tummy ache. And that my friends, is about as good as it gets. Henceforth, my dreams of writing about the deliciousness and the way the Butternut Squash Tortelli melted in my mouth (despite the tad undercooked dough), were dashed towards the wind. Though seriously people, the secret is that there are finely ground amaretto cookies mixed into the squash that gives it that melty sweet I-will-die-right-now taste.

A smart woman would stop there with full knowledge that she will never compare and Food and Wine will not be calling anytime soon and well Top Chef? Out of the picture. In my next life though, I’ll be Oprah and someone else can make and execute the perfect meal with the perfectly paired wine and know what goes with what. While I sit on my ass and relish in the glory that is a perfect four course meal that involves expert pasta making, some sort of cheesecake, and anything that involves gruyere.

*Umm yeah, food blogging? Not so much
**Oh wait, later this week a special on what HB should make for Thanksgiving that doesn't involve, shirataki noodles, edamame, guacamole and veggie burgers.


Tuesday, November 14, 2006

And now is a good time to be concerned

"Know thyself?" If I knew myself, I'd run away.” ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The other afternoon, after a perfectly acceptable morning of grunts and sighs and the occasional toppling tower, Amy, Noah and I ventured to Chipotle. And while in line, Amy and I were conversing about the shittiness that is cancer when a woman behind us caught our attention and began conversing with us, while completely polite. What was said is beyond the point, nothing insulting, just friendly discussion pertaining to what we had been talking about. The problem is that had I been a normal person with acceptable conversational skills and had not been raised by (apparent) heathens, then I would have spoken back. Or at least done something a little bit more intelligent than nod and smile and say “Oh wow”, then intensely stare at the burrito makers (FYI, they really do make the guacamole right there). But I’m not a normal, intelligent person who is able to hold a conversation. Amy, on the other hand is, while I couldn’t get away fast enough. It was all very awkward, not on the part of anyone else of course, but because I cannot hold a conversation with strangers. And even if one is not a stranger, well that can get a little confusing (and, I’m wincing right now) and well more awkwardness and bring on the vino!

Apparently I bleed gauche behavior which people are soon going to see as rude and then I’ll have to you know, talk back and use coherent sentences and I won’t be able to die a little inside every time I’m poised with a question or idle chatter. It seems that I cannot handle speaking (to those I do not know well) without great trepidation. Which is a little sad and weird, I might very well say because what kind of people brought up a child who cannot answer a question such as “Would you like fries with that?” without hemming and hawing? Who are these people who raised a daughter who gets tongue tied so very easily and well this whole going into politics thing might not work out if I can’t answer ‘yes’.

I’ve learned to do the whole nod and smile thing pretty easily and I can do whatever you damn well ask me to do (and more!) with a drink in hand. The latter, I think needs to be worked on given that some people might like to speak to me while sober because it’s noon. Though I am a firm believer that at noon, it’s happy hour somewhere, but I suppose that some do not see that as a valid excuse. But I have been getting better. There was an evening where I was thrown into the mix of many, many millionaires and I held my own and drank San Pellegrino, silently. I only spoke when spoken too and it appears that I can say both my first and last name, while shaking with my right hand and holding a drink (water!) with my left. Alas, a miracle.

Though lately I’ve just been thrown into these really awkward conversations where I don’t know what to say and my whole nod and smile deal is the only thing that will get me through. Then I pray silently for it to end and all of my 45 minute conversations are actually only 27 seconds. Really there must be a name for it? Fear of speaking to strangers? I dunno.

Come to think of it, I highly doubt that its roots are genetic. I wasn’t raised by heathens, but instead by those annoying people who feel the need to strike up conversation while waiting in line at the bank. Which begs the question as to whether or nor procreating helps one gain the ability to commiserate and speak with strangers with ease. Something to ponder I suppose or maybe I’m just prone to awkward behavior and conversation. But it’s always one extreme or the other; either I’m too shy to talk and stand at the same time without going into hysterics and/or a blank stare, mouth open (horrific) or I get so comfortable with people that I’m prone to licking (possibly unsanitary, and yet The Swiss* is mighty tasty):

And somewhere in there, is a happy medium.

*Have a very Happy 33rd year, my dear. You deserve it.

Monday, November 13, 2006


"The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there." ~Lesley P. Hartley

A few of you* enjoy teasing me because of my age and because I missed all of the 80's. It's not that I wasn't alive, it's that I don't remember much of it, my earliest memory being the day before my first day of kindergarten in September of 1988. Let's just say that I did make the occasional fashion faux pas in the 80's, but at least I didn't have a choice in the matter. I was forced to dress that way. I didn't voluntarily sport Wranglers, or big hair, or puffy sleeves**. Someone, made me do this, and since Peg isn't one that you'd eagerly want to fuck with, it seemed to be in my best interest to just listen. Which is how one ends up looking like this:

Though I must say it's not that bad. As I just sat behind a little girl on the way back from Atlanta, with a shirt that said on the back "Daddy's little redneck" complete with a picture of a confederate cap with a confederate flag. Apparently it takes some people a little time to get over the loss of the Civil War.

It's so nice to be home.

*Don't make me name names.

**Seriously, don't make me do it, you know who you are.

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Sunday, November 12, 2006


“How much has to be explored and discarded before reaching the naked flesh of feeling.” ~Claude Debussy

I always think that I’m onto something brand spanking new when I divulge another (innocuous, or not) tidbit about myself. Like the other day I told Pal that I could be obsessive, as if no one would ever guess that I, of all people, obsess about things endlessly. To which he replied that it was cute that I thought that it was a secret. Have I mentioned the internet searches that go into every little thing that I do? No? Well, there’s internet searches and web MD, because I’m like 99% sure that I have ADD or something.

So, for days, nay weeks, I’ve been saying “Oh yeah, I’m fine” to everything. How’s the weather, HB? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. It’s like my Pavlovian reaction to any question even if it has nothing to do with me, I’ll say “I’m fine”. From now on, please call me Narcissus, please and thank you. Everyday, Swiss Kris will ask me how I am and I immediately pop up with an ‘I’m fine’ and a smile. I’m not sure where I read it, for it was fairly recent, but the author questioned what ‘we’ did before emoticons and well, I pray at the alter of emoticons. So I figure that an AIM smiley, totally conveys that I’m so utterly fine and there are butterflies and rainbows and puppies. The end.

But alas not, because Kris called it my bullshit modus operandi. Damn it, I thought I had that hidden, dude she found me out. No one would know that I’m not feeling completely up to par and because I talk to 87% of people via some sort of Instant Messenger service, I figured that no one would be none the wiser if I threw in a little smile. Or a wink face. Yes, a wink face! Nothing says, La dee da, like a wink face, but sometimes I throw in a kiss face for good measure. And maybe we should be concerned that 87% of my conversations occur via IM. We’ll discuss that later.

Where was I? Oh yes, I’m fine. I am fine. Though if one more person comes up to me and says “Well you must have had the best week ever!!!” I might punch them in the jugular. Not stab, because yes, the wink was fucking awesome, how kind of you to notice, so I wouldn’t want anyone dead, but a little injury, because yes, it was superb. Yes, I drank more Moet than I have in years and I smiled. Am I really fine though? Eh, given that only one person knows what is making me so un-fine, then I’m OK, because not everyone and their brother knows how dumb I’ve been. Though I must admit, I’ve been on cruise control through this haze and everyday is weird and I’m a little more quiet and thoughtful and I may have let the tears well up a bit when I thought I left my ID at home Friday night and had to drive all the way back home (1.3 miles thankyouverymuch) to get it and I haven’t been to the gym and my ‘fine-nesss’ ruined what was supposed to be the Best Week Evah.

But yeah, I’m fine. Totally fine. And maybe if I keep saying it, then it will be true.

*I wrote this entire post with a defective ‘K’ key. So every time I wrote like, it came out ‘lie’. And then I’d have to smash the key down (like now) in order to get it to function properly. This is all very aggravating, but I’m still fine.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

What you know about that?

“Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long.” ~Susan Scarf Merrell

During his rehearsal dinner, Ty wanted to make me a drink. When I’m not drinking barrels of wine, I stick to vodka tonics or vodka red bulls if I’m feeling particularly feisty. There was no tonic, so I requested some vodka sprite. And since we’re ‘klassy’ it was in a red plastic tumbler. And because my brother and I have the same genes (well, at least half) and because he thinks I don’t drink enough, I sat and watched him pour ketel one into my plastic cup, only leaving less than half an inch. As my eyes widened at the thought of all that damn vodka, I hollered at him to stop. He looked at me and with a wink and a smirk, said, “Oh, we’re Barmores, you can handle it”. With that, he topped off my cup of vodka with a smidgen of sprite. I will say that it only burned a little bit and possibly put a little hair on my chest. But at least I now know for certain that I wasn’t adopted.

I’m in ATL, which is a big step for me given my intense fear of all things southern. Where I intend to drink copious amounts of wine with my brother and see one of my best friends from College and visit the Waffle House. In preparation I listened to Lil Wayne and TI, in addition to my usual Johnny Cash and ABBA. Remind me to tell you about the 139 awkward conversations I’ve had over the past 48 hours, how I licked Kris last night that is after being 2 hours late to her party because of the numbness in my face and the cast of Law and Order was on Jeopardy, and how in order to avoid awkward conversation on the MARTA, I whipped out my blackberry and missed my stop then had to endure more awkward conversation with a fare evader (Dude, this guy totally crawled on the ground of a fucking rail station because he couldn’t pay the $1.75 fare and then he proceeded to try to pick me up. Discuss.). On second thought, I might very well be adopted as my brothers are nowhere near as awkward as I, but at least we all share the same love for Ketel One and Amstel.

Friday, November 10, 2006

A very rare occasion

“Any emotion, if it is sincere, is involuntary.” ~Mark Twain

I’m sitting here watching ABC World News tonight, while stressing about figuring out what to write. I’m upset over something that could have been controlled, and I’m thisclose to cutting someone out of my life; which under most circumstances wouldn’t be given a second thought. When suddenly I look up at Charles Gibson doing a special report about an 11 year old Iraqi boy, who found his father’s headless body in the road and now, due to depression and post traumatic stress disorder, is unable to attend school or play with other children.

So while I sit here in woe, because my jaw hurts due to a filling. And the entire right side of my face is numb and I’m tired and I have shit to do and I’m angry at myself…all of that and my usual bullshit complaining, suddenly matters a little less. You know?

Thursday, November 09, 2006


“I'd rather sit down and write a letter than call someone up. I hate the telephone.” ~Henry Miller

There’s something that I finally feel ok to tell you all. It’s semi serious, but I’ve been pretty good at keeping it hidden. And this is something that goes beyond the fact that I’m really not all that funny in person, but even worse than that: I’m afraid of the phone. Really afraid of the phone. So terrified of it that right now I must type or do something with my hands or I don’t know…deep knee bends…or something, because it’s just really hard. Let’s just say I just had one of the most awkward phone conversations ever (no, seriously) and then had to actually get up from my desk and take a walk. Because OH MY GOD, I had to call a STRANGER.

Oh and another secret: I obsess. Even when things don’t warrant obsessing, I’m obsessing because using the phone is such a big deal and a new fangled thing that I’ve apparently just discovered the proper way in which to use it. Thus an entire two paragraphs devoted to why I can’t handle being a competent person in this world. In fact, you know in The Net how Sandra Bullock did everything from the comfort of her home, including order pizza, and then she finally did leave the house and her world blew the fuck up?? Well that’s going to be me. I’m going to become a recluse and never leave my laptop and never actually talk to anyone on the phone, because apparently, I cannot.

I need to sit and rock a bit and get back to my happy place and remember a time, not that long ago, when I could use the fun and continue to be a functioning member of society. I don’t know what event triggered this panic to using the telephone, but oh my hell, I think it needs to stop.

Ok, all better.


Wednesday, November 08, 2006


“I hope life isn't a big joke, because I don't get it.” ~Jack Handey

It’s not like there is a worse feeling than this, but my god, this feeling right now, fucking hurts. Though I should be happy and frolicking around town, my throat has a huge lump in it and I can’t help but sit here and fight off the tears. It’s like being told your worthless and not good enough, without being told such out loud. It’s implied. It’s tacit and without the explicit words I can feel it. I’ve seen people rub their temples or rub the bridge of their nose when overwhelmed and that’s just a coping mechanism: A nervous reaction to this overwhelming sense of stress, sadness and fear. And now all I am left to think is that I’ve gone from being semi-intelligent to purely idiotic. I feel stupid and that trumps all. In a few weeks or months I’ll look back on this and laugh. I’ll have forgotten all about it, but for now, I just hope I don’t cry and will list all of the bed. I’ll dwell and possibly cry even though I know that this doesn’t deserve the tears. Thankfully I'll also reason and rationalize that despite feeling hurt, I'll be damned if I become a cliche.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

God, I'm tired

Edit to Add: So, on ocassion, I'll get emails from people wanting for me to write for them for actual money. Who knows the validity of them, because I usually read and then laugh; because really, have you read the content here that you think is so great? Like, really read it, not just skimmed. Yeah, do that and then come back to me. I just read what I wrote over the past 48 hours and I sound like a spastic person on crack. Which is kind of close given the amount of candy from the wonderful world of Willy Wonka that I have consumed. In fact I'm pretty unsure of how I'm functioning right now and people that know me in real life will probably question the same and I'll just have to respond with, Bottle Caps, don't underestimate the power of some good old fashion Bottle Caps.

“Life is one long process of getting tired.” ~Samuel Butler

Tired in a way that is totally and incoherently indescribable and would only make sense if you knew me in real life because then you’d pat my head and say “poor baby” while whispering sweet nothings in my ear and feeding me chocolate covered strawberries. And my, whew, it’s getting a little hot in here, no? Apparently some deep rooted fantasies have just come out there.

Anywho, tired, but going strong with the NaBloPoMo because I’m woman hear me roar, but whimpering woman who is so god damn tired and full of Mexican food and random stuff from TJ’s. TJ’s is the devil if you don’t have one near you. I’d link to it, but we don’t want everyone succumbing to the will of the Devil. Unless you want to keep me company in the fiery depths of Hell, well then go for it!

Look! Rambling again. Shutting up now because it’s Election Day. A good Election Day. And please don’t misinterpret my babble for sadness, but instead of joy, but holy motherfucker, I’m tired.

Oh, yes! Per Jes’ suggestion I forgot to mention the Hoagies. HOAGIES. AN AWARD. FOR ME! VOTE (or Die!).* Gah, but I’m not that rude, I do thank you all immensely for nominating me for I have always wanted to be the proud owner of a gold turkey and I do love jelly beans. But seriously, many, many thanks.

Exactly how does one end an incoherent rant about nothing? How about: The End.

*Pimp much? Yup.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Think blue


“If worrying were an Olympic sport, you'd get the gold for sure.” ~Stephenie Geist

I came quite close to titling this post “Freaking the Fuck out” but then figured that the fine folks over at BlogHer ads wouldn’t want “Freaking the Fuck out” directly below an advertisement for strollers and how to help busy moms practice good time management skills. But I am. Freaking the fuck out that is, not a busy mom.

You must know that not only do I have a bit of a hyperbolic tendency, thus going to extremes with every situation, but my nerves and anxiety generally manifest themselves in a ridiculous eating habit that would rival that of a marathon runner at the height of training. Which means that I made a foray to Trader Joe’s to pick up essentials such as garlic & chive yogurt dip, pita chips, chocolate covered peanut butter filled pretzels and pretzel thins. Alas, my arrival there was marred by what could only be described as a horrendous clusterfuck due to a 16 wheeler trying to back itself into a parking garage on a street that is, at best, 4 feet wide, thus not giving nearly enough room for the average Washingtonians BMW SUV and yet somehow they make it work and carry on.

That said, I’m now consuming Argentinean Syrah and several wrap shrimp things that were being sampled at Trader Joe’s. And well, half the box is gone. Thankfully I am also a nervous gymmer (I made that word up by the way) and managed to run many miles, which means that the amount of time spent on both the elliptical and treadmill, combined with lifting and a little ab work, will cancel out the fried shrimp and wine and the overwhelming amount of carbs to be consumed tomorrow and my bubble ass, won’t get too much more…well…bubbly.

OY. It’s poised to be a long day*.

*This post brought to you by the fine folks known as our Fore Father's for giving us life, liberty, and the freedom to change things up every once in awhile. Otherwise known as Election Day, yo.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

It's a shame that it's come to this: Part 2

“Suddenly the basic survival needs also include a cell phone, cable TV, and French manicured fingernails....” Charlie Diekatze


I have to take deep breaths before writing this because I’ve been patient with you for years. I’ve tried to be understanding and relax, which says a lot given my propensity to fly off the handle and relinquish any sort of relationship, fairly easily. I’ve been able to look past ridiculously high bills for no apparent reason, the fact that you have dropped calls in Banana Republic, but in the Metro, you’re game. While that’s commendable, in the event of some sort of serious metro emergency, it’s totally unacceptable when I have an actual important question to ask my mother, like whether or not to get black pants or Heather grey pants, and I cannot, because I don’t have any service. All of which is strange, because I’m pretty sure that there should be a whole slew of people lead by a nerdy, skinny white man, helping me out 24/7, and yet I do not feel the love. Where is my skinny, nerdy, white man? Huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

(deep breaths)

As you see, I was ok with that and understood and things were fine and generally I like to remain drama free with you, but there is one thing that pushes me over the edge and frankly makes me want to kick some nerdy, skinny, XY chromosome ass. And that, my dear wireless company, is when I try to figure out how one of your people, “accidentally” put someone else’s phone on my account, thus removing my free upgrade as well as seriously fucking up my service for 4 days. How is that possible? And what did you think was going to happen when you had the same phone number for two different people? Yeah, you idiots fixed it and yeah I still have my upgrade, but I was without service for four days! A fuck up, which required two trips to your damn store, where I was met with a trainee, named Jeronimo, who couldn’t understand why I would be so irate that a Nokia magically showed up on my account.

But I did keep my cool during my transaction and while I was thisclose to placing my foot up someone’s nose, I was able to not yell or threaten violence. But believe you me, I’m pissed. And I’m switching to T-Mobile, if you don’t shape up.

You never stop working for me, my ass,


Saturday, November 04, 2006

It's a shame that it's come to this: Part 1

“We're smart, we're witty, and we've got asses that rock!” – Mary Cherry

Dear Netflix,

I think things have gotten a little out of hand recently. I mean at first you were a fantastic idea. Do you remember our first weekend together? It was love at first sight the way you dropped American Psycho right on my lap and well, it was because of you that I discovered my deep love for Lloyd Dobbler. Since then, we’ve become close, almost too close some might say. There are weekends when I will not leave my house until 6 PM (and even that’s a stretch) because I just got new movies and I can’t possibly leave three unopened discs of Entourage, in all it’s Ari Gold goodness, just to sit there. But now I there are something like 500 movies in my queue and I’m unable to add anything new, which is infuriating, because I’ll forget that I wanted to add An Affair to Remember and this drives me mad.

The real reason for why I’m writing is because of recent difficulties I’ve been having with the first season of Popular. I loved this show and I talk about it to this day. And because my love of the deliciously evil Nicole Julian trumps my love for you, I’m about 2.8 seconds away from flipping the hell out. Because OH. MY. GOD. Who do I have to sleep with to get a DVD that works properly and doesn’t turn the screen all green and scary and make Leslie Bibb, look like she has 14 faces and a blue streak running through her chest? Huh?

I don’t want to break up with you. I really, really don’t. But we can’t have this. I fear that it might happen – a sudden freeze – during a crucial moment. I mean, there was the Tyler Durden incident, during which I had to throw something at the television and almost started crying. And we really shouldn’t have to repeat that, now should we?

I’m not in the business of entering abusive relationships and this relationship is on a slippery slope to doom. I fully expect for my DVDs to arrive unharmed later today or else prepare for anger of apocalyptic proportions. Ok, cupcake?


Friday, November 03, 2006

I said tired, sucka

“Maturity is achieved when a person accepts life as full of tension.” ~Joshua L. Liebman

I’d write an actual real post using paragraphs and everything, if I knew that I wouldn’t write something that went like: On my way to babysit last night I almost ran over a runner and then I almost fell in the (full of water and a child) bathtub and then I cried on my way home – for no fucking reason and Netflix hates me and I’ve gotten lost between Arlington and Alexandria twice this week, once almost ending up in fucking Richmond and there’s this thing* that I’m crazy nervous about next week and I'm a delusional idiot who could have predicted this shit from 14 miles away and…and….blah.

So! Here, check this out. You know, if I haven't pimped it enough.

But I shall not surrender to the difficulty that is NaBloPoMo. Oh hell no. Besides according to Suebob, I could still post my grocery list.

Oh! And this for good measure. Because, duh!

Ok, how's about a story, which I kind of forgot about until I heard Hey Good Lookin' for the 8th time this week (seriously, dude) and so was reminded. This morning, I was walking down the street in the strong breeze with cold chapped hands one of which had a delicious large skim chai latte in it. As I'm walking with the breeze and me teetering about with my spankin' new boots, I spilled a little chai on my hand. And because I have no class, I attempted to lick it off the side of my hand and off of my cup, while maneuvering my overstuffed bag on my other shoulder and my sunglasses were falling off my head. While all of this is occuring, some man walking past me, decides to holler out "Hey good lookin'. Nevermind that I'm 47 years old with gray hair, come see me in my play this weekend it's on page 25 of some random publication that you probably never read" (Ok, maybe he didn't say all of that, but you get it). And I'm all WTF? And just stare back at him, because I'm really not in the business of fancying 48 year old men who find 23 year old public hand lickers, with snot coming out of their nose, attractive.

*ALSO: I need help, in more ways than one of course, but if any of y'all would be interested in guest posting for me on Tuesday, November 7th, that would be really, really, really fucking awesome of you, because I'll be busy, with some stuff:

Thursday, November 02, 2006


“Clothes are never a frivolity: they always mean something.” ~James Laver

A few weeks ago, I had scheduled myself to attend a Pimp Ball for a friend’s birthday. I already knew what to do with the hair (When I take a pick to it, I look like my avatar of Pam) but it was the clothing that got me. While this may be shocking to some, I’m not really the…umm… ‘ho’ type. I have nothing that even remotely resemble such and when I told a friend of this predicament she exclaimed horror that I didn’t even an own a denim mini skirt. To which I said “I do not have the hips or the ass for a mini anything. The end.” And she suggested Trampage or Forever 21. And because I take dressing up seriously* I trekked out to Montgomery County to Forever 21, because I am nothing if not dedicated**.

I am also nothing if not semi-delusional, which is probably what lead me to drive 40 minutes to Maryland for a $30 outfit for a party that I knew I would be late to. An outfit from a store, which hasn’t held anything that fits me in several years, possibly a solid decade. I am not a tiny person and never would claim to be. With the advent of stores like Forever 21 and Trampage and I’mASlutWhoseThighsWillNeverTouch (Yes! That’s a store!) I continued shopping at Banana Republic and Gap because even though I have a sizable ass, I also have my dignity and believe strongly in a-line skirts and cashmere.

So upon my arrival in to Forever 21 – which, do you realize the crazy looks that a grown adult gets when checking out stuff meant for 15 year olds? I wanted to bitch slap the sales lady because it’s not like I’m 47! I’m 22! – I was a little taken aback. Though delusional, I know that I would never, ever fit into a pair of pants made for those of the prepubescent set. Which I’m OK with. So I went straight for the most ho-riffic dress I could find, that would fit over the twins and my linebacker shoulders***. Which, impossible, right? I mean, I of all people should not be shopping in the Junior’s department, who cares if I can be frugal, there’s still no reason for it and nothing will fit and blah, blah, blah, I got the hottest fucking dress ever. And it fit superbly.

Remember, when I decided that because Tiger goes to the gym and does pilates and can hit clear across a dog leg at the 17th hole and be like 14 under par, then I should go to the gym because then I’ll hit the same exact way and Annika will be jealous? Well, apparently that worked. Sort of. I mean I still can’t hit a dog leg for the life of me and Annika would laugh and pet me on the head and say ‘good try’ with my stellar use of a four iron, but when I did my weekly weigh in, I apparently have lost something like 22 lbs. Completely unintentional, because it sure as hell isn’t because I watch what I eat. Only if ‘watching’ means meticulously staring at my Cajun fries and/or burrito and/or naan smothered in palak paneer as it goes into my mouth because I cannot drop any. So yeah, I guess I’ve been watching what I eat.

Really I don’t know how it happened and I really haven’t given up on my fish fillets or brunch at Georgia Brown’s. But I do know that I can now buy all the cheap crap I want from Trampage (save for pants) and not look like a stuffed sausage and can freely prance around in a $22 dress and some Stuart Weitzman ballet flats and laugh my little (ok, smaller, for now) ass off. And yell at Kris, loudly/drunkenly, in the middle of dinner at Sonoma, that I wear things from the Juniors Department NAH; while possibly sticking out my tongue. And damn, it feels good.

*Except for Halloween. Unless I’ve had plans for weeks, I don’t really do Halloween.
**Except for when it comes to anything that I have no interest in doing, which is why my room looks like a hurricane passed through and why my writing has slowly gotten worse

***Good Lord, I am hot. Line back shoulders, a large ass, and a fro. This is why the men come after me.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Because drama makes me cringe (It also gives me hives)

“Fighting is essentially a masculine idea; a woman's weapon is her tongue.” ~Hermione Gingold

I heart Sarah Brown. So when she requested material for the pilot of Cringe, hell, whenever she requests anything for Cringe, I whimper. For I have nothing Cringe worthy. I really, really don’t. One, most of my material has long been missing, Two, nothing makes me cringe about it, it just makes me laugh my ass off, but if that counts then so be it. Because the wonderful part about getting older is that everything that was once so dire and serious becomes so trite and ridiculous.

It’s not like I’ve been full of wisdom for years – more like full of bullshit – but I somehow missed that whole acting stupid and drama filled over a boy, crap. That’s what all the super cringey stuff from youth comes from. Well I skipped over it. I listened to Green Day, sported flannel and wide leg Jnco jeans, but never liked or really dated for that matter until college. Not to mention that that whole ‘pulling of hair of the boy you like, chasing him around the playground’ crap, was few and far between as well. But I’d be remiss not to mention the stolen kisses I gave to Matt A. in the 3rd grade during spelling. Oh and Jason, who I totally thought I would marry, and his braces.

I suppose I just never could endure or allow myself to go through all the stupid drama filled crap that goes with lusting after someone. I’ve always found girls who get all ‘woe is me’ because Johnny thinks they to be dreadfully melodramatic, to be terribly pathetic. That’s not to say that I’m not pathetic, because I can be, just rarely over the male subject.

Despite my ever cool past, it all has slowly caught up to me since the summer of 2001. During which I began a string of infatuations with the opposite sex that all make me die a little inside when I even remotely think about them. Apparently I have more drama in me than one would imagine. Apparently I can barely hold my own before flinching back because “OH MY GOD! A penis! Must. Act. Like. An. Idiot.” And so on and so forth and it’s sad and I now probably owe several males flowers and chocolates and football tickets. There should also be some groveling because of the inevitable drama that ensues.

It’s overwhelming how drama filled females can be. I speak not only from personal experience with my own melodramatic Oscar caliber performances, but because lately I’ve been bogged down with it. Though it’s mostly vicarious, it’s still annoying and mind numbingly ridiculous. I’m sick of it. Not only when it comes to males but when it comes to everything. It’s like we, as females, can never let anything go and have to be obsessed with things and our elephant-like memories get the best of us. There are moments when I rethink what I’ve done or said and I roll my eyes and question who said that? And what meds is this girl on? Something strong I would suppose.

Realizing this and admitting it doesn’t mean that things will necessarily change, given that so many of us females are wired to behave just so. But it makes me so much more aware of why there are times that men are terrified. Hell, I am terrified, when approached by someone far more meaner and vindictive than I. I just feel that there are times when I need to be scolded and told to “get off the drama bus at the next stop and take a cab to laidbackville” (Yes a real life actual male said this to me).

It makes me want to do a quick PSA for those holding an XY chromosome and say that yes, women can be crazy and stupid and ridiculous. Also, be particularly cautious of the girls with the clear heels, ‘cause they have some serious cooties.

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