No Pasa Nada

The time has come

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Mon, 07 May 2007 12:55:00 +0000

“And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” – Max Ehrmann

Last night after a whirlwind tour of Georgetown that included Café Bonaparte, Paolo’s and Café Milano, I cried. No, I sobbed. I sobbed in such a way that the girl walking in front of me down M Street, turned around while I was on the phone with my mother, to ask if I was OK. Because apparently someone bawling outside Sephora is unusual. I should have told her that they didn’t have my blush color and that just pissed me off a bit.

The good thing about mothers is that they know just the right things to say and to do, even if you are doing the whole shoulder shake sob thing from 400 miles away. As my mother gently reminded me that I don’t do change well. I actually find change to be some awful act of God in retaliation for all of those times I lied about who stole all the quarters out of the family ‘treat jar’. Or perhaps it’s because of that time I drove to the mall, well before I got my license. I lied about that too.

I thought I was badass and deciding to quit my job in search for something else was taken rather lightly. An outer body experience or something that told me that it was perfectly OK to uproot my life from my best friends and move to a place where it snows from October to April. A place where no one knows what the fuck ‘table service’ means and the closest Trader Joe’s is in Scarsdale. But really, I was handling it all quite well. And my mother even said that I could live with her forever so that I could keep my apartment down here. I really think that tears are the best way to a mother’s soul or at least the best way to get my mother to say something that she’ll find really regrettable by next Tuesday.
I needed a good cry. That’s all. It’s a lot – more than a lot and in combination with other huge changes – to take in and absorb and to be OK with. One of those changes, though not nearly as monumental is this site. It has moved. To here: http://nopasanada.org

It’s .org because .com and .net were taken. And much like I treat people who tell me that it snows in Albany, if you tell me that I am not an organization, I’ll punch you in the baby maker. Obviously there hasn’t been too much change.

The long goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Fri, 04 May 2007 13:54:00 +0000

"Be well, do good work, and keep in touch." ~Garrison Keillor

I’m currently holed up in my house drinking fruit punch out of a plastic Front Page mug. I swear that each and everyday I get more and more classy and this, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason for why the boys are falling all over me.

Slowly I’m preparing myself for the inevitable and yet it doesn’t seem all that real yet. I’ll be seeing friends up until my departure. And thus far my friends – nay, family – have wined and dined me and plan to do so until my departure. It’s amazing what suddenly leaving can do. Everyone wants to do drinks and dinners. I’ll even be imbibing the fermented drink on the Lord’s day, that’s what my schedule has become. Thus I’ve woken up every morning of the past week with a hangover.

My only question is why no one wants to come over midday and sit and watch Little Children while I fold my laundry and find bills from 2004?

Another question, how does one show sincerest apologies to their liver? Do flowers work? A nice and well thought out card with masterful prose as to the wonder and lovely thing that it is? Or shall I just appreciate it a little better and be kinder? That always helps.

Not just a river in Egypt

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Wed, 02 May 2007 12:04:00 +0000

"This isn't a conversation about this being over. I'm not like, putting a period at the end of this. I'm putting like... an ellipsis on it."-Andrew Largeman

After one year, ten months and five days today is my last day at work. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry but for now it's quite odd how I'm just going through the day as if it's like any other day. I might actually be in denial. I've been to the gym, I'll get ready, walk to work, get tea and it will be just like every other morning. At the end of the day though, it won't be a simple 'see you in the morning, HB.'

Actually I lied, I'm pretty sure I might cry.

How to get the girl

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Tue, 01 May 2007 01:05:00 +0000

“The problem most men have is they don't know how to talk to women...” – Cal

The dry cleaner that Ken Mehlman and I frequent, is located at a busy intersection, where families with dogs and dads with babies strapped in a bjorn stroll, while driving tourists question how to get to the other end of the street at the opposite side of the city. My response is a standard: keep going straight for five miles. They perk up and I mutter "too bad, sucka, it'll take you like 45 minutes."

They – the dry cleaner – leave the doors open on nice days, as it was on Saturday afternoon. I had literally rolled out of bed after a night of a very poor Beirut performance and slipped on my practically crotchless jeans and the t-shirt I had slept in with my Vineyard Crew 80's-esque sweatshirt. I had rushed out without brushing my teeth in my haste to get to a mani/pedi appointment. My hair was pinned up with 17 bobby pins and a headband to keep the afro-mass o' curls hybrid at bay. I had hairs coming from strange parts of my face and no makeup to cover up the random chin hair or ten.

All of this while standing at the dry cleaner waiting, until a black man came up to the door and leaned on the frame.

"Pssst. Hey girl"

I looked up and saw a gangly man with an oversized Skins t-shirt and gray sweatpants on. He had fuzzies in his hair. I then closed my eyes quickly promising my first born child to the Lord if he just made the stray man go away.

I went back to rummaging around in my bag looking for a credit card. When the woman at the desk asked if he needed any help.

"No, I'm just trying to holla at her."

He then went back to interrogating me:

"Girl, you gotta boyfriend?"

" Can I take you out on a date?" [insert off color and horribly un-PC joke about the location, say to Taco Bell? Or perhaps BK, where I can have it my way]

When it was finally my turn I ran up and whispered my phone number handed my credit card and turned back around and wouldn't you know, that motherfucker was still loitering outside waiting for me to come out so he could sweep me off my feet. Perhaps he would take me to McDs for my filet-o-fish fix.

Upon completing the longest dry cleaning transaction ever in the history of the earth, I sprinted outside and there he was standing on the sidewalk. So I sprinted across the street and was almost a causality of woman versus Lexus. All to prevent myself from being love interest of random street man. And here I’m thinking that I’ll never find anyone – at least according to Oprah – but then again, there apparently is something mighty attractive about a woman with plaque covered teeth, a bird’s nest on top of her head and reeking of Natty light. I am every man’s dream.

Mailbox

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 03:03:00 +0000

“A pessimist is one who makes difficulties of his opportunities and an optimist is one who makes opportunities of his difficulties.” ~Harry Truman

I’m queen of the half stories. The stories that there are to tell that maybe I can tell at a later date but just cannot right now. Regardless, I have to look at the little things as fucking awesome. El madre threw a kick ass party at Love that involved an open bar with top shelf vodka and my new coworkers who I know that I will grow to love.

It’s just a lot right now. I’m overwhelmed by several different things all trying to diverge right at my frontal lobe. I fear an implosion of infinite proportions and yet I’ve managed to stay steadfast and not spew brain bits all over my bay windows.

Last week, I ran one of my final errands to the Social Security office to obtain a new card. An office that is in the HOOD and involved different groups of people taking a number. Some were there for hours I was there for exactly one hour, which involved a screaming tiny baby and an old blind man who didn’t bring a single piece of identification. Though I came prepared and today in the mail, just days later, came my new social security card. So! I am now an actual US citizen that doesn’t have solely use a passport to prove that I was born in Albany. But really, who the fuck would lie about such a thing? That’s like pretending to be born in Scranton.

In addition to the new Social Security card came my Employee tax ID number, which means that I can freelance my way through life without fearing paying $10,000 to the IRS as well as my tax refund of like $10 , a coupon to Bed, Bath and Beyond and The Queen. Which means that I get to stare at Helen Mirren for as long as I’d like and that is the true source of my happiness.

There comes to a point where you just take what you can get. Life is hard and it fucking sucks so god damn much some days to the point where you wonder if all of this is really truly possible. So you allow yourself to relish the little things: a refund, a DVD, a form of identification. For those are the only things that can keep you going. It’s just realizing, way deep down inside, where you think there is absolutely nothing left, that there is a little glimmer of hope. Even if it is just worth a few dollars, it’s something.

Just keeps getting better

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 21:15:00 +0000

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.” – Bridget Jones

One would think that after giving notice, then one would be able to relax and enjoy semi-retirement. Froclicking about of course and possibly planning impromptu trips to Paris. Because I’m sure that’s what you think that I have been doing. Sitting on my ass, enjoying cake love for the last time ever and maybe quickly diminishing my Netflix queue.

But no.

Schnozz is going to read this and beat the ever loving shit out of me, because 2007 is the year of the other shoe dropping and I can't tell you what kind of shoe it is! Just when things get AWESOME! And GREAT! And I emphasize things with exclamation points and capital letters, something shitty happens. Like there are multiple things that I’m excited to do and I just finished this big giant freelance project that was fun and I was genuinely excited about. Then BOOM! While I’m riding this high of a new job that I’m beyond ecstatic for and party planning and other things, the other shoe drops.

It’s like the story of my life: one thing goes well and so another must go to shit because woe is always me. The sad part is that for once, I’m not being melodramatic.

In other news, I’m not a list maker. In fact I think lists kind of suck. But OH MY HELL…I have been listing away as of late. I get a little giddy each time I can cross something off. So you know, in that regard, life is good.

The Queen of Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 15:27:00 +0000

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh!" he whispered. "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."” ~A.A. Milne

I’ve probably told this story before, but I don’t care, because it’s one of my favorites. That one day when still living in Northwest, I was walking to my apartment on the phone with Kimber. There is a large empty park next to my old building and located on a very public and heavily trafficked street. And there in the middle of the park there was a very pregnant woman getting her picture taken in the middle of the park on Massachusetts Avenue in the middle of rush hour. Thus, I dubbed her Crazy Pregnant Lady to Kimber whose response was “oh my word, that’s the dumbest thing ever”.

I forgot about Crazy Pregnant Lady for a time and then discovered her blog and devoured her archives. I emailed Crazy Pregnant Lady about my enjoyment of her site and offered to babysit for her unborn child because that’s obviously so completely normal: “Umm hi, you don’t know me and I’m a crazy stalker freak who wants to babysit for your fetus. Wanna be friends?”

Anyway, Crazy Pregnant Lady never wrote back; at least not until about two months later when she requested my services despite the oddness of it all. I replied with an enthusiastic ‘Dude! YES!’ and the rest as they say is history.

I’m not sure how it is with most babysitters and their charges, but I fell in love with Noah. Despite the fact that the kid is gorgeous, he’s also amazing and funny. He gives hugs and kisses and likes to make faces in the mirror and I’m pretty sure that introducing him to Photobooth made his short little life. I figure that how he felt about Photobooth is how I felt about discovering Trader Joe’s: Shock and awe.

Growing up I had plenty of babysitters including an au pair. I have scattered memories of all of them, but nothing really tangible. If one walked up to me on the street today, I would have no recollection. For me they were just a string of women who were forced to deal with my brother and I locking each other in the garage in the dead of winter. Or the time I stepped on G’s back and he spit in my face. I’m sure these women felt really blessed with their good fortune of babysitting heathens. We even made our au pair cry once and so she locked herself in her room until my mother came home. Good times.

Last night Amy and I went out for drinks. It’s been something that we’ve wanted to do but never had the opportunity for until now. And thankfully she’d already been drinking when I told her that not only had I given my two weeks notice earlier that day, but that I’d also be moving. To Albany. And then I almost started crying at the bar, because of all of the people I’ve babysat for – and there have been loads – she and Jason have by far been the easiest and the best and they, in turn, have gotten a babysitter who has readily made herself available at the drop of a hat every week for the past 18 months.

They’ll find a replacement, I’m sure; probably not someone who will drive an hour in rush hour to come to them. And it’s not like I had the intention of babysitting him until he could stay home alone, because then I’d be like 45. But dude, I’m going to miss him so damn much. And even though he screams and looks like someone just shot his dog every time he sees me, and I have the audacity to actually wash his hair, I’m sure that deep down inside, he’s going to miss me too.

Comfort food

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:31:00 +0000

"Optimism is the foundation of courage.” ~Nicholas Murray Butler

Trader Joe’s makes this amazing macaroni and cheese. It involves gouda and havarti, two of my favorites and butter, my second favorite food group behind fermented grapes. Abi wrote a review about it and since then I’ve been hooked. It’s become my go to food when I need a little warmth and well, comfort in me. It’s the food version of the fetal position, though the fetal position has considerably less calories.

Despite the sometimes, rough exterior, I need a little comfort in my life, especially as of late. I need to be held and to be told that I will be ok and that I’m great (and hot and pretty and that my ass looks good in my jeans). I need reassurance.

Last night I turned to LB who hugged me and celebrated with me and got be drunk on Costco size bottle of Pinot Noir. She helped me with the pros and cons of things right now and then I made the biggest decision I’ve ever made in my life, even bigger than the PC vs. Mac debacle. At any rate she comforted me with chocolates and Mahill brought neopolitan ice cream which I mixed together so that all the flavors melted into one another. That’s always comforted me as well.

Stacy talked with me, despite my inebriation about the evils of depression and she comforted me as well. LB and Stacy were like my Mac & Cheese last night. Just making me feel better and less likely to vomit and hyperventilate and more willing to get excited and be happy for myself and for everything that I have going on right now. Even when I don't feel like I deserve it.

I’m comforted enough to be confident in going in today and putting in my two weeks notice.

Just like death and taxes

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 20:27:00 +0000

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

Right around this time last year I wrote these two gems. Both were my way of putting my anger and disdain into fine literary prose, peppered with the word ‘fuck’ a few dozen times just for good measure and dramatic affect. I wanted those around me and visiting and breathing the same oxygen in this tiny nation’s capitol of ours to understand the basic principles of dealing with several thousand smart Type A personalities, as every year we Washingtonians deal with the same shit and frankly, something needed to be said. I wanted them to understand that if you get on our nerves we will have no choice but to shove you down the White Flint metro escalator. And do y’all know how long that sucker is?

Which leads me to this morning when I took an impromptu trip on the metro. In a perfectly fine/excited/anxious mood but good nonetheless; that is until I encountered the first set of escalators. I wanted to walk up on the LEFT side but could I? Of course not, because standing on the RIGHT side would really be too much of a hassle. No, no, please do take up the entire escalator with your fabulous Jordache fanny pack and I’ll just stand here and smile and wait while you enjoy all that DC has to offer.

On the first escalator, “Please move over” I said it nicely, yet with an air of authority which says that I live here and you are totally just not following the rules, but I understand. The offending party quickly moved.

On the second escalator, they were just STANDING. Just standing still acting like they didn’t have a care in the world. And given the surly mood I find myself in without some good old fashioned medication, I did as any average PMSing female would do: “STAND on one side, WALK on the other. Why is this so difficult for you?” Then shoved my way through, huffing and puffing, with a trail of angry turistas behind me yelling that they were in fact tourists and/or new. Maybe I didn’t get that memo from the way they just take up all the damn space on the little tiny escalator.

Later was free cone day. And oh my lord, don’t get me started. But there’s nothing like a line of children under the age of 7 screaming about ice cream and generally flailing themselves around, that will force a woman to seriously contemplate tubal ligation.

Good news

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Mon, 16 Apr 2007 02:24:00 +0000

“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.” ~Ivy Baker Priest

How 99% of the population reacts to fucking fantastic, mind
blowing news:

- gracious thanks
- a good old fashioned BJ
- equally mind blowing sex
- giving thanks to jesus/buddah/moses
- veuve cliquot or Cristal

How I react to fucking fantastic, mind blowing news (short of Random House calling):

- deep sobbing shoulder shaking tears, in which my mother offers a paper bag of some sort so that I do not completely hyperventilate
- xanax
- movie popcorn with extra salt and butter
- xanax
- two Blue Moons
- two glasses of 365 Merlot (mmm, tastes like ass with a hint of fruit. Goes best with chipotle burritos and xanax)
- three ketel one and tonics
- crying
- xanax
- told Andrea no less than 4 times that I have a linebacker neck so my necklace would have to be like 21" (I may have said "I'm built like a SF 49er." She may have wanted to drop kick me from 3000 miles away)
- the fetal position
-sticking my head between my knees
- cuticle removal courtesy of my incisors
- xanax

True love

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 04:27:00 +0000

“He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began.” ~Leo Tolstoy

On Monday evening, I drove home and noticed a compact car behind me. At the light I noticed it was a family: a husband driving, the wife in the passenger seat and a boy, about 12, leaning against the back window.

At the next light, they were directly behind me in my rearview mirror. It was that moment that I glanced over at the mother with her index finger up her left nostril: She was a pirate in search of her buried treasure. Convinced there’s gold up there, she keeps on digging.

And I sat in complete awe. While her husband kept chatting away. When she finished she pulled her entire finger from out of her nostril – still nasal mucus runs deep, apparently – she looked at the contents on her finger. Inspecting thoroughly and I half expected for her to bust out a macro lens, just to get a good look at her specimen. Then wiped it on the car interior and continued conversing with her husband.

Neither were dismayed by what had just occurred. They smiled, the husband chatted away and yet no look of horror or disgust nor did he push her out the car in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue or bust out the Purell.

I suppose that’s what we all want in life though: Someone who looks past our faults We just want someone who can see that there is more than just gross things and boogers and imperfections. It’s human nature to need someone who has We all just want and need someone who can love us and ignore our foibles and realize that we all just need to do a little deep digging every once in awhile.

What would you say?

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 23:32:00 +0000

“I’ll tell you in another life, when we’re both cats” – Vanilla Sky

Though I doubt I should have to explain myself, like ever, I feel the need to acquiesce to my gut and reiterate that I do not believe everything that Oprah says. I do not necessarily believe the aforementioned statistic. If I did believe such drivel then the title of my previous post would have been “Oh my fucking hell”. I would’ve been less jovial and unable to write three coherent words together let alone four entire paragraphs. I also would have swallowed my tongue, drank myself into a stupor, cried a bit, frozen my eggs and found a sperm donor all before writing Part #457 of the stupid shit that Oprah says. Or better yet, Part #457 of the stupid shit that Oprah’s production staff feeds to her and perhaps those women are feeling lonely in their powerful positions and University of Chicago degrees and so why not pass off their depressing statistics to the masses? That way all can partake in the joys of permanent celibacy.

I should probably stop going on these bitter tirades because in the end I seem so rancorous but I cannot because the neurons going from my brain to my fingers say otherwise. And yet thinking of how things have been going as of late, I suppose there are things that I wouldn’t dare write less incur the wrath of all those around me. So I step back and then skirt around the issue, which manifests itself into a myriad of crap ass half stories. Which begs not one but two questions: 1) Why can’t I stop with crap ass half stories but instead must go for the crap ass half segues? 2) What won’t you ever write about?

Always the bearer of good news

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Sun, 08 Apr 2007 20:52:00 +0000

“Lust is easy. Love is hard. Like is most important.” ~Carl Reiner

On Friday afternoon, after a rousing morning of sitting on my ass and then lunch and then a slight OH SHIT panic attack on the walk home, I settled down to stare at Jason Morgan for an hour and then some Oprah. Unlike others, I have no strong feelings towards Oprah. I’m ambivalent at best. I’ve been known to read ‘O’ and went to a taping, but I don’t believe that everything that comes out of her mouth is gospel which means that I also do not believe that she can walk on water.

So, she’s talking and getting America’s opinion on everything from Elizabeth Edwards to Anna Nicole Smith to Cadbury cream eggs: love ‘em or hate ‘em? And then she goes onto speaking of single women as this really fantastic demographic destined to a life of singledom 51% of the time. Then she decides to throw out the real kicker, the coup de grace of single statistics: 70% of black women are single and will likely stay that way forever.

I wasn’t sure whether or not to dramatically roll my eyes at the absurdity of such a statement, die, or drown my sorrows in a large bottle of Maker’s Mark. For if I’m to be perpetually single then why not just drink my way through life and indulge in chocolate fashioned Easter baskets EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Her reasons were something along the lines of black women waiting for their perfect black male soul mate and given the ratio of successful black women to the successful black men that they envision themselves with, was something like 50,000:1. Again, all of this according to the high priestess Oprah.

Obviously the validity of this might very well be skewed and I have probably mentioned before that I could give a fuck if a male is black or fluorescent magenta, I’m just interested in MEN. Period. So it might be possible that this whole 70% thing may not pertain to me. Or perhaps things could change before 2025. Who the fuck knows? I figure it’s best to not obsess about such trivial matters. And if I do end up single for the remainder of my life, it will have less to do with any specific criteria I have for a future partner and more to do with the really classy way I just housed a box of gummy bears and a Godiva chocolate bunny.

Welcome to the District of Columbia

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Thu, 05 Apr 2007 14:49:00 +0000

“What is the city but the people?” ~William Shakespeare

Sometime yesterday afternoon I was sent a forward from the always useful and capable Metropolitan Police Department. They of infamous double parking and being generally unhelpful roughly 89.9% of the time. Except for those times when they choose to holler at me and/or stare and I choose to return their ‘niceness’ with my patented scowl/eyebrow raise combination and maybe the finger.

Yesterday’s email described attacks taking place in the Capitol Hill/Eastern Market areas, where a presumably homeless person in a red jacket has been going around stabbing people in the neck and back then running off. Before victims realize what has actually happened they experience a “burning sensation” in their back and then come to the astute realization that some psycho motherfucker has just stabbed them in the back. Which, you know…is almost as awesome as that time that we had snipers.

In the evening I decided to walk from where I was in south east to north east – across capitol hill – to a friend’s home. I had forgotten about crazy knife wielding man, though was thankful upon remembering that I was wearing my super cross country adidas and it’s easier to escape a knife than a rifle. But of course, every step I heard behind me on my mile long walk, gave me severe heart palpitations, but hopefully I’d be able to out run the motherfucker or have the where with all to step on the opposite side of the street upon seeing a red jacket clad man, dancing in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue and picking through the garbage. Just a thought.

Though it’s 7:30 PM, it’s still rather light outside. As I approach north east’s Stanton park, I’m still aware of my surroundings and see in the park a woman with a dog on the other side and a man on his bike then a black male standing in front of a bench. I look back towards the man at the bench and see an arching stream of water. But the arch…well it is controlled by the man standing at the bench. And well, there’s a homeless man peeing. In the middle of the park. In broad daylight. While some man pushes a stroller across Mass Ave.

The man finishes and sees me. Not that I’m still staring at him pissing in the park but because I start to walk a little faster as I can see him coming towards me out of my peripherals. And what does that motherfucker do? He starts yelling at me: “HEY HONEY! HEY GIRL! WHY YOU WALKING SO FAST?!? SHAKING THAT ASS!” For the record, I was sweaty and had shoved my fat ass into lycra.

At which point I died or at least contemplated moving to Ottawa. I mean, I’m sure in Ottawa, they don’t have snipers or knife wielding mental hospital escapees or homeless people pissing in the park exactly 3/10ths of a mile from their CAPITOL BUILDING.

Now tell me you don’t want to live here; with the brilliant hummer drivers, the Beltway, members of Congress and park pissers. Oh yes, and the Cherry Blossoms.

Crazy love

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 01:30:00 +0000

"Computers must be male. As soon as you commit to one you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have obtained a better model. In order to get their attention, you have to turn them on. Big power surges knock them out for the rest of the day." ~Author Unknown

I never thought I’d be this person. A person who loves unconditionally, even though there might be some flaws, I see past them to see the overall beauty of Bordeaux. I thought Mac people were silly, creative, hipster types who sipped lattes in trendy coffee shops while hunched over their computers writing about Nietzsche. Those ‘right-brain’, smart types with the ability to be expressive and visionary while using big words in complete sentences. A group of people that I have no business cavorting with.

And then one day it was as if I made this rather big decision to see what all the hype was all about. Mahill kept professing his love for Steve Jobs and that whole ‘you can just plug it in and it works’ nonsense. I called bullshit though and needed to look and test drive and lightly touch the perfectly pristine cover. I saved my pennies and brought home Bordeaux and ever since then I have been in deep love.

Oh you all do not even know of the things that can be done with this machine. The comic strips and the easy start up and the way that iphoto proves to be more interesting to an 18 month old than Blue’s Clues. Behold, a miracle.

It has made coming home to sit down and write less of a seizure inducing ‘I’m going to go stick my head in this oven’ activity. And more of a pleasure…more like an ‘I’m going to sit here and drink some Malbec while fondly thinking of a million other ways to pepper my writing with the f-word’ activity. When Stacy brought Pax home and spoke of her discovery and the way it truly can change one’s life and way of thinking, I wanted to hug her from 3,000 miles away and exclaim YES! For it is amazing.

The drawback would be the daytime. Those eight hours a day in which I’m forced to be at the beckon call of Michael Dell’s ass box. The way I slam on the keyboard and move the mouse around frantically as it eats away at precious time I could be using for copying and watching baseball, because it continuously freezes. And when it doesn’t freeze, it just shuts itself down and restarts all by itself. Which might prove just how far technology has advanced and maybe there’ll be flying cars tomorrow, but for now it’s a fucking pain in the ass nuisance. Every morning I die a little inside knowing that I have to ctrl+alt+del my way through the following eight hours. It’s a sad, sad existence.

True Story: This weekend, I was running late and had Bordeaux in the back seat. I made a sharp turn off of the Beltway and he fell. I picked him up as soon as I noticed what had happened and hugged him to my chest and hoped – nay, prayed – that he would be OK* and fully functional when I went to watch Best in Show for the 45th time. Of course, he was. But I fear that day, many years from now, when I learn the hard way that Steve Jobs might not be the genius that I had originally thought, but we do not speak of that. For now I feel like this might be how parenting goes for me. Name the kid some shitty name like Cabernet, drop it, kiss it’s boo boo, then fall asleep on top of it after using it to watch Borat naked wrestle a fat man. I am poised to be quite awesome at that whole parenting thing.

*Believe it or not, the same thing once happened with a six pack of Pilsner Urquell. I stopped short and hit someone’s bumper. The first thing I did was turn around to MAKE SURE THE BEER WAS OK and then I checked my car. For I have my priorities straight.

You've come a long way, baby

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 01:59:00 +0000

“A man has to live with himself, and he should see to it that he always has good company.” ~Charles Evans Hughes

A few weeks ago, I spent some time perusing my archives. Not necessarily looking to bask in the glow of my brilliance but looking for a post highlighting my socially awkward behaviors. A post that screams: You KNOW you want to be friends with me even though I mumble. Anyway, during my quest, I came across one of my first pieces to adequately show off how I let anticipation run rampant through my life and psyche thus forcing me to stick my head between my knees and kiss my ass goodbye, when faced with a potentially awkward social situation. In this case the famed DC Blogger Happy Hour: The monthly event in which we speak less of blogging and more of the gossip and best practices for taking shots.

Given that I find most NEW situations with NEW people to be particularly frightening and I face it with a rapid fire ‘What if?’ round of questioning, usually starting with “what if they hate me?” and ending with “what if they think I drink too much?” Though most importantly, “what do I do when they decided that they hate me?” Because they will hate me, they have to hate me and maybe if I drink myself into a stupor, I won’t notice the seething hatred spilling out of them. I must say, thank the Lord that it’s a blogger happy hour, for they are the only people able to handle this extreme level of narcissism.

My first HH was an act of experimentation. Balls of never ending nerves and a shaky hand trying to hold a martini glass perfectly steady. That was the happy hour when Cookie and I bonded over double fisting chocolate martinis before Dragonfly’s drink specials ended (I am nothing if not excellent in getting more bang for my buck). It was the happy hour before I knew of the drama that those surrounding me could endure and involve themselves in, stupid shit that need not be detailed. Mostly because my attention span is a grand total of 2.8 seconds. It was the happy hour during which I realized that everyone needs a few drinks to relax themselves, thusly I am not really that much of a lush, just completely normal.

This past Thursday was I-66’s last stint as social chair. We went to Buffalo Billiards. Kassy met me outside with hugs and a kiss on the cheek. We beelined for the restroom and then to the bar, for we are two girls who have our priorities. We were cornered at the bar by a man who wanted to express sincere adoration for us and we in turn, wanted to hug…during which she was gracious and I made my “oh my fuck…there’s better shit to read” face. But it was his sincerety that kept me from awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. An Argentinean Jew greeted me with a real hug. And these two are not nearly as scary as one might think, in fact it’s there whole “I don’t give a fuck” demeanor that gives me more inclination to love than hate. She thinks I exude smarts and I'm positively giddy each and every time I see her. They’re both hot and fucking brilliant and I want to pet their heads because they like me, they really like me.

Imagine walking into a room and being totally at ease. The ability to approach someone with “Oh….we were trying to figure out who you were” without the recipient punching you in the nose for being so damn rude. It’s not about whether or not they like me or what I had to do and have to do to keep the others for finding me terribly annoying and bull in a china shop-esque. Though I’m sure that the monthly bribes do help a bit. I don’t know what happened or the when or the how, but I suddenly find myself to be gregarious and freely meandering and laughing through waves of people. Genuinely happy to see and meet, while staying out of the fray.

Is it possible that my socially awkward phase is finally abating? Is it that I’ve slowly grown into feelings of comfort and affability when with this particular group? That all remains to be seen. But I can say with complete certainty that there is no such thing as too much drinking at HH. In fact we embrace the drinking whole-heartedly and as the reigning Biggest Lush, that first drink, is on me.

Slippery slope

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 21:57:00 +0000

"The Internet is the most important single development in the history of human communication since the invention of call waiting." ~Dave Barry

Tuesday morning I prepared for work as I would any other day. Including getting up and out by 6 AM so that Fergie could spell ‘delicious’ and ‘glamorous’ out loud for me while I trudged along on the elliptical, a shower and then off to work. The only difference being that I left my keys on the dining room table for my guest: Schnozz.

Growing up during the AOL chatroom era wherein we kept the IBM laptop weighing in at a hefty 27.8 lbs in the middle of the kitchen so that El Madre could peak over pre-teen shoulders to make sure there was no A/S/L going on with some 38 year old posing as a 16 year old. For the internet was a scary, scary place full of pedophiles and stalkers, thusly I was raised to believe that the only people using the internet were balding white men between the ages of 45 and 65 and teenagers using fuchsia for inside jokes on their AOL profiles. I did at one point learn the hard way that the internet was and could be a terrifying place, complete with raging lunatics, but for awhile there it was ‘la dee daa’ and the whirring sounds of dial up.

Some 11 years later, I get an email from Schnozz - someone whose existence I’ve been aware of since November - that she will be flying through Dulles and my only trepidation is that my bedroom looks like the Titanic dining room but without the water and Leo’s baby blue eyes to stare at over the immense piles of debris. Other than that I told her to come on down without a single thought of fear or worry save for the fact that she might tell the internet that I snore loudly and shed enough hair to cause the average shower drain to clog on a regular basis. This is probably a bit of an improvement from most bloggers I meet, for I always fear greatly that I will either pass out or vomit or a lovely combination of both.

A sordid experience ages ago left me somewhat terrified of the internet and yet now I find myself blogging endlessly while willingly befriending and vodka tonic-ing with people whose last names I don’t even know and all without that gut feeling that someone is going to kidnap me and sell my internal organs and pearls to the highest bidder. For there is the 41 year old republican who said “I’ll be in DC for work, lets drink” and so we did and we have ever since, each time even more hilarious than the last. There’s my neighbor whose keys I have who has no problem with me running to her apartment for safety at the sight of a tiny mouse. Then there is the infamous one who leaves me with her child with nary a second thought. When I mention these occurrences to those who have made the very wise decision not to broadcast their every thought to the internet, they give these incredulous looks and find it all very abnormal. Which I’m sure it is on some level and of course I still am fairly wary, yet there is still this odd sense of comfort and lack of uncertainty; for am I the only person who finds most bloggers to be fairly normal so of course I'll hang? Is it OK to say to a virtual stranger Of course you may sleep on my couch and eat my food and drink my wine and prance around with my panties on your head! Why Not?!

Shock me, shock me, shock me

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 23:24:00 +0000

For every surprise event I've attended, that is one more that I've wished for myself. Younger HB always felt that the lack of surprises meant that she wasn't cared about or for with the same force that others cared for their loved ones. Older HB gets queasy and jittery complete with butterflies flying in perfect formation in her belly at the thought of a remote surprise. I'm one of those people who flinches at sudden movements. I'm one of those people who apparently was beaten far too many times as a child thus, my startled state when someone moves their hands to emphasize a point in close range.

I do not do rapid, unanticipated things. They scare me.

But apparently I do, for in just a few moments, I'm getting a spontaneous visit. And now I'm going to shock the shit out of myself and both make my bed, vacuum and pick up my W-2 from off of the floor.

No Pasa Nada: we never cease to amaze you.

Par for the course

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 13:55:00 +0000

“Drag your thoughts away from your troubles... by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it.” ~Mark Twain

To say that I’ve been in a bad, bad mood as of late would be like saying that today is March 25th, 2007 and it is quite sunny: Stating the fucking obvious. Though I feel I’m preternaturally laden with an awful attitude, I can usually just get over it, but I find that increasingly difficult to do while systematically having your soul sucked out of you for eight weeks straight. Hell, I’m surprised I still have the ability to FEEL without crumbling into a heap of ash and dust.

“But, Heather, why don’t you do anything to make yourself feel better and change the fact that you spent an inordinate amount of time wishing you could remove your eyeballs with a rusty, tetanus riddled spoon?”

Well, hell, why hadn’t I thought of that really easy and simple solution? Or perhaps, I have thought of that really easy and simple solution and yet the ease and simplicity are greatly lacking. Which leaves me to wonder if it’s just me and something I’m doing wrong or maybe I just don’t deserve it. I do not know.

What I do know is that going to bed two nights in a row at 7:30PM only to wake up at 8 AM and lay in bed because I am tired strikes me as somewhat of a problem and inhibiting on any life that involves walking out of my front door and maybe I should just stay in and watch more Borat. Though when I did walk out of my front door yesterday afternoon, with the clouds and the rain and the man who tried to run me over with his Hummer, I complained that it was too bright. Did I mention the clouds and the rain??

Like I said, I’ve been surly at best.

All of this suffering has led me to believe that a) Maybe it’s a sign that it’s high time that I do actually find out what real suffering is about, b) Maybe I should try harder but dude, the trying is getting a little frustrating and vexing C) that I deserve a little something – that isn’t fermented – to ease the pain.

What a good country song is made of

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 02:26:00 +0000

"Every path hath a puddle. " ~George Herbert

Kimber invited me to partake in a few drinks in Chinatown and given my faulty relationships as of late, I decided to give up a night of misanthropy for a pitcher of sangria.

The sangria being mostly weak and Kimber being my esteemed counterpart when it comes to all things fermented, we decided on an Irish bar down the street for she wanted to partake in ‘real drinking’ and I am nothing if not a ‘real’ drinker.

Upon approach of the second establishment an ID was required and none was produced on my part. Though I shook it off and we decided on Clyde’s. Though annoying and with a royal stick up it’s ass because of it’s claims on popularity, it’s there and easy and there wasn’t a burly black man at the door with a blonde Mohawk. So off we went.

We sat at the bar. I batted my eyelashes and smiled to pilfer a bar stool from two gentlemen who then proceeded to check out my ass. The bartender took our drink requests, Pilsner, Bud light…and before getting to me, he requested an ID.

Never have those words yielded such a look of pure pain and sorrow and essentially heartbreak. I stammered and stumbled something about taking my license out of one bag before putting it in another as I had recently been flying.

He responded with the look of ice cold seriousness that he needed an ID.

I ordered a diet coke and proceeded to look away in order to fight back tears when he actually produced a diet coke that tasted like ass flavored water, while those around me enjoyed the fruits of Czech labor. I literally went from jovial to humming a little diddy about how my man done left me and my ID has gone astray. A very sad and lonesome tale of a poor girl trapped in a bar unable to enjoy her much needed ketel one and tonic because she didn’t have proof of age*.

But by the look on my face you would have thought that my dog just got run over by a hummer just minutes after finding out about an unplanned pregnancy and a tornado done blew my home away. What can I say? I take my drinking very seriously.

Investing in a car and driver

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 02:42:00 +0000

“The best car safety device is a rear-view mirror with a cop in it.” ~Dudley Moore

Only when it comes to the important things has my date of birth ever been a source of complaint and woe. Though now the next milestone to hit, in terms of legal activities, is the ability to walk up to the Avis counter and rent a car, just like all of the big other kids.

Getting my driver’s permit was a breeze. I was then relegated to the parking lot at Walmart to drive circles and eventually graduated to the SUNY Albany campus loop. Then came merging and driving on windy roads past the horse farms then rain, flurries and eventually the big test; snow. In fact a few weeks ago during a brief fluffy flake wintry mix, I drove LB in ye old sable to and from upper Northwest. As the heavy flakes came down, she who hails from Phoenix asked whether or not it snowed like this in upstate New York. I laughed and replied that in upstate New York, if it snows a couple of inches, you shovel and go on with your life. In upstate New York, we have these things called blizzards and speak of snow in measurements of feet. I’d trust an upstate New Yorker with a crap ass sable that shakes when you try to brake to drive me to and from AU Park in heavy snow, before I’d trust a Pasadena native with a fully equipped, four wheel drive hummer to drive me from one side of Capitol Hill to the other.

It took only two tries for my license. The first time the failure was due to sub par parallel parking skills, which I find most interesting given that I now live in metropolitan area that requires regular parallel parking between a Porsche and a BMW. Though now I can do it while eating sushi with a chai latte between my legs and walking it out to Unk.

Six days after I got my license, I drove to the Key Bank and attempted the very tricky maneuver of switching lanes. Though did you know that when trying to switch lanes, it helps if there is more than 5/8 of an inch between your bumper and the car in front of you? Well I was not aware of this and rammed my minivan into another minivan and subsequently pissed all over myself because my mother was going to beat the ever living shit out of me.

But she did not. Instead she saved that hostility for my coup de grace of one sunny day after school when tooling around in Walmart, I shoved my license plate under a parked car by running into it while I, myself, was parking. She beat the ever living shit out of me for not being able to discern between an empty space and a parking space with a Honda Accord. Tricky stuff there. Until today, I have denied doing that until I was blue in the face because somehow my plate had disappeared and miraculously ended shoved into someone else’s rear bumper. Then the Easter Bunny shot out of my ass and sprinkled fairy dust all over my little boo boo.

On Monday I was in a fit of excitement and kissing the US Air gods for placing me in their good graces long enough to get me home in time to run a few midday errands. There is nothing that gets me off the way that grocery shopping in the middle of the day does. I get chills just thinking about it, which is why I willingly sat in the center seat from Palm Beach to DC smiling giddily because I would have first dibs on all the frozen brown rice and vegetable flax seed tortilla chips, I could ever want.

In the thrill of the moment, that prospect of all of the bags of frozen organic peas I would acquire and so instead of slowing down two blocks from a yellow light, I decided to rev it up to 60 and whip a left hand turn out of fear that the peas would be all gone and then what? Of course to my right there sat a member of the metro police department. Who noticed my fast acting turn – for the peas! – and turned on his lights behind me. I silently prayed and flashed my cutest smile and apologized profusely. He let me off with a warning to slow down. I smiled and went on my merry way carefully stopping at each light and sign between my apartment and the next two blocks.

Literally 47 seconds later, I rear-ended a DC Central Kitchen van while getting onto 395. 20 minutes later, I almost rear-ended a parked Harley.

Tomorrow I’m going to try something basic, like walking and chewing gum at the same time and I will be sure to let you all know how that goes.

Feel for me

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Sun, 18 Mar 2007 02:19:00 +0000

“No man needs a vacation so much as the person who has just had one.” ~Elbert Hubbard

As I recall, last year, Marci returned from Boca Raton exhausted. And I thought well, that’s a load of bullshit, boo fucking hoo. Go cry in a corner you tan whore.

Then I went back to my lame ass life to cry on my bed about how the world and Jesus are out to get me and if this isn’t Hell, then I don’t know what is.

While it seems highly incredulous and baffling, it is entirely possible for one to completely tire of South Florida. With the sun and perfect weather and pristine beaches and shit and the looking up in the sky and finding it mystifying that it could be snowing enough somewhere to cause flight cancellations because the Sun is fucking shining.

Marci’s ditched me in Florida, where I am ‘stuck’ until Monday to wallow in my sadness of being ‘trapped’ at a five star resort to tan.

But I swear on my life, if I see one more motherfucking Bentley (not mine) or Ketel One and tonic (most certainly mine) I’m going cry. I’m going to cry the real tears of horror and sadness that one cries upon realizing that she might have to go to the spa. Again.

Emboldened

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 01:42:00 +0000

"Vacation used to be a luxury, but in today's world it has become a necessity." ~Author Unknown

Raise your hand if you need to be up in eight hours to finish packing in order to make your flight to Boca so that you can flaunt a really lovely citrus scrub in Marci's face while she works.

Raise your hand if you need to do the above and you're four martinis deep.

Also raise your hand if you've been an ornery, pissy, bitch as of late and you're pretty damn thankful that you're friends haven't thought of interesting and non-messy ways to off you.

Raise your hand if you're semi-cautiously optimistic but your pessmism sometimes trumps any remote optimism.

Finally, raise your hand if it took you 139 tries to spell optimism.

Pot o' gold

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Sun, 11 Mar 2007 23:19:00 +0000

"When after the Winter alarmin',
The Spring steps in so charmin',
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on..."
~Alfred Percival Graves

When I was little, my mother would take us to the Jazz Festival at SPAC. An all day affair that meant fried chicken wings and my mother’s onion dip. It meant sitting outside on the grass and eating by day and James Taylor by night indoors. On occasion we’d be walking around and see my father on the opposite side of the grounds where he’d have a tent and a grill set up. The difference between the two parents was that my mother would be filling up on coke while my father enjoyed an Amstel or three and cognac. It was during one year that I was given my first sip of Coor’s and promptly swallowed with a look of pure disgust. A look that conveyed my disappointment and bewilderment towards grown ups and their obsession with the fermented drink and why on earth would one enjoy drinking in the middle of the day.

I probably also believed that Santa Clause shoved his fat ass down the chimney and that an adult woman flew through my window to take my grimy baby teeth in exchange for a bright and shiny half dollar.

I’m practically a small child therefore I do not do well during an all day affair. I get tired and need a nap or a place to just put my head for a short while. I’m not really a marathon take it easy, yo, type person. Which is why my feelings towards an offer of VIP tickets to Shamrock fest* was met with trepidation, even though it meant free beer all day long (!!!) Which meant rejoicing for any day that begins with Bass and Heffevisen is a day to be extraordinarily grateful for.

I’ve been trying to piece the events of the day together, so as to come up with a comprehensive Pulitzer Prize winning recap. And yet the lasting effects of an innumerable amount of drinks, has left me mildly slack jawed that yes in fact I did say that. OUT LOUD. I only wish I had been a little more prepared and better with my copious note taking skills.

While I’m not completely sure how things are in other cities heavily populated by bloggers, I know that we DC bloggers are notorious for our coveted abilities to drink as much as possible without passing out or puking. Shockingly enough I am not an all day drink fest type girl. I’m more 5K than 26.2 miles if you catch my drift. Thus the reason for why I tend to stick to happy hour. ‘Hour’ being the operative hour. I almost vaguely remember DJ AM being there and that anytime someone said ‘falafel’ I had a pavlovian reaction and began drooling immensely. My eyes lit up because oh my hell, food. And this children, is why you should say no to the beer. Well that and because too much drinking often leads to fashion faux pas. It was almost like a throwback to the college days – for they were so long ago – when I mastered in keg stands and watching sorority girls show off their pink thongs. Those days were good.

Ahh memories.

And it seems that over the years I've gotten over my disdain for adults who drink in broad daylight. In fact, I now EMBRACE it. With two hands to boot.

*Many thanks to I-66, KassyK, Arjewtino, and Freckled K for putting up with my drunk ass all day long.

Reason #357 for self medication

noreply@blogger.com (Heather B.) — Fri, 09 Mar 2007 01:06:00 +0000

"Many of our fears are tissue-paper-thin, and a single courageous step would carry us clear through them." ~Brendan Francis

I’m sure that when I announced that I was leaving on a jet plane yesterday, you all assumed that it was to somewhere fabulous. Alas it was only a night in Albany. During which I indulged in Fridays and Friendly’s, because that’s just how I roll.

Returning home just now, I decided to try on a brand new dress from Anthropologie. My rule when dealing with my body, is quite simple: If I can wear clothing from Anthropologie with ease, then it’s all good. The end.

I began glancing at myself in the mirror. Sticking my hands in the side pockets and twirling. When out of the corner of my eye….and I’m loathe to write this…I see a dark spot on a sticky mouse trap in the corner of my closet. I step closer, over the massive pile of clean clothing and there they are. THEY. THEY. THEY. TWO WHOLE MICE.

Just laying there. In the fetal position. One probably got caught and then the other probably came to save its best friend. Which makes me revisit that whole being there for my nearest and dearest thing. One could die in the process.

In lieu of actually picking up the trap with the advised three plastic bags and a broom theory (courtesy of my brother and my pal), I’m sitting here with a rum and coke. Two and half shots of rum to be exact. I’m partly sad for the little critters and partly disgusted beyond belief that they are laying in my closet just dead. And I’m in a fleece and my dress and some Uggs.

Suddenly I remember the quick effect that rum and coke has. It’s powers are magical and I almost don’t remember the reasons for why I stopped partaking in the rum. But I’m sure I will in the morning.

Speaking of drinking and uh randomness….Shamrock Fest this weekend! DJ AM, Carbon Leaf, Flogging Molly at RFK and me drunk and busting out the Irish in me while retelling this story! People, y’all don’t even know the debauchery and fun that is about to ensue.

I promise more fun and excitement than mice in a closet.