A few minutes ago I realized that I missed my DC friends more than I had in weeks past. Perhaps the generally insanity of the last few months has turned my long time relationship with DC into one night stands. I stop in, do my thing and then I’m doing a walk of shame through BWI the following morning. In part of letting so much of the city go, I’ve let my friends go. I miss them loads and while I’m currently sitting on my couch with nowhere to go and no options, I long for the days when I sat on my couch and racked up text messages wondering where I could be on this glorious night. It’s getting warmer and almost time for sitting on the rooftop of Lauriol Plaza and drinking swirly margaritas. Or beers and baseball and late nights in Dupont just because.

And like that I miss it with that same dull ache as I had when I first moved. I’ll be back in late spring. The perfect time to sit out in Georgetown and probably a few times over the summer. It’s that strange type of missing where you forget all about the summer of the cicadas and the perpetual traffic jams but remember a great kiss in Farragut North or prancing in Bethesda arm in arm with your best friends on a pinot grigio high. I would go back to it all if I could. But I can’t.

I don’t have sisters. My father’s potent – I say potent because there are four of us – sperm could only produce men and well, me. I’m on my third sister in law and when I was younger I’d get excited and attached only to become woefully disappointed in the end. Now that I’m older it’s another woman for my brothers and another day of the week. They don’t receive some full on approval topped off with love and devotion. Call me cynical on the idea of marriage – which I am – but it’s no longer a big deal nor a beautiful thing.

It’s not that I’m a bitch it’s just I don’t want to put all of my eggs in one basket and I like white weddings with happy endings. Though I know that at least one of my brothers has found such, I remain skeptical. So my dream of a sister (seriously, I BEGGED) is for naught.

In San Francisco Leah and I were discussing babies as the conversation often turns to with so many of my Lovelies. Over the last three and a half years I’ve learned more about parenting and that deep, never-ending love for a child who pukes on you and it’s this beautiful, not necessarily reciprocal arrangement. At least not for a few months. But for now they give you a smile and it’s a heart melting, chill inducing thing that makes a female still say YES! I WOULD STILL LOVE TO HAVE BABIES WHO VOMIT ON MY FRESHLY CLEANED JEANS.

I love my friends’ children. And it isn’t bullshit or just because they will read this but because I love them because these women have become like family to me and their children are an extension of them so despite puke and random shoving and screaming “YOU MUST LEAVE” (I’m paraphrasing there), I love these children with a fierceness because I love their mothers.

Leah said that I’m like that little sister who has yet to have a baby. But if/when I do (God willing) I’ll be able to go back to them and say, “Oh my hell, this mother fucker is projectile vomiting/pooping up his back/screaming like a banshee/WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CANNOT DRINK?!?!?” and they will be understanding and say, “Yeah we know. Remember when you made fun of me? Well know it’s your turn, sucka”. And then they’ll laugh but be understanding and tell me that I’m fine and my kid won’t die and I’m normal. Period.

As I write, Leah is having her son and the waiting is killing me because I know that it’s going on. So this is a missive to them, my friends, The Lovelies: WAITING SUCKS. And knowing when you are in labor/going to have a baby is awful because I spend my afternoons/evenings pacing and drinking and waiting and nervously tapping and being really fucking annoying by texting you. But know that I do it out of love and caring and because my ovaries aren’t being used for anything productive but when I do finally give in and have offspring (God help us all) just know that I won’t make you suffer. Maybe.

*More Importantly because I still haven’t announced the Wii and Wii Fit winner but there is one and you will know by some time tonight.**

**Also there was some wine involved in this post (can you tell?) and tears because in the middle of writing I got a phone call from Leah and Simon and y’all need to see there brand new baby. So, so happy.

This started Sunday late-evening:

I haven’t experienced this Sunday night Woe! Agony! Self-loathing! since the early days of Grey’s Anatomy. Possibly before and during the Denny Duquette era (Part I that is) when it showed on Sunday nights at 10. It was always Meredith’s last lines that got me along with the final strums of some indie song that screamed heartbreak. I always cried at the end. I’d be sitting there in my Capitol Hill apartment in a gross leather chair, crying because of some preposterous story line from the mind of Shonda Rhimes and each and every time I fell prey. I turned into a giant puddle of mush and I always thought it was because of the spectacular writing. The moving music. The romance and unrequited love. But it was just a catalyst for a good cry. Giant tears rolling down my cheeks as I sat huddled in the dark, mentally preparing for a new week. The thing that got me with those moments – those Sunday nights – was that in the grand scheme of things nothing was ever wrong. And yet there I was with this profound sense of unwavering sadness over this inexplicable thing.

It’s now Tuesday and I cannot for the life of me remember what had me so downtrodden and melodramatic and confusing my life with that of a doomed Shakespearean tale. But clearly it was something good that had me all worked up and near tears. Alas, it seems to be over now as these things always seem to pass once the doom and gloom of Sunday evening is over. That one time in a week when everything seems just a tad more stressful than it was just 12 hours prior. That one time of the week when the fear of what’s coming in the morning – the relentless hell that is Monday – seems a bit overwhelming and the week ahead could be amazing or it could be unnerving.

And again I’m struck with that BUT I WANT TO KNOW NOW feeling. I still hate not knowing what’s to come. Sunday night pathos could probably be cured with a magic 8 ball.

A few important lessons I’ve learned over the last several weeks:

• Flirt shamelessly but be discreet
• Shapewear might make you feel as if you’re extremities are lifeless due to lack of blood flow BUT it’s your friend
• Purchase clothes for the size you are now not the size you hope to be once Jillian Michaels is done kicking your ass
• Baby-sitting is the best form of birth control ever
• Though you may be full of envy and jealousy, just be happy on the outside. It will make you feel better to let your friends know that their happiness is far better than your own stupidity.
• Some people are perpetually grumpy (and fuck ups). It’s their problem. Never make it yours.
• When in doubt, leave it out.
• Wear a slip
• Use primer before make up
• Less talk. More action
• Think less. Write more.

I’ve been using the phrase ‘teeny tiny’ to describe all things small since returning from Oklahoma City a few weeks ago. You see, the night I arrived my adorable friend Charlie was waiting for me. I went upstairs to my room to be greeted by a half naked six year old who then whisper/hollered to his brother, “HENRY, HEATHER’S HERE!” We sat for a second and discussed school before his mother came up to beat the hell out of all three of us because WHY ARE MY CHILDREN AWAKE AT 9:30 PM?! WHY?? But more importantly WHERE IS MY WINE??? Anyway, earlier that same day, Charlie had found a pencil on the playground and as his mother poured me the largest glass of wine known to man because it seems that my reputation precedes me, she told me that Charlie likes to say that the pencil is ‘teeny tiny’. Not small, not miniature but ‘teeny tiny’. And if you ever met Charlie, you would die every time you hear him say teeny tiny. Well either die or purchase him a pony.  When I say it out loud my heart melts a little bit because I totally dig that kid and his genuine excitement over things. Though I generally dig anyone who even remotely enjoys me. Which means that there are approximately 27 people in the world that I really, really dig.

Two weeks ago I went to DC for work and stayed through the weekend for boot shopping and to see my friend Amy. In case you missed it, Amy is having a baby, very, very soon. Amy is the first of my dear friends to have a baby and so the last nine months have been an enlightening experience for me. I am thrilled to my core and knowing how much she has wanted this and the number of bottles of wine we went through while discussing how totally awesome it would be if she like, got knocked up or something; it all leaves me speechless. Like wow, you did it. Not only will you have one child who I find to be one of the sweetest people on the planet but now you are going to give birth to an actual baby. Sometimes I like to email her sweet gems like this: OH MY FUCKING GOD, YOU’RE HAVING A FUCKING BABY!!! In the event that she didn’t get the memo.

We’re sitting at dinner after her (and Tracey and Rita’s) book signing/baby shower and discussing life and how Olives likes to mark up the price of their wine 150% and how there are some wines that I would pay $56.00 to NOT drink and how we’d rather just BYOB next time or go to Komi where it all might be worth it. So we’re sitting when Amy starts to feel the baby kick. Now, a good number of women I hold near and dear to my heart are either with child or have given birth recently. Clearly there is something in their water and if I drink their water one of them will be adopting my child. These are all women who don’t mind a pat on the belly from their close friends but if a stranger were to stop them in the grocery store to touch their stomachs, said offender would sadly be carrying their hands home in a plastic Ziploc, if you catch my drift. Of course after several glasses of wine I was feeling bold and so I felt the baby kick. I then freaked out because OH MY HELL, THERE IS SOMETHING MOVING IN YOUR STOMACH.

He ceased with the kicking and decided to do some squirming. Amy poked him from the right side and he would move something pointy on the left side. His teeny tiny body was moving around and I could feel him. It was like having someone brushing the knuckle of their index finger across the bottom of my palm. His teeny tiny foot or teeny tiny elbow just in there, moving around and hanging out and free loading since he is now a full size child who needs to think about paying rent.

It was quite possibly one of the coolest things I’ve ever felt in my life. I sat back and marveled at the miracle of life, with that lump in my throat and here’s the kicker IT WASN’T EVEN MY BABY.

After awhile we stopped poking the teeny tiny child because A) He was getting bored, B) I needed to finish the wine, and C) Um, HAVE Y’ALL EVER SEEN ALIEN???

This is one of those things I just have to get off my chest. Those almost inexplicable things that pull and tug and are always at the tip of your tongue and so you feel compelled to stand on your balcony and scream your feelings to the world. Sadly, only 14 people will walk down my street yet 140 people (let us pray) will read these words and most likely feel the same amount of undeinable and excruciating pain that I feel.

Deep breaths

I watch a lot of reality television. Since the dawn of the Bunim/Murray days. That said there are three people on the planet who I would have to kick in the kneecaps in exchange for the agony they put me through each and every week; thus leaving me without the will to live. In no particular order:

Kenley from Project Runway: How shall we extricate that stick from your ass?

Rachel Zoe: It IS bananas. And it DOES make me want to die. But YOU make me want to die every time you open your mouth or where sunglasses inside. Why do you do that, Rachel? To hurt me? It’s working.

Speidi: You both are those kids who ate glue in kindergarten. You probably ate lead paint as well. Your current state is just a manifestation of being poisoned as a child. Stop talking. Just stand there and be blindingly blond with that vacant “WUH?” look and collect your paychecks. No, no. Shhh. Quiet time.

here was a paragraph here in which I attempted to express how starstruck  by Heather B. I was, but didn’t do it adequately, as it seems to have given others the impression that I was saying something negative about her. That was NOT my intention. In this case, she is my Dooce, and I am her The Bloggess. I would never post anything negative about another blogger, ever, and definitely not the one that I adore the most. Heather B., I am extremely, extremely sorry. I didn’t mean to lump you in with the ‘mean girls’ – I meant that you are such a big fuckin’ deal to me that I couldn’t work up the nerve to say hello, not that you gave off any sort of…anything bad at all, because you didn’t. You still are a very big deal to me. Hence this replacement paragraph. I am so embarrassed and I hope you’ll accept my apology.

I am still going on vacation (have you ever done three conferences in three weeks in three different cities? The fucking pain, y’all) because I have to see my mother and my best friend and people who in real life would say “Oh my God, Heather Barmore?! You want stories about Heather Barmore?? Oooh shit! Pull up a chair and relax a little because I have some stories for you”.

[/update]

I’m going on vacation next week. Saturday to be precise. And my god, I do have some impeccable timing for I seem to be a mean bitch and now that I’ve heard it from several different people, it’s practically certifiable. I’m thinking that this gem takes the prize for the most absurd thing about me. That is until someone calls me a right wing neo-con who loves ribs:

I didn’t work up the balls to go over and say hello to Heather B. She had, like, this force field around her that I thought I’d run smack into if I came too close. I was just not important enough to penetrate it I don’t think. And I’m pretty sure she gave me the death stare a few times. Although it could have been all in my head or in retaliation for the creepy, longing googly eyes I was probably giving her the entire weekend. *sigh* Next year. Maybe. Probably not. I’m not worthy.

Just wow. I’m going to drag my pretentious ass through NOLA and then to Martha’s Vineyard.

I’ll leave you with this conversation from this evening after tossing beads from a balcony on Bourbon Street:

Him: What’s your name?

Me: Heather

Him: Heather?!?! That’s a white girl’s name. I’ve never heard of a sister named Heather. Where are you from?

Me: Um, Upstate NY…

Him: Oh, Upstate NY, that’s where all those rich people live.

And gee, Louisiana, you’ve been swell. Thank you for aiding my self esteem. How much do I owe you for the free beer and random men who decided to flash me?

“A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought. There is a visible labor and there is an invisible labor” ~Victor Hugo

I never mentioned this but about two years ago I had to have a serious Come to Jesus discussion with myself about moving to Denver. I didn’t of course, since I now live in Upstate NY. But I still like to think about how my life would have been if I had decided to make the trek. I am in Denver for the weekend and I will be back in a few months. There are stories to come. A lot of ‘what if’s’ but I am happy with my decision. It’s like sliding doors though; I wonder what would have happened or could have happened if, back then (at the ripe old age of 22), I had decided to leap.

HRH Greeblemonkey took this photo a few nights ago. I think it pretty much sums me up in all of my smiley, edamame loving glory.

Also check out my eyebrows. For those wondering what I spend my ad revenue monies on it is on transforming my unibrow into two separate eyebrows that don’t look like mating caterpillars. And for that I thank you all.

When I went to bed last night I had already started writing the days events in my head. How would I make an already dramatic turn of events just that much more dramatic that it would make for excellent reading? Over the years my manufacturing of stories to make them a tad bit more interesting has grown by leaps and bounds. Surely not perfect of course but far better than the travesties of yore. Things I won’t even link to for I find them so cringe worthy and sucktastic. But Ok, I will show you but it isn’t pretty and it’s just so damn awful and painful, but here.

So as I laid down last night I was writing and rewriting each conversation and event of the day. Going backwards from my dramatic exit and a day where I consumed more Jack Daniel’s than actual food and the point where I announced that I would quit my job all the way through the start of the day with the deliciously fine firemen of Albany and the hot doctors in the ER. As one can surmise, a lot of shit went down yesterday. And now I’m still in bed at 8:30 AM with every intention of working from home (SPOILER: I did not quit my job. Are you high? It’s like free money) and watching the entirety of the third season of Weeds so that I am fully prepared by Monday.

There is a lesson in all of yesterday. Somewhere, deep down, behind all the anger and the animosity and the hangover. But for now that’s all I’ve got while I play catch up and try to find the perfect words.

I just asked this on Twitter but I figured that it was too good to limit the endless possible answers to 300 some odd people. For the record I don’t even know 300 people. I don’t even know 30 people. But if you want to hear about how I can tie a knot with a cherry stem or that cherry blossoms make me sick, then be my guest and do follow. Pull up a chair and I’ll give you every asinine detail of my life. I’M A GIVER.

So here goes: What is the worst pain you have ever felt?