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Sunday, December 31, 2006

The curious incident of the mouse in the house

“New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.” ~Mark Twain

I had been sitting quietly contemplating important matters such as electrolysis and the number of road runs I should sign up for. I have developed this peculiar belly ache, which really shouldn’t be that peculiar given the amount of mac and cheese I’ve eaten over the past few days and that I’m a firm believer that Starbucks eggnog lattes should be consumed everyday during the last week in December because they are damn serious when they say they’ve run out: Which means finding yourself verklempt and saddened while traipsing around the city of your choosing in dire need of frothy caffeinated eggnog. All of this while deep into a Criminal Intent marathon and questioning whether or not Robert Goran and I could make sweet, sweet love.

There had been flashes out of the corner of my eye since yesterday, which could be a manifestation of the aforementioned Law and Order watching with intermittent viewings of the Real World/Road Rules challenge. Perhaps all of the murder and cattiness got to me and I developed a brain disorder whose symptoms could be an eye thing. Maybe. So the mass had been drifting about for days, but I blinked it off and went back to testing out the chocolates and writing things like, stop being an overly obsessive bitch in 2007, in my moleskin.

And here is where I point out how truly fascinating my life is. Also? I’m not sure it’s possible to be more boring, but for fuck’s sake be less boring in 2007. And do away with eating fish, given that I only eat fish so that I can eat as many filet of fish as I desire. It's a sickness.

And so this evening, I figured that this was just more imaginations and also a really awful side effect to not having any fermented grapes for almost nine days, which is a record somewhere. That is until the mass came out of hiding. For the mass is a real live little baby mouse. A little baby mouse that warrants standing on the couch and doing Lamaze breathing while stealthily (well stealthily as possible with the loud ‘hee hee hoo’ going on) grabbing all of the Twizzler nibs that had fallen on the floor in addition to the DVDs and turning off the television with my nose. Of course the DVDs were unnecessary given that I left the blasted DVD player in the room with the little baby mouse that at some point this evening will gnaw my face off.

Now, in case you were wondering, I am not a tiny little person nor am I a complete girly girl who fears spiders and snakes. No. I can man the fuck up when needed and the very rational side of me knows that I am roughly 1.2 million times the size of the little baby mouse which I could easily stomp dead with my size 11 foot (see? Not tiny). But instead I take the not very calculated hopping up on the couch and gathering the necessities (see: DVDS, but no DVD player and lack of sneakers) running out of the room, and slamming the door behind me route. One that leads to me running up the stairs and tripping over a very well placed kitchen island, which came out of nowhere and should really be moved in the event of a rabid field mouse that will bite my arms off, of course after magically getting through the glass sliding doors and into my bedroom at the other end of the house. It might even claw my eyeballs out, but again…I’m not really sure.

And hopefully next year, I’ll not only be slightly thinner and less obsessed and maybe I’ll grow some balls of the brass and pseudo nature, that is.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006


“One man's frankness is another man's vulgarity.” ~Kevin Smith

Just minutes after professing my love for the c-word. Yes, the c-word the one that causes the Swiss to go into a catatonic state, which she can only be brought out of with the offering of a generous offering of Chardonnay. We’re talking goblet, people. Anyway that c-word…I was told: “no one splices the f-word in with such a large prolific vocabulary like you do.” Which induced an aww, how precious out of me, but also a mildly disturbed type feeling that I am truly unable to find a post without rampant use of the f-word. It’s like the search for the Giants in the playoff: you think you might find one, but whoops, nope, almost, not quite. Any piece of writing that I can find without saying motherfucker to people in the grocery store, isn’t all that entertaining and mostly me being angry about how incredibly unfair my life is. It’s like No Pasa Nada: We complain so that you don’t have to. How thoughtful!

In some ways, it’s funny the way in which I can toss the word ‘fuck’ around and the different ways that one can use it and well…anyone who can use ‘cunt’ in a sentence without flinching and with utmost authority is one that you might not want to fuck with. But it’s so very crass. And none of this is coming from a power up on high who scolded me for calling someone a douche bag whore, but because ‘douche bag whore’ is just so very uncreative. It’s as if I never stepped foot into a classroom and that $34,000 tuition went straight to Ben Ladner’s foie gras addiction, and actually that last bit is true, for it did.

So…now thinking on this…I’m not exactly ready to you know, curb the use of the word ‘fuck’ it’s just such a glorious word, but I am committed to creativity with the English language. It’s hard and it sucks like a 16 year old on prom night, but there’s so much that can be done with it. And sometimes…well sometimes I get giddy. Heartbreakingly giddy when I go through and realize that I’ve called tourists ‘fucking mother fuckers who can’t fucking drive’ no less than three times. And perhaps, I could refer to them as ‘asinine dip shits who couldn’t retrieve there head out of their own asses even if John Roberts himself did the pulling. And even then they might be too busy attempting to kiss his ass in excitement.” I was going to add an Ann Coulter reference, but even that was too dirty for a family site like this one. Eh, whatever maybe I’ll just call annoying people ‘fucking cocksuckers’ and leave it that. Oh what fun it is to be completely crass.

All of this was written and saved to my mother’s laptop. Upon finding this her head will immediately fall off of her body and her heart will shrivel up to the size of a raisin. And if she hasn’t yet died from that, she’ll see the c-word written in plain sight and her brain will explode out of her nostrils. Deep down inside, she’s really, really proud.

*btw, I’m number one on google for “wry single female blog”. Rock on.

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Release therapy

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” ~Ray Bradbury

When one begins quoting Ludacris in a totally serious non-Move Bitch kind of way, that usually means that there is some sort of serious problem lurking below the service or perhaps now I have a penchant for telling people that I’ve got ho’s in different area codes. No matter, because this really is not about Ludacris, as tempting as it might be to write an entire post as to his genius (‘Get back, get back, you don’t know me like that’? Brilliant), this is more about that release of letting things go and letting things out. Despite having that ability to be as prolific as possible there are just those things that are untouchable. The things that I can obsess and fret over and question how exactly I go about finding a remedy to something that’s probably innocuous and then I end up elusive and here we are with me writing as to not explode all over my mother's precious upholstery.

I like that writing can get me to say things that I wouldn’t otherwise say. It’s a matter of who I am saying it to, who I am writing for. It’s for me but I sometimes need the opinions of others to tell me what to do, not make my decisions of course but to make me feel less like I’ve fucked up egregiously. But in the end I think that writing about not being able to write because of some other bullshit, is just a waste of time and adds to the risk of carpal tunnel without ever really saying anything. I want to be able to say things without sounding pretentious or uptight or anal or a flaming ass bitch who writes just for the sake of writing something. I want to be able to say something, not just say anything. The latter is my goal for the year, a resolution of sorts, to not just write for the hell of it about whether or not I wholeheartedly agree with leggings, which I totally do if they’re keeping you warm, but not to wear with a sweater and Uggs, which serves no purpose because ladies, the ass! It is still bare! And also, not 1988! But I digress…oh so none of the above and no lists unless it’s a deep and heartfelt list as to why I could live at home for awhile, number one being, my mother brought me starbucks in bed. Number two being, and then the food was in the refrigerator and I didn’t have to fear for my life while driving through Thomas circle to get to the grocery store. All good.

Though I should touch on the beauty of having people who know me, and know that I would fall madly in love with anyone who gives me both gift cards to Target and Whole Foods and also the sweater I wore on Christmas Eve and subsequently got ridiculously drunk in, smells like nine week old baby. Yum. And that my friends, is the sign of a very Merry Christmas and I hope your Holidays were groovy as well.

*I started this talking about Ludacris and ended with Christmas, so clearly with more time to write ‘something’ I can work on segues. Clearly.

Friday, December 22, 2006


"If we had no faults of our own, we would not take so much pleasure in noticing those of others." ~Francois duc de la Rochefoucauld

Any story that begins with ‘so I was in the airport bar…’ is bound to be doomed. It feels rather inevitable especially after recent viewing of Red Eye. I mean that’s how Rachel – I was a mean girl now I’m lovely and did I mention Candian – McAdams and her soon to be psychotic stalker yet ridiculously handsome killer meet, of course from there the whole psychotic-ness comes into play and it’s down hill from there. But of course the above hardly warrants fear nor precludes me of all people from venturing into the bar at Thurgood Marshall airport (If people are going to say ‘Reagan’ than I get to say ‘Thurgood Marshall’, period) and imbibing on some Chesapeake crabs and cabernet and yengling and apparently there was a moment in which I had turned into one of those creepy airport bar dwellers and soon I’ll be joining the ‘mile high club’ this is all very sudden.

Regardless, there are really creepy airport drunk people. I just want to sit and hear more about Eli and how Isaiah has suddenly made people fear the Knicks, that’s all. Closed captioning not withstanding of course, yet alone, to dwell in my misanthropic and lush behaviors, while fucking around with the crackberry. Of course the hint is not well taken by others specifically a gentleman who seated two seats down from me decided to spit tobacco in a bar glass and then involved himself in the conversation of the woman sitting between us. The woman whose hand I came quite close to ripping off when she drunkenly poked me in my fleshy side to question whether or not the seat beside me was taken. Startled, I mistakenly said no and allowed her to sit between me and drunken spitter while she loudly berated her boyfriend on the phone. In a public small bar. And every once in a while…ok, every 10.98 seconds…drunken spitter would holler “Call him an asshole!” or “he’s an asshole and not worth” or “Fuck yeah, asshole”. While she intermittently gave him the glary eyes of death and then shot daggers at me as if drunken spitter and I were BFFE from way back.

There’s a very visceral reaction in me to ignore and drink yet ignore some more until drunken spitter yelled at me as to the quality of my crackberry and how much he hates Hillary Clinton. But drunk public boyfriend berater she’s a republican but really likes Barack Obama. And clearly my keeping my head down while slamming my yeungling (so that I could get the fuck out of dodge and sit and wait with the normal Southwest airlines patrons who line up in their proper section two hours before the plane departs) was the perfect sign for please tell me how you feel and while we’re at it, you were born where? Oh but of course I know the answer to that last question; drunk public boyfriend berater is from Cincinnati and drunken spitter is from Phoenix, and I’m from Albany which is somewhere near Syracuse and it’s cold and sometimes we get 7 feet of snow (that according to drunken spitter). My response was that it doesn’t fucking snow when it’s 57 degrees, asshole.

So I left, because there is only so much conversing that I can handle and I can’t be completely shitfaced on a plane and show up to greet my mother by licking her or some such shit. Though I did meander just far enough to walk right into someone who I’ve known since kindergarten. Right there on my flight and I’m thinking the fermented grapes had something to do with how effortlessly the conversation was and why I turned into a walking sales person for fucking leggings.

And there you have it; the rest isn’t all that exciting except…well I have no couth as my mother pointed out no less than 7 times because I stripped in front of an open window (In my defense the window wasn’t open and no one could see me and jesus lord it’s only day one). Welcome Home and Happy Holidays, clearly, we’re off to a lovely start.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Photographic Evidence

"But it is a cold, lifeless business when you go to the shops to buy something, which does not represent your life and talent, but a goldsmith's." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Gifts," Essays, Second Series, 1844

So that I might end on a high note (pun beyond intended. I went to the pun store and found that and brought it back) dover here until Mac Fest 2007 I figured I'd post a little something that I did over at Indie Bloggers as my gift to you. Y'all I am loving that site like it's my baby (even better that I have the lovely Swiss and Stacy). So I'm a momma bear and be good to my little cub. Visit, sign up and enjoy and apparently I put out, so that might be fun as well.

When I’m bored I procrastinate and being that the internet is a procrastinator’s wet dream, then that is where I head. So imagine my surprise during my regularly scheduled perusal to see a picture of myself in all my bathing suit glory. Right there staring at me, smiling in a two piece suit that was something like two sizes too small and my lord the fat rolls that were spilling out of the edges. It was like pork stuffed into sausage casing. That is if fresh sausage had a massive fro and oily skin.

In a word: Hideous.

And my own feelings of hideousness aside, it was in public and right there on the internet for everyone and their brother’s mother’s cousin to see: Me, with my poofy hair and giant hips meant for birthing five at a time comfortably. And all I could think and still think is oh my fuck.

Though this not just about me being terribly embarrassed, but also about the manifestation of my stalker tendencies and the way in which I almost daily look at pictures of friends and foes and strangers alike; as today I happened upon an unsightly picture of a close friend and had to stifle my laughter. And when I came to, I made wondered whether or not this friend knew of these unflattering pictures*. In fact do most people know that every picture of them snapped with eyes a flutter due ghastly flash, has the possibility of ending up on the internet? While I’m sure most are aware that it’s a possibility there is nothing worse than seeing yourself in a bathing suit on Flickr or MySpace or wherever the hell ever.

What creeps me out more about the entire thing is the way in which EVERYONE can see these pictures. I mean if I can find a picture of someone with a goofy ass smile rocking Lees from 1989 on some random website, anyone can. And it’s all anonymous…and excuse me while I breathe into this paper bag. Because oh my hell, I don’t look at pictures of myself in a bathing suit ever nor do I have any that weren’t distorted with burned edges, because – and I repeat – rolls of fat.

So just be careful out there, not with the pictures that you throw out there, because if your friends are anything like me they’ll see that picture and die a horrible death after falling head first onto a floor and forget all about the picture and focus less on the elliptical. But! Be careful and be sure not to be caught drunk in a hot tub in your bathing suit. For my sake and yours, people; Mesh shorts. Just sayin’.

*This person is actually pretty fucking that we're all on the same page here.

It's the thought that counts

“Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.” – Christmas Vacation

In the spirit of sharing during this holiday season, I decided to participate in Neil’s Christmahanukwanzaakah Holiday Concert. A few things: 1) I haven’t played in like four years, 2) The damn thing hasn’t been tuned in five years, 3) I was only first chair of the clarinet section for like a year, 4) Playing an instrument is kind of like riding a bike, you never really forget how to make a really fucking awful noise that will blow your eardrums. Think bluegrass on crack. 5) Cell phone quality isn’t what it used to be. Or it’s probably better and I should get a new phone or perhaps not be playing my clarinet over the damn phone.

So here in all it’s (awful) glory is my rendition of O Come all Ye Faithful on the b flat clarinet. I song I chose for it’s easy as pie single sharp moderate tempo. Read: Even an 8 year old could play this shit and hell of a lot better than I. If you’re lucky in the New Year, I’ll play a little Pachebel for you.

O Come all Ye Faithful: The Lame Edition (so bad that it makes the baby Jesus cry)

On that note, I wish you all a wonderful Holiday. And I’ll catch y’all in 2007.

If you really miss me that much, I will be here and here.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

It's like a really bad episode of Standoff

“Anger ventilated often hurries toward forgiveness; and concealed often hardens into revenge.” ~Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

Well, I’m speechless. I’m rarely speechless. With the amount of hot air that exudes from my mouth and the way sentences flow from my fingers, I am the last person who has nothing to say. But oh my hell, it’s Tuesday. TUESDAY. And last night after coming home from a perfectly lovely dinner at Vidalia (eh, Bistro Bis is better) I went into the kitchen to find the wine opener and lo, it was still a disaster area and the Pillsbury doughboy must be having a motherfucking field day.

And you ask the requisite ‘Where was your roommate?’ Well, she was at home in the living room cuddling with her boyfriend on the couch and then they stood up and they began canoodling in the middle of the living room for, while I stood and poured my shiraz and silently cursed her and willed her to clean her shit up. They stopped briefly so that she could ask whether or not I enjoyed peanut brittle. Though on occasion I do partake in that buttery and nutty good stuff, I pursed my lips together and sighed then clenched my jaw so that I could politely decline. But if I hadn’t been feeling polite I would have said something to the effect of: “Yes, I would really like some Peanut Brittle, but what I would really enjoy right now is a clean kitchen. So unless that Peanut Brittle is also some sort of new fangled Clorox cleanup sponge, I would like for you to clean you fucking flour off the god damn counter and then shove the peanut brittle up your ass.”

But like I said, I am feeling polite. I haven’t even been my usual passive aggressive self because I don’t know what to think. What if it’s there for the rest of the year? Why should I be the bigger person and clean it up? It’s not my mess. If it were a few crumbs, then fine, OK, I’d grumble and move on, but there is flour in places that there shouldn’t be flour and how one manages to get chocolate on a cutting board that they weren’t even using, is beyond me. But oh my hell…(breathe)…What do I do? Because this is out of hand and it’s now Tuesday morning. Oh yes, Tuesday motherfucking morning and I’ve been to the gym, showered, etc. and she has checked her email, made breakfast and I sat and watched her glance around the kitchen, while I burned a hole into the back of her head with my eyes, because how do you glance around the kitchen, sigh and then keep walking?? HOW?

I just don’t know anymore, and I swear to God, if she leaves for Hawaii and that shit is still there, well all I have to say is that the lease is in MY name.


Monday, December 18, 2006

Crimes Against Cupcakes and other faux disasters*

“People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Worship," The Conduct of Life, 1860

While Stacy spent her Saturday working on the site, I spent mine in Georgetown for 12 straight hours – after parking in a pristine spot right on the corner of M and Wisconsin – and let her remind me over the phone that I obviously hate mommybloggers. And not only do I hate mommybloggers, but I also hate rainbows, puppies, babies, butterflies and Tony Romo. But yes, I dislike and spent my day contemplating such and intermittently asking El Madre when she was going to have Chris introduce me to Will and also being cantankerous. And well, it’s lovely when my avid pissy attitude spills all the way to Monday. So much so that I’ve spent more than my fair share of time, going between wishing for someone to lose an appendage and poking the bottom of each chocolate (in a two pound box) with a letter opener to see what was inside. Who the hell thought of a box of chocolates without a guide at the bottom was clearly smoking something that I would really like to be a part of.

Oh and I mentioned spill which means that it’s an easy segue into the state of my kitchen. My kitchen which looks like a baking experiment gone awry and has looks that way since Saturday. And again, I emphasize how very Monday it is, which is a long way from Saturday, which means that I shouldn’t still be looking at the same pile of flour on the kitchen counter that I was looking at Saturday night**. And please tell me what kind of person leaves cupcakes out in the open, not in an airtight container? So not only has she wreaked havoc on my kitchen – not that I use the damn thing, but really, I would enjoy some TJ’s Mac & cheese without having to reach over dried up chocolate sauce on the stove – but she also disregards the feelings of cupcakes. And as a lover of cupcakes I must say that I am appalled, by these crimes against cupcakes and will deal with my roommate accordingly.

*I’ve decided that if I’m ever propositioned to write a book with segues and paragraphs and shit, then the first one would be called (first, meaning that I get a contract to write two books and a seven figure advance. Oohhh, sorry, hell just froze over) This Isn’t Education and the second would be called Crimes Against Cupcakes.

**I've been trying to post a picture of the damn kitchen for like 15 minutes now and I can't. And it's driving my crazy. And blogger is a dirty whore.

Friday, December 15, 2006


(Another stab at food blogging. Work with me here people)

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

I made the decision to drag the Wry one to Acadiana the other evening under the guise that because it’s owned by Jeff Tunks and Gus DeMillo, then it must be excellent. While Geoff Tracy holds a very special place in my heart and has been with me through thick and thin for five years, I cannot pass up what I’ve dubbed the Oysters of Love™. The oysters are still in the shell and I’ve dried before to explain the way they swim in a sea of garlic butter and are broiled with parmesan cheese on top, and how looking at them and dipping the loaf of French bread into the garlic butter makes my heart melt. It’s probably not perfect by any means, but I’ve never been an avid oyster eater this a manifestation of my lack of sexual prowess. But still the oysters that I consumed prior to the redfish - that really isn’t worth the mention, a) because I don’t remember it (due to alcohol consumption) and b) it just wasn’t that good – were as always mouth watering. I feel that if I can recall a dish weeks – nay months – later and still reminisce fondly about how every time I see these oysters I salivate, then that it is a good thing and that makes a food worth it. If all I can remember about the red fish was that it was light and probably good enough that I ate it, then one could say that it was just average and not worth three prolific pieces on how much in love I am. But that’s just me.

Despite the omitted and possibly repressed fish, it’s always nice to be able to go into a restaurant and be comfortable. It may have been the company; because there really is nothing better than drinking with the Wry one and imitating Citizen Kane (“Rose…bud”) and discussing whether or not Joe or Steve is better (JOE!), but I digress. There’s just something comforting about the atmosphere there, which is unpretentious. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not all that pretentious, especially when it comes to my food (have I mentioned the filet-o-fish yet? Yes? Really?). But I enjoy going into a restaurant and having that nice atmosphere. I think that’s why I always loved Chef Geoffs, not that the food was perfect – though they did have banana wontons with caramel ice cream for years and that was beyond perfect – the service worked for me because most of the servers were my classmates and I felt rather at home there.

Though I’m beginning to think that I feel at home at places when I’m with people that I adore and restaurants that I frequent. And really I’m not sure where I’m going with this, except to say that OYSTERS. I repeat: OYSTERS.

And because I’m nosey, I would like to know a few things:

a) Your favorite restaurant (name, location)

b) Your favorite dish there

c) If you had to choose between Grey Goose and Tonic and Wine, which would you choose? Because I chose the former and regretted it for 36 entire hours until I had my first mojito last night.

*fuuuuuuuuck and it’s Blog Crush day and Ummm I forgot, but was just reminded. So, who do I have a crush on? Jonniker (Close runner up: Schnozz). I will write more about her later, and by later I mean Monday (ish) which makes it rather moot, but whatever, I try.


Thursday, December 14, 2006

Moving on

“It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.” ~Vita Sackville-West

As the founder and president of Over Thinkers Anonymous™ it’s my duty to you know, think things over and obsess and really put my nose to the grindstone on every little detail and hot damn, I’m fucking awesome at it. But much like all things that are fairly routine, I’m starting to realize that’s getting a little old and my obsessive nature is just bothersome and overly tiring. I mean, try spending two solid hours devising the most illogical scheme possible and then making it seem as if yes! That totally makes sense! Why don’t you follow?! It’s damn hard and now I’m terribly tired.

So now I’m toying with divulging more about the oysters of love over at Acadiana or why I am most certainly not a home wrecker, or how I baked magic cookie bars last night that got stuck to the bottom of my good pyrex dish, or how I find footless leggings to be God’s gift to the free world, or you know more about my holiday (let’s be PC now shall we?) shopping is so not even started, or a myriad of other boring ass things, that I can make seem really interesting, but ummm, no.

Instead I leave you with the following, which I wrote for BlogHer. I’m sharing it with you all because I never share anything that I write there over here for no particular reason other than, I’m lazy and if I write about my personal finances etc here, then there’s less time for incessant and unnecessary complaining. Which we all will agree I’m really terrific at.

S.I.N.King and loving it

It’s pretty much been the same tune sung day in and day out in regards to the fund crisis that is the life of a 20 something. It’s not necessarily crisis but it can be mildly frustrating and while there are aspects to being in your early 20’s, like a high metabolism and it being acceptable to have a constant hangover, it’s still just a nagging thing that I’m sure I will laugh about in the end. And while I will readily complain about the former, I cannot say that I don’t enjoy having a rather disposable income. I can do pretty much what I want, when I want and if I really wanted to pack up and move across the country tomorrow, there is no one else that I would have to check in with. If I wanted to invest in Alpaca and make a new career as a sheep herder, then no one can stop me. It’s actually quite a beautiful thing and to quote Dave Matthew’s I shall miss these things when it all rolls by.

The reason I began blogging was because it was a platform to discuss/whine about the above. That the immediate time after college where you’re pretty much in flux with things, is rather tumultuous and given that 99% of people happen to go through it, I felt that there would be some sort of support or something there. And as the time has gone on and I do have an avid ‘You rock’ etc. readership, it’s not the same, being a single female blogger (since blogging can be very niche like) and getting that same support mechanism of say a female who happened to have a child, for instance.

I write the above with extreme trepidation because I don’t want to be labeled a hater of those who write blogs of the parenting genre, mostly because I don’t dislike and embrace them with enthusiasm, hell, I garner much of my disposable income from babysitting for a “Mommy blogger” but I do find it all rather interesting. I was speaking with another blogger about this earlier in that I am a single person with no kids (Single Income No Kids) and like I said, disposable income, from a business stand point it would make sense to swoop me up and offer me things and realize that with my disposable income, I can buy whatever I feel like buying, but alas they don’t. Not to mention (deep breaths) that ad offers aren’t the same either, I mean it’s a known fact that bloggers who are parents are considerably more desirable than those of us without children. It’s not a criticism but just a true fact.

But like I said, I don’t dislike parent bloggers I just find it interesting the way women in particular will flock to another woman if she is pregnant but if I were to get a new job or decide to make a career change into acrobatics, I doubt anyone would be equally as enthralled with my journey and/or search me out for premium ad space. It’s just how it goes and you can be assured that I’m not the only SINK (or Dual Income No Kids) who is equally flummoxed by this entire “parent blogging brings all the ads/love to the yard”, phenomenon.

An excerpt from a very excellent post by Stacy of Jurgen Nation:

The bloggers I read faithfully are, in my mind, friends. Some of them are parents, some aren’t. I don’t really think of them in terms of mommies or daddies, I think of them as [blogger] friends - “Blends”, if you will.

What bothers me is not that the Mommy Bloggers have a network. Nay, what vexes me is that the personal bloggers, i.e., the SINKs (Single Income, No Kids! Hi Mom! Over Here!) and DINKs (Double Income, No Kids) don’t have this built-in support system. The Mommy Blogger has that extra wonderful layer. If you’ve never witnessed the Mommy Bloggers in action, it’s truly astonishing. They form an umbrella of support and cheerleading for each other; one could even describe it as “mothering” or “nurturing” (I know!). It’s almost as if, when a new mom starts a new blog The Moms form a caucus, the sole purpose of which is to pair that new mommy blogger up with a mentor or buddy until she gets the hang of it and becomes A Mommy Blogger (echo, echo). And then, like bees, they all descend on each each other to encourage, cheer, support.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Because I can*

“The best writing style is the style you don't notice.” ~Somerset Maugham

I’ve become overwhelmingly concerned with the state of Lulu and Jason’s relationship and less on the state of my Christmas list. I mean, will they or won’t they get together? What will happen with Alcazar? How the fuck did I end up in this strange vortex of having to halt all things when General Hospital comes on? GH, notwithstanding there’s avid traipsing around town with various spectacular people and every time I think of spending money above and beyond for my brand new baby, I get hives, because I keep falling asleep to images of BofA’s online banking and my account showing a negative balance all in the name of being able to blog from my bed on something that doesn’t purr and blink and contemplate giving me the blue screen of death. It’s on some serious life support right now and we’re all standing watching and praying that it survives through next week. Then I’ll be more willing to let it go.

When my Uncle asked what I would be doing with my new laptop, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d be using it to blog so I’m sure I muttered something and then put my head down and prayed that he would attack G over something, and lo, he did, in regards to G being an Africana Studies major which is a whole different post about that and his Marcus Garvey love and other fun things. So! Blogging! Yes, I do so and rather fervently and at the beginning it was for my friends and family and then it turned into not just for my friends and family. Which I noticed the other day when seeing Elisa (Of Blogher fame as well) speak and someone came up to me and said “Are you Heather?” and then I promptly shoved my hands in my pockets, despite the 98.4 degree temperature and possibly mumbled yet again, something about how yes, I am Heather. And then you all would be proud, I proceeded to complete a quality 45 minutes worth of conversation with several complete strangers, while utterly (and not all too painfully) sober.

And now is a perfect time to mention that one of the people that I was conversing with had been a clown in a ‘former’ life. Clowns scare me in ways indescribable and to the point that I was once terrified to close the door to my bedroom and have the lights off because one would come in and kill me in my sleep, in fact, I’m sure I was once convinced that all clowns did was lure little children to kill them. Of course this clown was a nice one, and I possibly…you know…maybe I had an incredibly fucked up movie experience as a child and watched It (the Stephen King movie that I would link to via IMDB, if it didn’t sport a picture of a deathly clown right on the front, though I’m not sure of that, but I’d rather not risk it) one too many times.

Anyway, I have a visitor coming this weekend, solely for the purposes of shopping with me. I’m not sure where exactly I found her and did I mention the stellar boot collection that I stole from and then had a coworker tell me how stylish this aforementioned visitor is? Yeah. Anyway, the visitor is coming to take me to Anthropologie, something about me losing weight and being a genuinely fucking fantastic individual has lead her to do such a thing. But! While with her I can dissect the above things and the reasons for why segues are such a tough thing for me to tackle. And of course that whole clown thing.

*This post brought to you by my brilliance to write it yesterday afternoon knowing full well that I would be sporting a massive hangover today. Note to self: The quality of vodka doesn’t necessarily mean a different hangover. In fact right now I have another crazy ass hangover which I can feel in my neck and in my right ear. It’s very odd. I asked someone for a remedy and then realized that I could always just drink less, but that’s silly talk.

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

I promise to stop tomorrow. Maybe.

“Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?” ~Winnie the Pooh

I’m caught between a rock and a phlegm storm that I’ve been trying to ward off via airborne and water and a myriad of citrus fruits. Yet nothing works and I can feel the snot dripping away diligently down my throat and the mucus just laughs and scoffs. And as with most everything in my life, I’m projecting that this will all lead to a dire and tragic bronchitis/strep thing and none of this has helped my current stress right now, in fact it only makes things worse.

Not that I really have anything to stress over, but it’s just more in the great moments of projection and I’m begninnig to think that spending so much time alone with just a bottle of wine and DVR for company, bodes terribly unwell for my tendency to over think things. Last week, clearly being the best, with the whole being completely ALONE. ALL WEEK. With nothing but the vino and I turned off my crackberry and phone and just spent the week alone in Kris’ apartment obsessing about the inane and using her perfume which is so very Single White Female of me. All the while relishing in the fact that I could walk in, go to the bathroom and not have anyone come in literally 15 seconds after I walk in the door, knocking requesting that they be able to use the fucking bathroom. I also missed out on a weeks worth of ‘Hey there…’ conversations while I’m trying to find my coat or fish the last package of oatmeal off the top of the refrigerator. Case in point: Living alone fucking rocks.

Anyway, without the distraction of other people, sharing my oxygen I’m free to stumble around and with a glass of wine and order Over the Hedge via On Demand and think about every situation and every single solitary outline in such meticulous fashion that I contemplated charts and graphs and possibly began talking to myself. None of this necessitates full on detail of the object of my neuroses, but it all leads back to me just fucking caring. Even when I say that I don’t care, which I say more often and not, out of fear and wanting to protect myself, I care immeasurably and I worry and then I spend my days eating Poptarts and thinking the worse, and caring more and then questioning my ability – which I seriously lack – to convey the ways in which I care and subsequently fear.

Consequently I’ll live up to my title of Biggest Lush (this is the first time I’ve won anything since being elected Anderson Hall representative to the Student Confederation General Assembly during my sophomore year of college. And please stop me when I’ve fully disclosed just how terribly unpopular I have been for my entire life), and drink some more and over think my over thinking (and my Christmas list, because dear lord, I have yet to figure out what I’m getting a single solitary anyone ever and people will hate me and want me dead because I didn’t get them the perfect gift. Ahem) and realize that I still need to chill the hell out and find ways to say things with utmost sincerity and hope that one knows that I mean them.

Monday, December 11, 2006

And it goes a little something like this

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

My astute ability at hangover prevention has apparently waned over the past few years. Thus the reason for a residual headache come Sunday. A headache that was the product of drinking nine of those miniature plastic wine glasses full of cheap red wine at a former Professor’s home and then two large, grey goose and vodkas at Science Club, because the drunk the better. I’m fairly certain that my last conversation was with Ms. K over a forkful of chocolate cake thinking fondly of filet – o – fish. Which didn’t exactly prevent the hangover the next morning or come Sunday either.

Ambitious I am enough to meticulously plan out a trip through Friendship on my way to Bethesda. Mostly to pick up new sunglasses because I’ve driving down 395 with the blinding white hot rays of sun and my hands covering my eyes and/or eyes completely closed, ergo making the feat of crossing four lanes of high speed traffic complete with type a luxury car drivers who seem to think that writing an email while driving is most brilliant, to be one of the most precious things ever. So in lieu of dying because of driving with my eyes closed, I opted to throw down $20 for some new Ralph’s at Steinmart.

I follow the ‘kill two birds with one stone’ method of errand running, in which I will get everything that needs to be done completed in one trip and since I was going to be in Friendship I’d stop at Tiffany (as in & Co) to get my bracelet cleaned, because it was rather gross. Umm so, that place gives me hives and also necessitates a few outfit changes (I’m loathe to write that I settled on this subtle Burberry shirt, as opposed to like a fucking coat/headband/bag/scarf combo that I’ve seen others wear. And that last sentence just made me die a little inside. But I digress…) because the last thing I want to do is venture to that end of Wisconsin avenue, with this massive gash below my eye (possibly drunk when it occurred, also could have been a cat, but I prefer to say a fight), rocking my sweats (Oh shut up). And you know just what end of Wisconsin I’m speaking of the end with the Saks and the Gucci. The end, which I question exactly which city I’m in and I half expect a FAO Schwartz to be around the corner because that would make my fucking life.

Anyway, my bracelet ended up all nice and shiny and I didn’t succumb from a severe silver allergy while there. Oh yes, so very, allergic to silver, actually I’m not sure if I still am, but I’d rather not test the waters and end up with puss filled welts all over my ears/neck/fingers. And while smiling that I survived that trip with my head high and managed to get almost past the Gucci store, where lo, I saw someone that I used to date. In college. Who is a staunch Michael Steele supporting Republican. Who once told me that I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. And now he’s gay. So I saw him, and whipped out my handy dandy blackberry and practically ran into a very large Hummer.

To recap and bring it all together at the end: I make fairly poor decisions when it comes to the opposite sex and if I stop making these poor decisions and find someone to accept my status as the Biggest Lush in the DC blogging world (There was an actual vote for this superlative and I actually won), then he should know that I would prefer platinum and a solitaire emerald cut diamond setting.

The end.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Slowly getting there

“Hey! I tell you what I'm gonna give you, Snakes. I'm gonna give you to the count of 10 to get your ugly, yellow, no-good keister off my property before I pump your guts full of lead! One, two, ten!” – Home Alone

First off, I dutifully and immensely apologize for an entire post dedicated to my disdain for vomit, not to mention that I possibly come off as some wretched bitch who finds comforting sick children to be some sort of chore that she is too good for. Which, no. Thusly, I am every sorry for using the phrase “I pushed him away because the puke was dripping off of my clarinet case”. Really, I am so very sorry and I’m still trying to not gag while thinking about it.

Speaking of clarinets, I bought sheet music a few days ago. Have I mentioned that on my list of mundane activities that I enjoy, buying and playing music is up there along with chewing ice, watching my netflix queue slowly dwindle and well, blogging. It’s truly rather risible really, given that my proficiency in music is that of a second grader with a brand new recorder. Though I was first chair of the clarinet section and I can also play the bassoon and bass clarinet and the piano and now I’m realizing that every day I look more and more like the least popular person ever. Anyway, I bought music, I’m going to play music and it puts me that much closer to being into the season.

Speaking of season (are we sensing a theme here with the masterful art of segues?) I’m almost on the brink of giddiness with it all as I have lined up Home Alone and A Christmas Story along with National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, to watch over the next week to make me all holly and jolly and such. I figured that finding out that I would not be receiving a Bear Bryant hat for Christmas, would damper my spirit, but alas, it has not though I’m generally just blasé and full of ennui as of late.

So now I am a vomit fearing, clarinet playing, arid brat. But one who is sporting leggings of the footless variety and loving it. In the spirit, I’ll be optimistic and say at least I’ve got that going for me.


Thursday, December 07, 2006

In which I use the word 'vomit' eight times too many

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

The first time it happened, I had a boiled egg for breakfast. I knew I didn’t feel well and I told el madre* that I wasn’t well and she told me to get my ass on the bus, but of course didn’t use the word ass for she isn’t a heathen like her daughter. So I got on the bus and someone had hocked the world’s largest loogie on the floor next to me. I took one glance at it and then threw up all over the aisle of the bus. And as we continued to drive a long, it splashed down the aisle accompanied by the screeching of 40 or so elementary aged children. I was promptly brought to Mrs. Ostrander’s office and sent home.

The second time it happened, I was in 8th grade, approximately six years after the first time. That day I knew for a fact that I was in dire need of gingerale and bucket close to my bed and once again el madre shot me the glary eyed look of death that bore holes into my skull and I suddenly was chipper and went on the bus. And approximately 20 minutes later, threw up all over my clarinet case. Again, it went sloshing down the aisle towards the front. When I got off the bus, Jason Stewart, the boy that I had been in love with for two years, stopped to ask me what’s up and give me a hug and I pushed him away because the puke was dripping off of my clarinet case. I was promptly brought to the Nurse’s office and sent home.

I have a general rule that I do not do well with vomit. Once I see vomit, I will vomit, rinse and repeat. For years though, at the drop of the flu, when it – the vomit - was coming out at an alarming and quick fire pace, I could never figure out why my mother would run and greet me with a look of sheer terror. It was like she couldn’t stand to be around me at that time. And instead of soothing me with her gentleness, she would stare at me horrified as if the devil had taken over and was spewing things out of me and well when my head turned 360 degrees, that was the end. If I recall correctly the great kitchen incident of 2002, when G literally had it coming out of everywhere and instead of calming holding her second born and favorite, she hollered at him to not move one inch lest he wouldn’t die of dehydration but because she stabbed him in the face with the heel of her boot because he dared track vomit throughout her kitchen. That’s love, people.

Like I said, I don’t do well with the puke but always assumed that love conquers all and I could be there and be comforting for a little person who had things that he had eaten like two weeks ago coming out of his mouth. So when my poor sweet baby boy**, threw up all over me and the floor last night and then came out into the living room to come find me because all he wanted to do was be held. I turned and said to him, with wide eyes “Dude! Step away”. While he looked pitiful and sad he had his entire dinner (Yes, yogurt comes out in white chunks) all over him and it was on my pants and then he stepped in it. STEPPED IN IT…and so I possibly yelped some more and told him not to move because I needed to asses the situation and not end up with vomit all over my dry clean only sweater. I am nothing if not a loving person and apparently exactly like my mother.

*I’m going to start referring to her as ‘El Madre’ because it’s nicer than using her first name. Formally, “El Madre all around bad ass and coach lover extraordinaire”. For that title commands respect, yo.
**And by 'my' I mean, not mine really. Though I do love him immensely, he is not my actual child.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

I'll take 'Chill the hell out' for $400, Alex

“When dealing with people, remember you are not dealing with creatures of logic, but creatures of emotion.” ~Dale Carnegie

Before the incident with Lauren Narckiwiez wherein she stole my seat on the bus and so I hit her on the head with a poster, I was pretty much an easy going person who wanted to be a people pleaser and have everyone love and adore me, because I was needy. I was desperate to be around people at an alarming rate and because I wanted everyone to like me I had no selection process of who I would let into my life and so it was a giant clusterfuck like free for all. Of that four year period, I enjoyed approximately four months.

Being perfectly content to be alone with a bottle of wine and selections from the Trader Joe’s frozen food aisle and the internet, is not necessarily a bad thing. I leave the house and socialize and then retreat back into my hibernating state for a few days, rinse and repeat. Throw in my aversion for actual conversation unless accompanied by a glass of wine and really I have no business being a full functioning adult and really would be better off alone. Then again that couldn’t possibly work, I can’t spend the next 60 years being a true to form misanthrope, so I practice being a good conversationalist.

While most people need not take Simple Conversation 101, I do. I just find it difficult to convey things sometimes; thoughts, feelings, whatever. Everything that comes out usually makes me seem an inept loser who should be shot or something and 99% of the time anything that I might want to say or convey, needs to be thought about over and over and over again and sprinkled with sincerity so that I don’t come off as a flaming narcissistic bitch. It’s work, to say the least and what it all boils down to, is that I need to get a fucking grip.

It’s not like this is some huge epiphany and a light bulb went off and I had my ‘Aha!’ moment, it’s just that the average person can handle basic conversation without ending up with a noticeable tick and the average person can easily give and receive compliments without yelling or going into dramatic hyperbole and hysterics and/or analyzing every other word. And at some point I’ll be able to go an entire week without the dire need to discuss in detail and ad nauseum the ways in which I am socially awkward. That last bit would be my holiday gift to you.


Tuesday, December 05, 2006

On the daily

“Everything becomes a little different as soon as it is spoken out loud.” ~Hermann Hesse

In third grade I told my teacher – Mr. Horan – that his pants were ‘tacky’ because I had confused ‘tacky’ with ‘khaki’ and apparently the two are not the same. Which reminds me of the day that he brought in an ultrasound picture of his son (Who I saw recently and I’ve suddenly aged like 14 years, which is probably the reason for the grays.) and I told him that it looked like a seashell, but how I came up with that is beyond me, but I was 7.

There was the time that I called my father a ‘son of a bitch’ in a joking fashion over a bottle of grape soda that he had hidden in the pantry. Though unlike Mr. Horan, el padre didn’t enjoy the words coming out of his 7 or 8 year old daughter’s mouth and decided to remove my lips from my face with his bare hands and since then I haven’t called anyone a son of a bitch.

Sometimes it’s a general spewing of things and even when I really think about what I want to say before actually saying it, I end up catatonic. Thus I rarely like to speak unless I’m fairly sure of what I’m saying before I say it. Which is why I tend to fare better at writing things out than actually speaking, but even then things don’t work very well, though actually it goes both ways given that I find the sound of my own voice akin to the noise that a fork makes when scraped along someone’s front teeth. So I end up sitting in rather durr-like fashion muttering to myself, possibly rocking back and forth and realizing that that didn’t go as well as I hoped.

Really though, I’m actually getting used to it. I plan to have lots of cats to talk to and maybe a dog. They won’t judge.


Monday, December 04, 2006

And on the 7th day, there was mutiny

“Mother, is that you? Beckoning me into the light? Must... move... toward... the light!” ~ Ozzie*

Sadly, I am writing this practically from the beyond right now, due to an unfortunate incident with a mob scene at Trader Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon.

The typical Sunday afternoon with BMW driving suburbanites, clad in Lily Pulitzer of the great north (Read: Bethesda) with their children and want of free range chicken eggs. Yup, just a normal Sunday afternoon in a crowded grocery store. Everything going smoothly, the lines are flowing, the brie is being swiped through at an alarmingly fast rate and balloons are being doled out to toddlers, who believe that balloons should be eaten and not held, all the while the swiping of the Amex. Just as things should be.

When it’s my turn I’m positively giddy about the mushroom turnovers and the mushroom filled filo dough appetizer thingies and some vitamin water, and the prospect of being the ultimate misanthrope for seven days and an eggnog latte. I’m feeling good and great and fish out my (bright pink) wallet (which I must say, goes with my impossibly small, thereby impractical pink umbrella and my pink Franklin Covey clutch planner), and there is no card. Well there is a card, but that particular card belonged to an account which had exactly - $2.09 in it.

And here’s the part where if I could get red, I’d turn an obscene shade of fire engine red and my cheeks would become flush, because I, Heather B., did the unthinkable. I took out my motherfucking check book. I wasn’t desperate for mushroom turnovers but they had already been rung up and oh my hell, I cast down my eyes and quickly mumbled “Do you take checks?” And the cashier sighed heavily and looked back down the line and there was a woman who decided not to get a basket, therefore was holding all of her worldly organic possessions in her arms, who GLARED at me and then ROLLED HER EYES in the direction of the person standing next to her. Then at me and then the cashier because who the fuck was this chick, who already sticks out like a sore thumb in Bethesda, but then decides to relive 1996 and take out her check book and ask the date (Oh yeah, I asked the date, more like mumbled while the cashier tapped his foot).

So the woman with out the basket, which really, I don’t know why she would do such a thing, because I may not be well versed in normal 2006 etiquette, but she is not well versed in grocery shopping. Anyway, then after she rolled her eyes at me, she turned to the woman next to her with the baby. It was a nudge, which she then passed along to the man behind her. Then she got this look in her eyes. That look that Francisco Franco gave to Manuel Azaña before saying “I’m going to fuck your shit up and take over the country”. That look. Like a rabid dog. And well, everything else was just a blur because the woman without the basket, dropped her gluten free waffles on the ground and ran up behind me and choked the hell out of me for using my check book, while the woman with the baby beat me senselessly with a bag of soy chips. And judging by this bruise on my head, someone threw a jar of pumpkin butter at my head.

Anyway, now I have a headache and a strange ringing in my ears. I strongly believe that this was the sign of karma getting back at me for ridiculing Peg every time she took out (and still does take out) her check book and instead of protecting her from the mob, I also gave her the glary glare of death. Because really, people, this is why God invented plastic.

*This quote brought to you by excessive watching of Over the Hedge.

Friday, December 01, 2006


"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily. "So it is." "And freezing." "Is it?" "Yes," said Eeyore. "However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately." ~A.A. Milne*

While wandering around drunk** and loving everyone within a 10 foot radius last night, I had hopes of relaying said love and how I want to emulate other’s genuinely nice behavior as well, oh and that VK and I actually don’t despise one another. Then this morning I realized that the only way to successfully keep the room from spinning was by laying on my right side with my shoulder blades pinched together, right arm under my pillow, left hand pressing against the middle of my forehead. And my uterus and I need to have an armistice in order to peacefully coexist together for the next 30 or so years. Then for some reason my eyes were puffy as if I’d cried myself to sleep (which I did not) and my sides hurt and I have a rogue curl at the front of my head and it’s 79 degrees right now and humid which is quite reminiscent of Orlando in July. And my throat hurts and I’ve been sneezing and I’m in dire need of a blue bulb snot sucker.

Given these things I still smiled at the barista in starbucks for my lovely eggnog latte and cheerfully gave Melanie the bathroom this morning even though I was running late and really didn’t mind that a Prius splashed my already wrinkled pants, because it’s true that sometimes just being nice takes considerably less effort than writing a book called 99 Pointy Things to Stab Annoying People With (that’s a working title). You know?

*I love that quote.

**Guess which hands are mine...

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