Archive for June, 2006

A Quickie, but not in a good way

June 22, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“Oh, wouldn’t the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at?” ~WS Gilbert

People who do this sort of thing, deserve to be punched in the face. No one wants to read about how you’re soooo overwhelmed and just soooo busy and how everyone else is just sooo inept. Why don’t you worry about your own disgusting ineptitude and how you procrastinate like it’s your job (oh, wait a minute). God. Annoying much? Umm yeah. Quite annoying.

Don’t mind me, I’m busy imagining my life as a sommelier with a thriving non-fiction short story business of some sort-esque on the side. Or something like that. Although part of my problem right now is that (A) I haven’t slept 8 full hours in about 9 days and (B) due to the horrible lethargy, I haven’t been to the gym in exactly one full week.

The sad part is that I’m complaining about being busy and the like and I’m sure that there are people equally as busy who come up with something coherent with a singular cohesive thought that doesn’t look like shit run over by a MACK truck.

Am awesome. I know.

In the meantime my parents are getting older and therefore more forgetful. Which means that the check I gave my mom a few weeks ago for a plane ticket, may never be cashed, though this is quite ok because I spent $70 on flowers and roses are fucking expensive. On that note, Peg is 51 today and el padre will be 61 exactly one week from today.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Peg.

And I hope you all faring far better than I.

Leave a message

June 21, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“I like long walks, especially when they’re taken by people who annoy me.” ~Fred Allen

Hi, you’ve reached HB.

Unfortunately I am unavailable right now as I am too busy reeling from the ineptitude of postal workers and Bank of America employees. But given that dealing with both is a necessary evil, that closely resembles the fifth circle of Hell, I am making every attempt to not call said employees gauche halfwits because (A) that would be terribly rude and (B) It would return a response of “what is a gauche halfwit?” Then my head may spontaneously combust. I would also like to take this time to mention that these are the exact same feelings I hold towards the Transportation Security Administration, but being annoyed with any entity and/or person that may be helping to thwart terrorism is looked down upon by Fox news and Rick Santorum, both of which I would like to keep monumentally happy.

In the event that this is an actual emergency, you can reach me at (202) USPS Can Kiss my Ass and await the standard message system that will not lead you to an operator but to a series of automated answers that will be wholly unhelpful and make you want to remove a part of your anatomy with a butter knife.

Have a great day.

*beep*

Smorgasbord

June 20, 2006 | Filed under: Fotografias

The other half

June 19, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.” ~Harper Lee

It’s how one would expect it to be. ‘They’, with their 1.5 million dollar homes, compulsively clad in J. Jill and Lacoste. The women debate the possibilities of National Cathedral versus Sidwell and the men discuss Democratic politics and the green at some exclusive golf course in Chevy Chase. They all drive luxury vehicles while their 12 year old daughters compare Tiffany’s bracelets and discuss summer vacations to London.

Then there’s me. Compulsively clad in champion shorts and a St. Lawrence t-shirt. The butt still wet from time at the pool. I rolled in looking like the help and that’s exactly how I felt. I hadn’t had a pedicure in ages due to a hectic schedule. I wasn’t wearing jewelry because of the aforementioned pool time (pearls and chlorine do not mix). Then I was forced to attend a garden party at some upper NW DC proper home with the aforementioned lot of people. It’s not exactly the most diverse neighborhood in the city.

Of course I don’t know exactly what they may have thought about me upon my arrival. But I know that I was sweaty and dressed in my pseudo-gym clothes and wholly unprepared for such a thing. I felt like I was being looked upon with pity and that they thought that I would only assume Caravaggio was some sort of venereal disease.

I hate the assumptions that people may (or hell, may not) get when they see me under dressed. Not to mention that I actually saw someone at this party who I had worked with before and I knew I would be working with again in just a few short months. It’s not like I try to assimilate or anything, but I know when to wear my Polo and carry a Coach bag and when to wear my mesh shorts. They assume things just by looking at me, because that’s human nature; to judge. They didn’t know that I went to American, that I’ve lived abroad and that I have a real job and that maybe I babysit because I have a lifestyle that I became accustomed to and I’d like to keep that lifestyle.

Anyway, people judge and when you show up looking like hell to a garden party in an affluent neighborhood, trailing behind the perfect little family (who will be sending their child to Sidwell), then you feel like shit and like the help. It’s like being punched in the gut and the entire ride home I spent on the verge of tears.

It hurts. And it’s just another reason go get home and enjoy my wine. Sweet, sweet wine.

Jumping

June 16, 2006 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Once Upon A Time..

“You can be sincere and still be stupid.” ~Charles F. Kettering

Peg had bought me brown Coach boots, and since she rarely buys me anything without putting up a fight, I took it as a sweet gesture: A mother’s love for her daughter despite her addiction to expensive leather. They resembled Tims on crack with the infamous logo all over them. I swear that they are the ugliest things known to man, but I wore them because they were from Coach.

I decided to wear the boots one night while babysitting. Three kids, 4 year old twin girls and a 2 year old boy.

Right before bedtime, the kids were watching television and so I went upstairs to use the little girl’s room. I went into the bathroom and noticed that the door knob had been broken, which the parents had informed me of prior to leaving (Actually, the crazy mother mentioned it in an accusatory tone to the complacent father who scoffed and rolled his eyes. Love is such a beautiful thing.) So, instead of completely closing the door, I left it slightly ajar and went about my business.

While mid-stream, the little boy – Colin - came upstairs sniffling and crying while looking for me and I told him to wait two seconds until I was finished. And what pray tell do you think she-boy did when discovering his babysitter in the potty? He shut the door, with the broken knob, that promptly fell off into my hand.

My heart stopped. It seriously stopped fucking beating and once it started up again, I could hear it in my ears. I was locked in a bathroom, while three children, under the age of five were roaming about the house.

Shit out of luck.

What does a 17 year old do when locked in a stranger’s bathroom? Do you kick down the door? Well, no, because these are strangers, who would probably like to come home to a bathroom door still attached in its rightful place. What did I do? I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands and felt the tears well up. I then stood up and tried to yell at the little boy to open the door: “Colin” bang, bang “See that handle? Turn it.”

Colin cries.

Little girls downstairs; Mesmerized by Barbie DVD.

Heather; prays for a bottle of Shiraz

I turned around and noticed the window and a synapse snapped, for that is the only thing that could have happened to result in a turn of events: Synapse or perhaps a lack of oxygen due to claustrophobia. At any rate, I turned and peered out the window. Noticing a large tree immediately below, but other than that a short drop, which could be well executed by propelling myself over the tree, because no parent wants to come home and find their babysitter in a tree.

After clearing all of the windowsill knick knacks from their dusty homes, I opened the window and said a quick prayer and climbed out. First one leg, then the other until I was holding on the ledge of the window, using every bit of upper body strength to keep myself holding on. I turned my head once more to look out past the tree and quite literally flung myself past the tree and landed with a thud on my feet, arms outstretched, tibia and fibula still intact. I swear on my life that those boots saved my precious size 11 feet.

When I jumped I ran over to where the girls were sitting and started banging on the glass door, but to no avail. I found out later that it was so dark out, that one couldn’t see anything outside from inside. I went over to the neighbor’s house and received the spare key and a look of pity. And when the parents arrived home two hours later, I was sitting in the living room reading up on homeopathic remedies (their book, not mine) and explained the situation that their crappy door knob fixing skills had produced. They laughed and apologized and gave me $5 extra dollars.

$5 dollars, for jumping out the window, though it was of my own volition, it was because of their doorknob.

I was reminded of this situation awhile back during a trip to CVS, when, while with a friend of mine, I saw the mother roaming around the beauty aisle. I was drunk, she said hello and I gave her the magic finger and gave her five dollars back. Though neither situation was none to brilliant, I still found it hilarious all the same.