Archive for January, 2006

Picture Me

January 31, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

A brief hiatus to my blogging hiatus. Yesterday Tara commented on my size 11 feet and asked whether or not I was tall because she pictured me as a 4′11′ Asian girl. This made me laugh…a lot. Because, ummm that’s not just slightly off, but waaaaay freaking left field off.
And now I ask this, how do you all picture me? I sometimes wonder if I write in a way that best describes how I am in real life. Which I suppose could be another post for another day that further delves into a side by side comparison of blog life to real life. Nevertheless, I’ve posted two pictures, neither of which I can find now, but seriously, just from reading this ‘blindly’, what do ya’ll think that I look like?

Let it Be Known

January 30, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

That…

a) I am totally reneging on my previous post
b) From now on I will only be going to the gym in the morning. Life is so much nicer at 5:20 AM
c) I have a great ability to make things about me, even when they have nothing to do with me. I think they call that narcissism.
d) that I don’t think narcissism is a problem. I actually kind of like it.
e) I look thinner.
f) I call people ‘dude’ and ‘bitches’ way too much. I should probably look into stopping. Or not.
g) I’m taking a break from blogging. And by break I mean until Wednesday.
h) The reason for the break is because tomorrow I must deal with the DMV and if I write about it, you will have to feel my wrath.
i) I abhor. ABHOR, the DMV.
j) I really need someone to tell me something happy. Anyone, anyone…Bueller.

The Little Things

January 30, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Contemplation often makes life miserable. We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live.” ~Nicolas de Chamfort

Disclaimer: This post is long and boring and I can pontificate like a mother fucker and it took all my brain cells so I might not be able to ever post again. Or at least not until tomorrow. If you’re lucky.

Last year, actually on this exact date, I called my mother from a pay phone in Sol in tears. Ok, fine, I was sobbing. Nothing bad had happened, despite debilitating homesickness, which led me to believe that everyone in my program hated me and/or wanted me dead. That said, there was and still is only one thing that can completely cure me and make me feel invincible; a new pair of shoes. Sadly, the largest shoe store in the world, didn’t have a franchise in Madrid, so instead I resorted to El Cortes Ingles (a shoe store, clothing, overpriced MAC and Clinique, a fucking grocery store). And upon my first visit to this mega uber conglomerate place, I searched high and low for a pair of size 42 (11 US) shoes. And. There. Were. None. NONE. Which then led to the infamous – at least between me and Peg – phone call, in which I cried real tears “I waaaaaannnt to go h-h-home, becauuuuuse th-th-there arrrrrre nooo size 11 shoes! I h-h-hatttte this f-f-f-ucking place” Or something relatively close to that. And Peg consoled as best she could from an ocean away and we both determined that I would stay until mid-February and that she would send me some of my shoes. Needless to say, the next day I bought the cutest pair of *cough, cough* 80 Euro green flats with pink buttons (note to self, post a picture of said shoes, lest readers will think you have crappy taste in shoes, which good Lord no) and I decided that yes in fact, Spain was not an evil country and they do have shoes in my size.

Also note to self: you are a childish whiny baby who maybe should’ve stayed in the US to continue with year three of therapy. Baby.

You see, I have this uncanny ability to become encumbered with guilt and tears and general unpleasantness that best be saved for days when my Aunt Flo is visiting. Little stupid things set me off, I mean need I remind you of the ipod/coach incident or see above, I cried and threatened to leave Spain because there were no shoes in my size. Sometimes, I wish I were joking when admitting these things, but sadly, it’s all true.

Too often I let myself become defined by stupid meaningless events when I am very well aware that the minute I start to complain about my life, things get better. I’m so ever loving lucky in that regard and instead of appreciating it, I bitch. Why? You ask. Because I can and that’s just me.

Once again, after weeks of boredom and malaise and the bitching, Oh God, the bitching, I have had this glorious epiphany that says “yes, Heather, things will be fine”. And to the delight of my many (all 6 of you) readers I am very well aware that at 22 I do not need to have the answers to everything. I’m at a time in my life where everything is becoming relatively new again, which, I feel, gives me some entitlement to bitch and complain and get all “woe is me, who cares about the poor people I’m out of pudding”. Because that’s how I’ve been feeling for the past six months. I’ve been thrown out into the wild real world, to fend for myself and frankly; sometimes I get a little bat shit crazy scared that I might fail. But here’s the kicker, I’m 22, I have many many years to fail and change my mind and bitch. So obviously, it makes no sense to do all my bitching now, I must spread it out. Slow and steady does inevitably win the race.

Therefore instead of incessant crapology, I will instead bask in the little things. Like living in a place where I can golf on January 28th (be jealous) and I have friends that make me pee in my pants laugh and I can be as misanthropic as I would like and I can drink and eat Five Guys and still lose weight (once again, be jealous, metabolism kicks ass), and a mother who calls me, just because she’s bored at work and knows the meaning of a good pedicure. Yes there are other good things but I enjoy being elusive so I’m not telling. But I will say this, I am one lucky little girl and I should probably start acting like it.

P.S. I’m in a good mood today, so this might change, like umm tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Because I can and it’s Friday

January 27, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

I just received my first “rejection letter”. I put that in quotes, because it was a rather pseudo-rejection letter.

To make myself feel better, I settled on Five Guys for dinner with one of my favorite people and ate some pudding.

Then I decided to watch episode 456 of Made and an episode of There and Back. While doing so, I silently mocked a girl with alopecia in the former, and that Ashley Parker Angel looks like a girl in the latter.

While watching such stellar television, I chomped on a cup of ice. It has been determined that my ice love means that I’m sexually frustrated. I then sit and think to myself “now, when was the last time that I got any…?” Determine that if I have to think on that like I’m solving the value of X, then that’s a problem.

Afterwards, there was free dessert (!) to waste my calories on. As those departing the meeting left, one exclaimed: “Let’s hurry up and get out of the way, so that the cleaning people can get in and clean up. And so that the interns and lowly staffers can get in. Look we left you some dessert”

“did he just call us lowly staffers?”

“no, I think he first started with interns”

No Pasa Nada: it really means “a whole lotta nothing”

And I’m out.

P.S. yes, my planner and my wallet match. If you must know, that’s Franklin Covey and Coach respectively.

p.p.s. my ass looks good in my jeans and I’ve lost 7lbs. wooot.

p.p.p.s. I do have some pseudo-good news, but let me lament in my rejection.

p.p.p.p.s. bitches.

Booze and Schmooze*

January 26, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Wine gives courage and makes men more apt for passion.” ~Ovid

Living in Washington, I’ve mastered the art of schmoozing. I’ve taught myself to successfully hold a plate and glass of wine in my right hand while shaking with my left. At a Friends of Hilary event a few months ago, Peg was very impressed with my people skills as I worked the room (and by ‘worked the room’ I mean, I told my Congressman that I liked his new haircut) but noticed that I had knocked back about 3 or 4 glasses of Merlot. Damn it, she’s on to me. I had to let her in on my little secret. Ready? Yup I sure as hell come off confident and outgoing, but only after consumption of two glasses of wine. Prior to that, you’re lucky if you can get me to form a coherent sentence or actually (horror of horrors) look you in the face. I am so incredibly socially awkward that the thought of having to meet someone new and possibly be sober, leads to a sleepless night (with bonus teeth grinding) the night before the meeting. Surprisingly enough I have managed to get more than one job, but I doubt it’s because I’m just so well spoken and articulate. I like to call it luck and the law of averages, but whatever. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of the above might be why I don’t date, but let me think on that a bit.

I have to meet someone new tonight, and in the hope that she would cancel, since she’s equally as misanthropic as I, I didn’t exactly dress in my Sunday best, though I can get over that. And thankfully, she also knows the importance of alcohol and has a love affair with wine (and crap beer) as well. My kind of girl. Thinking on it now, college in DC and now living and working here has me believing that for the most part, this place is not the real world (no shit). It’s a bunch of uptight people who have all mastered drinking and talking at the same time (not as easy as it sounds) and therefore have managed to impress the best of the best. I kid you not, that if I weren’t drunk about 75% of the time, I wouldn’t know anyone.

Yup, I’m sad and pathetic but you can admit that I’m pretty open and honest, and that must count for something.

*Oh and before anyone goes and starts calling me an alcoholic, just know that I only drink when out with others, it’s not like I sit at my apartment alone yelling at Benson and Stabler to get the fucking rapist. I like to be coherent during my Law and Order marathons, as to try and guess the killer before Vincent “I might break my neck if I keep cocking my head like that” D’Onofrio does. So there.