So, you like?

Gorgeous right? And perfect and…wow…I am thrilled. Last night when my site designer extraordinaire emailed me to show off her handy work I was a little overwhelmed. Moments later she emailed and mentioned something about Christmas and I was all, “Yeah, that’s it”. Total Christmas in July. I now have everything at my fingertips including spots for my Life List and all of that writin’ about  politics I’ve been planning to do.

If you can’t tell I am excited to have this site reflect me and my interests and I hope you all enjoy the semi-new No Pasa Nada as well. And no worries, it won’t be that new. I still plan on drinking a lot of wine and complaining about the superficial. Except now it will all be done on this fancy site.

Huge thanks to Schmutzie for the masthead, Dawn for being magical and Sweet Blog Design. High five, y’all.

I was going to start off with a sting of complaints. Starting with a very late evening after a one day trip to DC. A trip full of running and jockying to and fro on Capitol Hill. At the end of the day I was standing in the airport parking lot rummaging around for car keys. Frustrated, tired, hungry, genuine feelings of inadequacy. I was total bad news bears and cursing when the pocket that held my MacBook suddenly popped open. You know those slow motion scenes where the character goes diving head first to save an object? Well I was the opposite. I kind of just stood there with a this cannot be happening look on my face. Willing my laptop to bounce of the pavement. But it did not. So here I am greatly looking forward to this unexpected expense and have been for the last several weeks.

And really that’s how things have been over here. A comedy of errors, if you will. One thing happens then another then another until my little house of cards comes toppling down. Usually in the form of tears. About two weeks ago I called my mother and was a giant ball of sobs and gasps for air. Peg said, very calmly, “You’re stressed and this is not helping”. Which is exactly it, you know. It’s stupid stuff like how I’m not home for enough time to allow FedEx to deliver said new Macbook or how I can’t get people to do very basic things. It’s relentless and, to be honest, unbloggable.

There are two interesting things to point out before I pose a question to you. Thing the first is that this isn’t where this post was headed. I was going to complain about travel. In fact this was written, long hand, during a 5 hour 50 minute flight to Seattle. Thing the second is that while my brain has been like a hamster on its wheel, I’ve been able to cook up some fun things that I’m really and truly looking forward to so I’m excited and yet….life, man. LIFE.

Thing the second shocks me for here I am crying one day and the next day finding pure joy in the people I get to surround myself with in a few short weeks. It’s interesting how the mind works.

Oh yes, my question, since we’re here and I’m curious: What subjects and topics are on your WILL NOT BLOG list?

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

*borrowed from Susan.

Way back in February – you remember February don’t you? With the cold and the ice weasels? – well way back then I went to Houston for three days. Three days in a room with Susan surrounded by women I have since….gosh, forever. Except here’s the funny part, the part where you can understand my pill popping ways: The first day we ordered bottles of champagne by the pool and slowly people that have always just been there appeared. Susan and I got pedicures at the spa and then got dressed for a Mad Men themed party. We went downstairs and started to mingle and instead of hugging and kissing it was as if I didn’t belong. Here I was in front of these Forever People and yet I couldn’t stand being there. I was there physically but mentally couldn’t help but feel as if I wasn’t wanted there. Like ‘they’ didn’t like me. I lost the ability to speak to others and a lump formed in my throat so I ran back upstairs. I tweeted something about being around all of these people I’ve known for years and yet feeling like complete awkward shit. I stared at myself in the full length mirror, shook my head and went back downstairs.

Everything else is a blur. A chaotic mess of wonderful memory. Where I had more fun than is legal and I laughed. Oh, how I laughed and enjoyed a tasting menu and hugged and whispered and talked about what was fun. And my God, I was inspired. During the keynote featuring Heather, Maggie and Gabby I tweeted, “This keynote is making me smarter” and later “I love seeing smart women do great things”. It was all better than good and I’m not sure why it has taken me so long to write about Houston or the ideas that I left with. Probably life getting in the way. Not enough time to really process. But four months have passed and I’ve processed and percolated. And now I sigh. I got comfortable. I don’t know why I was so nervous because those women there? The ones brimming with brilliance? They’re my people. Now can we do that again?

So, go to this page – www.wufpac.org – designed by the wonderful Sean Slinsky.

Go to the About section.

Scroll down to Advisory Committee.

And do you see that first name there? The one that reads Heather Barmore*? Why that there be me all fancy and shit. And I promise not to turn this into a long diatribe as to the importance of woman in politics. Or tell the story of last week when I told a fairly young Assemblywoman that she needed to ‘hold it down’ for the rest of us. No, no, none of that. Just some good old fashioned HUZZAH-ing from me.

But I’d be remiss not to mention my unrelenting fascination between ‘New’ media and politics. Each day I feel as of I come across something new that closes that gap between the Beltway crowd and those they serve back home. The other day my congressman – who I respect immensely – started to follow me on Twitter. I still plan to swear and discuss Grey Goose of course but I must say that no matter the member, I enjoy that there are so many who put themselves out there as a way to to take communicating with their constituents to another level. I like openness and transparency and having some sort of connection to those who represent me presented in a fashion that makes it far easier for me to communicate and see what’s going on down there from up here.

I like being where we are and can’t help but constantly jot down how to make it better. But I’m not an expert. Not even close and I roll my eyes whenever I see someone who has been blogging for two years, announce that they are a social media expert. I think that we’re all learning how to use this relative newness to suit us and our lifestyles. And I, for one, am having fun.

*If you go back to my Life List  - which has since been edited – you’ll see that #28 says “Help to extend WUFPAC across the country”. I’m kind of starting to cross that off but not quite. Either way, it’s fun to whittle the list on down.

While my mother was away frolicking around Martha’s Vineyard to fashion shows, movie screenings and a wine and cheese event – yes, the same woman who has to be forced to have a glass of Prosecco at a wine bar – I was sleeping in her bed. I have been bed-less for the last two weeks. For the first week I was all “I can be bohemian and rock out on the mattress on my floor” and then I realized that  no matter how much Lithium I ingested to force myself into rapid eye movement I couldn’t sleep so close to the ground. You know…near the mice.

Not that there are mice in my apartment or if there are I’m blissfully unaware but – and this takes deep breaths to even discuss because It’s like one of those awful memories that you try to suppress way into the deepest recesses of your mind only to have it rear it’s ugly little (mouse like) head at the most inopportune times. But this is a real phobia I tell you. A severe unrelenting oh my God, I will never sleep again type of phobia and I’m paralyzed with fear just calling it up from way back in my head so I can get it out there.

You see many years ago – like three – I had a mishap with an Ikea bed. It didn’t involve throwing an alan wrench out the window and cursing the Swedes. But close. It involved losing screws into the metal frame and then having one of those dumbass wooden slats breaking in two. So I said fuck it and I went without an actual bed and slept on a mattress from the end of August until eternity because my money would be better spent on Yellow Tail than on an actual bed. I slept on that mattress until one Friday evening in January when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. Of course I had to be seeing things because nothing would be moving in my bedroom in the dead of night. Right? I remained still for a few seconds holding my breath in case there was something moving and it was a teeny tiny murderer out for blood.

Then I saw it again.

I held my breath and quickly flicked the switch only to see a mouse scurrying across my bedroom floor and into my closet. The way my heart felt in my chest reminded me of when there’s terrible turbulence and the plane sometimes does a quick drop. It’s often nothing but that drop that happens and my heart ends up somewhere near my spleen but this time instead of being 10,000 feet above ground I am on the fucking floor and there is a mouse coming after my head.

I did what any rational adult would do; I called my mother who said, “just ignore it, Heather Lynn”. I swear this woman has phenomenal maternal instincts. Meanwhile I’m tears and barely breathing and my heart is moving from my spleen to my sternum. So I did the second best thing I could do which was to call Kris who only lived down the street at the time. Kris didn’t answer. She never answers. I could be like, Hey Kris, I’m pregnant and you’re the father and she still wouldn’t pick up the phone to call me back. She’d text me with a simple ‘oh shit’ and then want an explanation via text message. Regardless I remembered that she was camping or something else that probably involved beer. But oh! I had a key to her house! So I did the third rational, adult like thing. I got my ass out of bed and went straight to break into her house. Eureka!

I spent the remainder of the weekend camped out on her sofa where I was pretty sure there were no mice because she has like seven cats. That Sunday I drove to Ikea like a bat out of hell. Purchased a bed. And spent the long 72 hours waiting for the bed to arrive by building a fortress around my mattress with a suitcase, a copy of the Bible and a copy of Little Women. I slept curled into a tiny ball with my head covered and didn’t even allow air in.

And that is why I won’t sleep on the floor.

Eventually my time at my mother’s house was up this week so I was forced back to the mattress at my own house. You all, it was awful. Every noise, creak, random feeling that I got I feared for my life. And by ‘feared for my life’ I feared that a mouse was coming to eat me alive. And there I would be all eaten up by a mouse with giant pointy teeth and no one would be none the wiser. The only people who actually have been to my apartment and know where it is are my father’s girlfriend, Garrett and the United States Postal Service. The former is currently on vacation with my father and Garrett wouldn’t give a shit if a mouse ate my face. Garrett would just shrug and say that he always wanted to be an only child. And The United States Postal Service isn’t exactly known for it’s efficiency. So I’d be dead with ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ playing on repeat and no one would ever know.

I seriously have spent a good portion of the last week on high alert. Anytime my cat stopped licking his butt long enough to stare intensely at something my heart did that dropping thing. Since he is a cat and cats are anti-mice I allowed him to sleep with me twice in the event of a near death experience by massive mice teeth. The first night went fine. The second night, he (the cat) spent the entire night stepping on my  head. It’s hot as hell in there and I’ve got 30 pounds of fur trying to get comfortable which involved biting my foot every so often and then settling between my neck and my shoulder only to get up again and walk over my chest to the other side to knead my stomach. Rinse and repeat every hour until 4 AM. The next morning he had the audacity to look tired and sleep on my fucking bed while I was getting ready for work as if he had spent the night being stepped on. I swear one of these days I’m going to bite his foot and see how he likes it. And then maybe lay across his face in the heat of August so he realizes just how fucking spectacular it is to be me.

That’ll show that little shit tired.

While I had been camping out at my mother’s house though (and my God, let’s pray that she never reads this because she told me NO CAMPING OUT, HEATHER LYNN. And I was like, “yeah, of course not” and then I spent five nights there camping out and if she finds out she’ll change the code to the garage door. At least she would if she could but she doesn’t know how and she’d never remember it) (but I digress) I was looking at photos of me and my brother in our youth. Behind a photo of me in overalls she had written down my stats when I was four years old. I was 40 inches tall and I weighed 41 pounds.

I went to Twitter to see if that was like, normal, and Twitter assured me that it was completely normal to be that big which is good because since then I have grown up to be a rather large adult and not all that average. I mean hell, immediately after asking Twitter about my normalness, I went on to organize my books by color for two hours and since that was so taxing on my brain I had to nap for three hours.

Anyway it was when I found that paper where I was labeled as a perfectly average four year old that I looked at the calendar to notice that this website turned four on Monday. Which means that four years ago, on August 10, 2005, I wrote a post where I quoted Grey’s Anatomy and discussed my relative adult hood. Four entire years have gone past where I’ve told story after story about my family, my life, my friends, my wine, my shopping and my fear of mice.

So I guess this is just a really long way of saying thank you for putting up with me for four whole years. Four whole years of loquaciousness, relentless hyperbole and excessive use of the ‘f’ word.

Here’s to four more.

Immediately after our Room of Your Own session on Saturday, I walked up to the Shutter Suite and flopped down on the couch. I did that thing I do when I’m hypomanic which is to talk and keep talking and gesticulate wildly and smile and feel my heart going at a speed that is more conducive to sprinting through the Adirondacks than having an actual conversation. A conversation where one person talks and then the other but I was too busy talking for everyone. Tracey asked me how it went. How was I doing?

“I’m really, really happy”.

The smile on my face as contagious and she smiled just as widely back at me, “How did the session go?”

“It was perfect. Everything was so, so perfect. I feel great right now. I’m so happy”

“That’s how you should feel”

***

There’s hyperbole above. The double ‘really’, the double ‘so’. But I was I was genuinely happy on Saturday. I was genuinely happy everyday.

***

Alexa and I were talking over sidecars and grey goose about our lack of friends at home. I am rather friendless. I mean, I have them but it’s not the same. At home there’s this pressure on my back and I walk around waiting for the next insult, for the next shot at me. I walk around aloof and with armor out of this incessant fear – and here I go again with the hyperbole – that everyone hates me. It’s a long but not that complicated but I still go around waiting for another something from someone that feels like a smack across the face.

So from Thursday to Sunday? When I could walk into a ballroom or to a floor or just to the side of the room and see people who genuinely loved and cared about me? That smile? It wasn’t bullshit or for show. Or because I was worried about what others might say, it was because usually it takes 17 seconds to walk through a hotel lobby. But I liked that it took an hour. Because I had to stop and see my friends.

***

I didn’t sob when I left Chris and Susan on Saturday. It wasn’t like last year when I walked around with wine in a Starbucks cup and tweeted my every tear drop and got all emo and shit while wearing a flannel shirt and listening to Dashboard Confessional. I teared up exactly once, back at the Shutter Suite. When Karen was telling us about her book. I looked at it and she kept repeating, “Is it good? Is it good?” and I couldn’t answer. When I did it was a very serious, “I’m so proud of you”.

Kelly cried. Liz cried. Lucrecer made fun of Kelly’s use of ‘tits’ during our panel and then we laughed hard over wine.

***

I’d be remiss not to mention that Lisa – God, how I love her right now, in ways that few understand – brought Ilene Chaiken and Donna Byrd to our session. And they sat there on the edge of their seats – well let’s imagine that there was actually room to sit because um, there wasn’t – and then they chatted with us and I asked Ilene about crazy Jenny Schecter and Donna asked if I had worked at the DNC and how she knew that I will never know and it was all so absurd and surreal that that is probably why I was talking in hyperbole. Because I don’t know about you but this group of women kicked ass and made me think that I should be more spontaneous. And thankful. Very thankful.

***

Before going to Chicago, Susan and I discussed how we wanted for BlogHer to go. I wanted to go and get inspired to actually finish my book proposal. To think of new projects. To talk with this group of fucking brilliant women with whom I had some bond. I just sat and talked. There was no running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I didn’t feel some pressure to be where everyone else was. I did what I wanted to do and removed myself from the crowds and the din as I saw fit.

I’ve heard it before; that you get out of BlogHer what you put into it. So I did and I got and it was good.

***

Flickr set lives here

On Tuesday I had planned to attend a reception in DC where I had invited several VIPS that braved golf ball sized hail to attend this reception. Of course I wasn’t there because my flight had been diverted to to Long Island. As in I flew from Albany to Long Island. And then to DC.  

On Wednesday someone hacked into my site.

On Thursday while at Proof, I noticed that someone had hacked into my Twitter account.

On Saturday I was headed to Boston for the pre-BlogHer meetup and my car died exactly five miles from home.

Can you see where this all is headed? Can you feel the stress level rising? Can you hear me saying, “There isn’t enough klonopin in the world to cover this shit”? Can you hear me opening a bottle of wine and laying in the middle of my mother’s living room and drinking it straight from the bottle while my mother gives me The Look of Dismay? Can you hear me screaming FUCKING COCK SUCKING MOTHERFUCKING SHIT? Because that’s what’s going on right now.

If you were following me on Twitter here is the new URL: http://twitter.com/TheHeatherB

According to my hosting company and the wonderful and amazing Sean Slinsky, Google should be caught up by next week and hopefully I’ll have my life back. There was a long post coming about how painful it was not to have my site. My baby. And that I missed Twitter. And then every time I went to hit Twitterfon I realized that I never have or had anything to say. So really, all you’ve missed out on is my grand announcement that it is colder in Albany than it is in DC and I still miss Tim Russert. You’re welcome.

BensonI’ve quit one job only to return and grovel – hands and knees on gravel – for my job back. I’ve probably threatened to quit every single job I’ve had ever because my first inclination is to cut and run. I’ve only successfully quit once and that is why I am now living in Upstate New York searching for cars with 4WD because there’s no way in hell I plan on quitting again. The emotional stress that it causes and the fretting and worrying about burning bridges and the lag time between paychecks. It’s all enough for me to start buying benzodiazepines in bulk and talk to them lovingly as if they’re my only friends.

I’m not good with the quitting because it can seem so final even if it isn’t. Even if something bigger and better is out there I still feel the tugging in my heart and it hurts to swallow as if this one decision is the be all, end all of my entire life. I’m not quitting anything. Promise. And there is nothing worse than sweeping declarations that I am leaving and there’s nothing else left here for me along with some Scarlet O’Hara type performance. [puts hand to forehead and faints]While I am sure as shit not quitting I am taking a slight break to get my shit together.

Here comes some great convoluted story as to why and there really isn’t one. I was presented with an opportunity and I have been shit and getting it done. Instead of taking the bull by the horns I’ve been all lackadaisical about it. There are of course superfluous issues like a renewed focus and vision for the job that actually provides me with a 401(K), a sense of unease after saying something that hurt a very dear friend of mine and the fear that I will not be forgiven for it and also do you really need to hear more about that time I drank [insert hard liquor or wine of choice here] and did [insert blindingly stupid thing here]? No. Even I’ve tired of myself a bit and I’d like 30 solid days to regroup and rid myself of an incessant need to obsess about bullshit.

It comes at quite an interesting time because it’s so not you, it’s me. I know that it isn’t you, dear Internet after the outpouring of support and generosity that came forth from your fingertips for the lovely Spohrs. And that is what helped drive this decision for right here and now; life is too short to sit around and observe it so that I can craft a paragraph or two for later. Life is good for the actual living not the sitting around and thinking of such.

The other day my friend Alice told me that I was loved and I burst into tears. Not because I was thankful but because I’m not feeling it. Which has nothing to do with anyone else except for how I perceive my life and myself. And as of late I haven’t been enjoying my life, myself, or anything that I do. Which is a big fucking problem; for if you can’t find a reason for why people – especially your friends – should love you then what is the point?

I’ve been thinking too much and taking everything way too God damn seriously. Sometimes it’s good to step back, look around and say, “I’ve got it so fucking good”.

You’ll be the first ones to receive that missive just as soon as I get there.

****

I’ll still update with posts in other places because while I need to take time away from posting here I still need to get paid.

This week on BlogHer:

Urban Interns

While I can only base this on personal experience but I do think that internships and those first jobs – even the most inane that include ‘Xeroxing’ as a skill – are a solid foundation for a career. Living in DC for six years all of which were spent attempting to build some sort of career even if it meant enjoying hors d’oeuvres at fundraisers because they were free and free lukewarm calamari is way better than Ramen; presented me with options.

Recession Hair

The cost of my hair? 80$ every four to five months. This includes hair product and price gouging at CVS for bobby pins of various sizes. Other than that, I trim it myself and I don’t really think about it. Ultimately it has been the right choice for me and I’ve totally blocked out the three months when it was a horrible frizzy mess and I wore a headband every single day.

I had to make a quick trip to Pentagon City to return two dresses to Nordstrom. If you ask why I went all the way to Pentagon City for this return it is because it’s far easier to hop on the metro on my (FREE) trip to DC to return something to Nordstrom than drive the four hours to the closest locale. Each time I am reminded that I live so far from what used to mean so much to me  – I mean THE SHOES. Good God Almighty, THE SHOES – I hang my head down and pout. Which reminds me of a very bratty story that I must share that involves me crying on the street of Puerta del Sol because I hated Madrid with every fiber of my being because I couldn’t find shoes in my size and I begged my mother to let me come home. I stayed, but again to use the Lord’s name in vain: GOOD GOD.

Anyway, during today’s sojourn, I stopped in Sephora to purchase lip product. I returned back to my hotel later with one warm and fully functional hand and another hand with bluish-gray finger tips because the temperature in DC had dropped to Upstate NY on a good day levels. I hurriedly opened my new product and behold, IT HAD BEEN USED. It was clear lip product with a trace of lip gloss on it and smeared all over the top and again GOOD GOD, I may have thrown up a little. So I plan to trek my ass to Sephora when I get home and complain loudly about why they’re selling pre-used lip product. Because no one wants red berry stain on their brand new lip moisturizer.

I’m still flummoxed by the events of the last month and I know, I KNOW I should shake those feelings off with a little shimmy but I cannot. The Things are still swirling about but one of The Things needs to see the light of day because I’m still not over this my uncle calling me fat/my mother not defending me/him smirking and quoting some parable when I told him I was highly offended/him writing a comment on my blog about my reader’s lack of intelligence/why weight is such a highly sensitive issue/the fucking fantastic photo of him eating fried chicken with all of the above as a caption. But really, why is it OK for overweight men to loudly mock the way women look? Why is it OK for someone you are related to be purposefully hurtful and when you say, “Hey! That made me cry!” they respond with a guffaw and quote the Bible? I’m not seeing the OK with any of these things.

But wait! There’s more! I’m going to try something different with this site to hone in on what little writing ability I have. Trust me, if you’ve read any earlier entries you’re probably thinking that I’ve improved right the fuck up and deserve a gold medal AND a bong hit, but alas, there’s still more perfecting to do. My friend Jen says that I’m very efficient about things and I pondered this and realized that yes, I am and my efficiency is going to either work out for me in the end or I’ll end up a failure with shitty narrative skills. We shall see. That said, I have a bit of a crush on Plinky. I tested it in Beta and thought, “I don’t get it” and now I do. It’s full of prompts and a few of the prompts have brought back memories. Like the one that asked, “Describe the coolest thing you’ve seen in another country”. And I responded with the penis I saw on the ground in Pompeii, Italy depicting where the nearest brothel was located. Oh, the Italy stories, like trying to escape and being left to fend for myself in Rome and crying and being in love and the world’s greatest puffy coat jacket with removable sleeves and a fondness for gelato. A simple prompt gets the cauldron of memories to rumble and boil over. So there are stories. Lots of stories to tell and I’m all giddy with anticipation to tell you all about it.