Archive for April, 2008

Simple things

April 30, 2008 | Filed under: Blogology, Fotografias

“Don’t let the fear of the time it will take to accomplish something stand in the way of your doing it.  The time will pass anyway; we might just as well put that passing time to the best possible use.”  ~Earl Nightingale

Good things have happened over the last few days. It’s usually the little things that add up to overwhelm and suffocate me, this time it has been moving past the bad to find the good. Even in it’s simplest form, things can be good. What’s hard is wading through the bad to get to it.

It’s there. I promise. You just have to do a bit of digging. And if your nails get dirty, don’t worry, that’s what a good manicure is for.

Clichéd

April 29, 2008 | Filed under: Mmhmm That's Right, Sucks like a vacuum

“If you’re going through hell, keep going. ~Winston Churchill”

You know things aren’t going well when after buying out Ann Taylor Loft you sit in your car listening to Kimya Dawson while inhaling Coldstone ice cream. Ice cream that you haven’t had in like three years and yet it’s made a strong comeback into your daily intake along with other liquid dairy products and excessive amounts of high fructose corn syrup, meanwhile every second sitting in that car, you can feel yourself about to cry and yet you don’t or can’t or perhaps you’re afraid that someone will see you and then question why you are sitting in your car crying in the middle of the afternoon. Because don’t you have a job or something to go to? So you sit and sit and feel like crying but you don’t cry and this process repeats itself for days until you finally find yourself moping at work and then eating your weight in naan and saag paneer while your mother sits across from you and wonders when you replaced with your mouth with a fantastic Dyson sucking mechanism. In between sips of root beer – which has also decided to make itself known once again – you say, “It’s personal” and look rather forlorn and she gets the menacing look like ‘who just fucked with my baby’ so you smile and say “I AM FINE” so that she doesn’t go around the eastern seaboard slashing tires.

From then on you decide to fake feeling just fine! And great! Even though on the inside you feel like someone has been kicking you with the business end of a golf shoe and my, when did spikes get so sharp and pointy? You quickly tire of hearing that things take time and distance and ice cream but this time and distance shit suck and ice cream only makes you bloated with a fat ass which makes you thankful for empire waists but still! Who will want you with a bloated and fat ass? This, you contemplate for days on end while simultaneously pretending to listen and pay attention and care and have normal conversations with dignitaries while your mind is far off and so you keep drinking wine and then spend two solid days inside until one day the voice of Carrie Bradshaw reverberates through your head via seven hours of Sex and the City and you realize that you’ve become a fucking cliché. More importantly you realize that you are not the first or last person to become desperately heartsick so you can either go back to your normal activities and stop eating your weight in dairy and Jack Daniels or you continue on with your sad and pathetic behavior even though others might not think it all sad and pathetic but rather normal even though one person has allowed you to “keep up with this shit” for a few more days. You mull this for a second and decide on normal. The next day you go to the gym and return to a diet of seaweed salad, sushi, soymilk and flavored seltzer. You have a conversation without crying, you make plans with several of your favorite ladies and to also log more airplane time.

And life moves on, as it should.

In Praise of S Dub

April 24, 2008 | Filed under: Whoopdie Doo

“Friends can be said to “fall in like” with as profound a thud as romantic partners fall in love.” ~Letty Cottin Pogrebin

I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve met and adored from minute one. I am known for shying away for weeks or months at a time before I feel some sort of comfort that doesn’t require me to breathe into a paper bag in order to have casual conversation. In fact if you were to watch me make small talk with a new person, you’d probably ask for the torture to end since my hand-wringing and shifting back and forth and casting my eyes downward. Then you’d question how it is possible that I’ve managed to get through 24 ½ years without knowing how to put three words together. While we’re at it, I can also count on two fingers the number of people I can talk to on the phone – sorry, the motherfucking phone – without needing to be resuscitated mid-conversation. And guess what? Neither of these people contributed to my DNA.

It appears that I have very large and sturdy walls built up around my person which has served well at keeping people out until I feel so moved to let them in. And in the rare case that I meet someone on day one and decide that we will have to be lifetime friends, then they get a key to the fortress and a year’s supply of the alcohol of their choice because they will need it in order to cope with being my friend.

A few weeks ago Metalia asked exactly how long I’ve known Susan and it is literally just over a year since we started commenting on each other’s blogs. Yet one would think that I’ve known her since birth because she is one of the few people that I genuinely adore and I know this because she fits into both of the above categories. She’s a pointy-toed shoe, cardigan-wearing anomaly.

In fact she deviates from the norm in such a way that I flew (FLEW) to a state that I swore I would sooner walk out into the middle of traffic than visit because holy fuck, she lives in Oklahoma. And yet I went to visit her literally six days after meeting her for the first time ever because I adored her and apparently she only thought I was a lush but not a serial killer so she allowed me into her home. And to show my gratitude for having me as her guest, I almost gave her a stroke by wearing crocs. CROCS. Yet somehow we got through my wearing crocs and her picking shitty, shitty teams for her March Madness bracket and my wearing Birkenstocks, tights and socks out in public.
A few weeks ago we were walking through Manhattan and passed a restaurant with two people sitting outside casually sipping wine. We both stopped to look and she said “That’s what we need to be doing right now. Drinking wine”

“You know what” I said “no matter what happens: my crappy footwear or your shitty team picking, we will always, always have our wine. That’s why we will remain friends.”

And it’s true. For her 40th Birthday I have done something that I know would make her proud; I went shopping. But I didn’t buy the first trapeze sweater I saw. Oh no, I bought good summer wardrobe staples to guarantee that I would have something presentable to wear to work and out each day so that I don’t look like the office intern or a hooker. Because more than anything I could physically give her, she would die happy knowing that she will not see me in a pair of silver crocs (I can practically hear her gagging from here) for the next four months.

So Happy Birthday, my dear. I’m going to get dressed every damn day even if it kills me.

Love,
HeatherB (one word)

Pain and Understanding

April 23, 2008 | Filed under: Sucks like a vacuum

“I never knew until that moment how bad it could hurt to lose something you never really had.” - The Wonder Years

When The Break-Up came out I remember asking a friend of mine the requisite questions that would determine whether or not I should really spend the GDP of Djibouti on a movie. Her response was that it was funny and “realistic of a real break up” in that both sides found no issue in stopping at nothing to prove their former significant other wrong, to get back at the other side and to be as stubborn as possible while doing so. My response was dubious at best, for why would anyone want to drag out a break up? Why fight the inevitable? And what the hell kind of relationships are people in where when the end comes they aren’t doing a jig and smoking a peace pipe when it’s all over? There has never been a relationship that has ended when I haven’t fallen on my knees to thank God because why must you dip your fries in mayonnaise and chew with your mouth open? WHY?

(The mayonnaise dipper is married to someone else now. Once again; thank God!)

In my mind it bared close resemblance in absurdity to people who when asked about their relationships could only reply that it was ‘complicated’. The hell? What is complicated? You are either in a relationship with someone or you are not. And you can bet your pretty ass that the person that you are all ‘it’s complicated’ over is pretty damn sure one-way or the other as to the state of your relationship so the complication is probably in your mind.

I like for most things to be pretty clear-cut as it saves me from having to deal with endless piles of bullshit. Of course I believe that many things have a gray area but for the most part quick and dry would be my preferred way of dealing with situations. So when I found myself on the other side, the side when I could go back and forth for weeks on end spewing vitriol and only being able to refer to a relationship as ridiculously complicated, annoyingly so, well then I felt like an ass. I felt like an ass for rolling my eyes or questioning why a friend would and could feel so strongly about something that was torpedoing towards demise. I felt like an ass for not even trying to be understanding because there is no way to understand a situation involving the intricacies of a relationship until you find yourself in the throes of its ending while crying into dairy products. In the last several months and weeks no milkshake or caffeine laced frappuccino has been left unscathed.

Having seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall over the weekend and watching poor Peter Bretter get over the titular character while being a poor schmuck pining away and crying, I kind of get it. Because I am totally that girl who has had numerous crying jags over the smallest things. There have been evenings when I’ve been at my most pathetic and drinking anything and everything in the house because what else would all that leftover brandy from eggnog making be staring at me for? It wants for me to partake even if it is through annoying tears of pain; the pain of allowing exactly one person determine exactly how well my day would go. Of course in hindsight I’m in a lot less pain and instead there’s anger for allowing myself to get to a point where I’m feeling so utterly shitty because of ONE person. I very recently said that I am not a crier – honestly – and if I do cry it isn’t over the opposite sex it’s because of a death or because there is no more vodka left, but never over a male. That is when a friend told me that while I probably don’t cry over men, it is entirely possible to cry over love. And with that I cried some more.

Keeping most of this trauma inside has been a lot more difficult than I thought but I had to because it’s not just about me. There is an entire other person who has been hurt and upset and for every instance that I can point out his harsh behavior he can point to that time I threw a tantrum in the middle of Farragut West (Tourists! Come to DC to see the White House and the crazy, screaming lunatic!). I also needed to go through all that has occurred while wondering if this could really been my life. Unfortunately it has been my life and probably something that was inevitable that I go through: Heartache. Though not complete unrequited love. In fact if it were unrequited love I am sure that my life would be easier right now. And that I wouldn’t get out of bed only to get back in it 15 minutes later because the tears! Anyway this shit hurts. It’s an indescribable pain that probably will not cause irreparable harm and yet the last month has been one of the most painful things that have occurred in my short little life. Right up there with my sophomore year when I found out the hard way that I was severely depressed except this time there is no medical reason or diagnosis. Nothing makes heartache go away except for time. TIME. Not xanax not vodka not several shots of patron and a pitcher (or three) of margaritas but time. (The proper response here would be: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck)

A few years ago a friend of mine had a particularly bad break up and then came to visit me in Spain. She made me stay with her in her hostel because she didn’t want to be alone. I rolled my eyes but obliged. In the middle of the night she was still pining away and questioning her decision for a break up and complete separation and I remained silent while thinking “get the hell over it already”. It had been like three days. She told me that I didn’t understand because I couldn’t understand. Of course she was right and now that I do understand I really wish I couldn’t.

In which I decide to start showering regularly

April 21, 2008 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Socially Awkward Barbie™

“Let us be grateful to the mirror for revealing to us our appearance only.” ~Samuel Butler

The theme for last week was ‘Arduous’ though ‘shit in a can’ seems much more accurate. Details will come later but given the laborious tenor of two weeks worth of travel and having my heart punted into the Potomac, by Saturday I was beyond spent and decided that showering and getting dressed would require a minor act of God. Since it is both illegal to get on a plane naked not to mention the thought of flesh eating disease, I decided to rock the jeans and tee with flip flops look. With my hair in desperate need of deep conditioner hidden behind a headband. If there were ever a time to question why I am single, look no further than the haggard look I was sporting on Saturday afternoon. I then boarded a tiny plane from DC to Albany next to a very large and sweaty man. I went from one rather balmy climate to another. By the time I arrived to Albany, I was a hot, sweaty mess with dry hair and in desperate need of a manicure.

The awesome part about the above is that I am hardly exaggerating and yet I found myself driving home with the sunroof open thinking that I should stop at the mall. Purchase myself some cute summer wear and by ‘cute summer wear’ I mean something that makes my bloated ass look less like a sausage stuffed haphazardly in its casing. I clearly remember giving ‘Let’s go to the mall!’ a second thought but then thought that maybe I wouldn’t see anyone at the mall because it was a gorgeous day in Upstate NY and when it’s gorgeous in Upstate NY people run around naked on golf courses. They don’t go to the mall.

“I won’t see anyone” would be my famous last words because there is a reason for why people refer to Albany as ‘Smallbany’, because it’s easy to walk out of the front door and see your high school Organic Chemistry teacher, your former pediatrician, the nurse who delivered you and some woman who used to date your father. And if you think I am being hyperbolic, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve ducked behind grocery carts to keep away from my first grade teacher.

I am at the top of the escalator looking down when I see a woman I haven’t seen in seven years looking up at me. I briefly think that she didn’t see me and then I contemplate hiding but it’s an escalator so running back up would probably force someone to notice me more than coming down peacefully. I put my face down and look casually off to the side when she catches my eye. I stand up straight, suck my stomach in and wave back. She was a good friend from high school and so we hug and she tells me I look great and I say “Ha. I just got off of a plane. I NEVER dress like this”.

“Well you look great” she replies.

“I NEVER look like this. I’m all hot and sweaty and did I mention that I just got off a plane? Because I literally just got off a plane like 25 minutes”

We exchanged updates on each other’s lives and pleasantries and she told me that I really did look great while I kept interjecting that I just got off a plane and I’m surprised she didn’t backhand me because I’m sure she got it that I just got off a damn plane. We depart and I wonder if I actually do look decent even though I’ve yet to see a mirror.

I go upstairs to do my normal Banana Republic, JCRew back to Banana Republic dance of credit card suckage. On my round of JCrew I go towards the back to look at dresses, including a dress I keep trying on and fondling the eyelets even though I have yet to actually make the purchase. I’m standing by the dresses and barely notice two girls standing in front of me. That is until one stops mid-conversation with the other and stares at me. This is when I have to quell my urge to be blatantly rude. I look at her trying to see if I can place her and going through my mental rolodex of people I know and for the life of me, I cannot figure it out. I can feel the “What the fuck are you staring at?” right at the tip of my tongue and it’s then that she says “HEATHER?!”

“Uh yeah”

“I’m JEN!”

JEN! And then I have to keep from diving under the dresses and pretending like she can’t see me because I’m all hot and sweaty and gross and I DIDN’T SHOWER. Yet no invisibility cloak arrives to save me because ha! There’s Jen! Jen who reads my blog! Here is where I prove how absurdly small Albany is: Jen found me on someone else’s blogroll and commented that we must live like right near each other because there are like 24 people in this city. So I clicked over to her blog and realized that I did ‘know’ Jen in that I wrote about her nephew in November and her sister and I work on the same floor.

So ha! There’s Jen! Right in front of my face laughing at how crazy it is that she has found me in J. Crew and I’m all “I just got off a plane” and awkward and OH MY HELL, I JUST GOT OFF A PLANE AND I DIDN’T SHOWER. I’m pretending not to be wildly uncomfortable because I’m all gross and crazy haired and all I can think is she is going to remember this very moment, the first time she met me in the mall and I looked as if instead of sitting inside the plane, I just strapped myself to a wing and hoped for the best. She goes to pay for her flip flops and I stand looking at some chinos with my heart racing because on top of all of the other grossness, I remembered that I had Cajun fries from Five Guys for lunch, you know, ON THE PLANE and so I probably smelled like Cajun fries.

I swear this gets better every other second.

I told my mother, who happens to work in the same department as Jen’s sister (this place is so small that it suffocates), what had happened she asks how Jen knew I was Heather and I said “uh, from my picture” and she is all shocked and shit that people might actually know what I look like from a photo on my blog. She thinks it’s creepy to say the least and I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that’s nothing compared to the number of times I’ve discussed my boobs on this site. For wouldn’t she be a little upset to know that not only do several thousand people know my cup size but they now also know that her only daughter sometimes hates to shower and walks around town like an unkempt woman who got run over by a USAir puddle jumper.