I don’t want to trivialize the inhumane horrors that African slaves endured on slave ships (above) destined for the Americas. But after a recent airplane trip, sitting tightly next to my neighbor in steerage seats, I feel the discomfort and pain endemic to the current air experience has certain curious similarities.

Read more: Daily Heller A Curious Similarity — Imprint-The Online Community for Graphic Designers

So when I lived in Spain there was this store I loved called Desigual. They had all that cool stuff that was kind of off beat and perfect for pretending to be European and then when people commented on where you got that great skirt you could say, “Oh, in Spain” and be one of those obnoxious people who talk about their trips to Europe all the live long day.

While in NY a few weeks ago I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I saw a Desigual right there in SoHo. “Joy!”, I thought, “I will go in there and see what they’ve got”. I figured a skirt would be nice so a skirt I purchased and tra la la’d my way to dinner.

I finally wore the skirt on July 4th. It was cool and abstract and something you couldn’t find just anywhere. There was no reason to try to understand the design because It just is. That’s art. Alana thought it was cute. She even said so. And I was like thanks, you’re cute too. Nothing makes you feel good like a skirt that’s fun when you’re normally wandering around in the same jersey knit dresses as every other Suburbanite.

On Wednesday I was looking for something other than a dress for work and figured Hey! My awesomely fantastic skirt will do! I was all excited. I sauntered into thinking nothing of it. I was in a good mood. I looked good. I felt all bad ass and shit.

I even went to my mother’s side of the office to chat up with a coworker when my mother came around the corner.

“Cute skirt”

“thanks! I got it from this Spanish store I found in SoHo!”

“Wait, what’s that on it?”

“…” I look down. “Nothing. I don’t even know”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate for work”

“What?”

“That would be perfect for outside of the office or on Martha’s Vineyard but not in the office”

“Why???” I asked both perplexed and incredulous. Why is that woman always trying to harsh my buzz?

“Heather, that’s a little too risque”

“WHAT?”

I go into my mother’s office.

“Don’t you see that? That the people on your skirt are anatomically correct?”

I look down at my skirt. I look closer. I can feel my entire face burning up.

“Do you see the penis?”

“Oh shit!”

“Do you see the breasts?”

“OH SHIT!”

My mother laughs hysterically at how cute an naive I am to not have noticed that there is a very graphic love scene being portrayed on my outfit.

I keep saying “OH SHIT” and she keeps laughing.

I run out of her office and call Alana to say, “Hey, ummm, did you notice anything odd about my skirt the other day?”

“No, why? Was it on backwards”

“THERE ARE BOOBS AND A DICK ON MY SKIRT”

“Oh, I thought it was just cool and abstract”

So did I.

(Click on the photos so you can see exactly where everything is placed)

I called Susan to be like “HOLY FUCKING SHIT THERE’S PORN ON MY SKIRT”

“You should wear it at BlogHer” she replied after snorting and doing that laughing so hard it’s silent routine

“Oh yes”

“I can be like, ‘One of my friends has porn on her skirt, the other has seven kids. Which one freaks you out more?’

If you’re looking for me on Thursday I’ll be the one going around saying check out the boobs I’ve got going on below my waist.

Earlier today I became thoroughly and shockingly annoyed over the apathy of others. I demanded response and some sort of commentary to a new Obama administration appointment and instead no one shared the joy, wonder, curiosity and overwhelming amount of giddiness that erupted upon hearing of a thisclose vacancy in the United States House. As much as I dislike apathy towards politics I find my reaction to the apathy a bit deplorable. Who am I to be judgemental and tell people that they should care about Sonia Sotomayor or John McHugh? Why should I be the one to tell others that how a presidential candidate feels about a woman’s right to choose or Plessy v. Ferguson will end up impacting generations? That isn’t my job and yet the way it maddened me today. It was so…well…it was unnecessary. And I totally take back when I said – behind your back – that if Neil Patrick Harris was giving someone a blow job on my bed then you would care more than who Obama was appointing to very high powered positions. I’m sorry.

***

On Sunday evening – pre the day of self righteous bitch ass behavior – I burned three of my fingers on my right hand. I burned them after I put METAL into the microwave so I could make tea because I couldn’t find my normal tea making accouterments. So there I was grabbing hot metal, fleshy fingers first out of the microwave. Good news is that in the event that I commit a serious felony I have no finger prints. Bad news is that I’m using the hunt and peck method when it comes to typing. There’s also a ruined manicure and my father was rather disappointed by my Vulcan salute because my fingers are so effed up that I can’t tell anyone to ‘live long and prosper’ with the proper enthusiasm.

***

I think I’ve spent the last three weeks without telling you that I’ve started writing at MamaPop again. I’m…and I’m loathe to admit this so I’m taking deep breaths but it’s not nearly as bad as Holly crying during Speidi’s wedding so I really shouldn’t care…..I’m doing recaps of The Real Housewives of New Jersey(1, 2, 3). And I fucking love it more than is appropriate. Especially that Caroline. The Carmela Soprano of the group who will fuck a bitch up in a minute.

***

I leave for DC again next week. I’ll have to update my suggestions but that is the least of my worries right now. I keep flipping through my paper planner to July and then I flip back. I then I look at July again and then I flip back. Rinse and repeat. It’s because I need a Klonopin every time I think of July. The running around and the multiple experiences with TSA and how I’m going to pack and the number of tattoos I will be getting and suddenly I’m awake at 2:30AM thinking about standing by myself at BlogHer because EVERYONE HATES ME.

***

Last night I lived my worst fear: I saw my therapist at the bar. I’m not really supposed to be drinking. We pretended not to know each other. Let’s just say I’ll have some ‘splaining to do about that goblet full of (shitty) Meritage.

***

I’m posting now in hopes that tomorrow comes sooner. I’m awaiting a special package at the suggestion of Karen and OMFG I cannot wait to show you guys and also I owe Karen a kiss. And this chick needs some practice like whoa.

Once again I find myself exasperated and lying on my stomach wanting to title a post ‘Fuck that noise’.

I think starting with the boot on my car two mornings ago would be a nice beginning to a story. A boot thus rendering me unable to move my car and go to work, this would be the same morning that I woke up at 10:10 AM and my first thoughts were, “My, my, it is BRIGHT out today”. That was until I looked at the alarm clock – one of those ipod doohickies and thought “My, my I am royally fucked today”. And so ended that brief moment in time when I was in love with the start of Spring.

Of course for many reasons – which if expressed would leave some scratching their heads and wondering why on God’s green earth I am allowed to write a column about personal finance – my boot wasn’t removed until this morning. But only after a hellish ordeal involving me asking Bank of America why they’re so evil and if they’re from the womb of Satan and maybe to remove that stick from their ass because fucking seriously, it shouldn’t take two weeks to receive a new credit card. When lo! There was my credit card underneath two sympathy cards (Net: 11 in two weeks) and the new In Style. But oooh, In Style fuck the credit card, how about the greatest spring shopping finds? Until I realized that in order to shop I would have to work and in order to get to work I’d have to be able to drive and there’s a big ass boot on my car which was removed immediately and only for $307.

So I walked into work, albeit 2 hours late, and told the first person I saw that someone is going to get punched in the neck today (hat tip to Melissa for that one) and spent the remainder of the day in a mildly manic state because it’s about that time for some mania and at least I wasn’t so depressed that I wanted to drive off an overpass because I HAVE BEEN THERE BEFORE. I’d rather run my mouth and insert my foot in it than be dead.

Oh so the whole exasperation laying on my belly thing happened after a chocolate egg from Sucre. Imagine a heathbar but in the form of an egg and with two tablespoons of caramel on top that spills out at just the right moment that you think that God doesn’t really hate you even after an inauspicious morning.

I get home because oh yes, I had put in a load of laundry this morning and left it downstairs thinking that I’d just pop it in the dryer when I got home but I ended up with the shitty dryer. The one that allows you to put in one quarter and every quarter afterwards is a crap shoot. I literally have spent the past 30 minutes – the ones prior to writing this piece of shit entry that’ll make you say “Holy shit, why DO people pay her?” – putting in the same three quarters and having them shoot out at me.

I lifted the dryer. Smacked the dryer. Threatened to kick the dryer in the balls. But it ignored my threats and every time I put in a quarter it shot back out at me at a force to be reckoned with. Meanwhile some douchebag hipster with long hair comes down and does some insipid head movement and says, ‘Hey’ and stands there and stares at me while quarters spit out at my head, from a fucking dryer.

Which brings us to this moment in time where I’m thinking wine is a perfectly acceptable meal and screw the gym and say it with me now; fuck that noise

And totally unrelated but except to maybe the Sucre, I have a post up at BlogHer about the pants that tried to kill me.

I will start this off by saying that I – like many others – have been sucked into Momversation. Whether you like it or not or cannot stand any of the panelists, there is some interesting commentary that I am obviously not the main demographic for but hey, whatever, I also read mommy blogs and nod emphatically when making the decision for Steve over Joe as the host for Blue’s Clues. I’ve never commented despite sometimes strong opinions from the peanut gallery because it’s a comfort thing: I am not a mom and so I try not to push myself into obviously ‘Mom Only’ conversations. I can comment on marketing strategies and how companies approach moms because it seems pretty similar for all bloggers but when it comes to breast vs. the bottle or sex after baby? No fucking clue. The most recent episode I viewed I found courtesy of Maggie Mason. It was on how the female body changes after baby. Which great. Having seen some of these panelists in person I can unequivocally say that MANY women look better after (hell, even during) baby than I could ever hope to look in my life. Fine. Awesome. But then there was this bit that I found so irritating. So grating. So belittling towards people who have not had children because we will never understand anything ever in life until we have children. See also: Your life is unfulfilled until you have a child. You don’t know what love is until you have a child. You don’t know how to be self-less until you have a child. I also hear that chocolate tastes better, all brownies have pot in them and it rains whiskey. But ONLY if you have had children.

One of the moms – Mindy Roberts – said something that made everything inside of me sink because my God, why can’t women just be women and stop comparing and trying to make other women feel small. Or at least that’s how it felt to me when she said, “…what you were before you had a baby? You were a girl. And now you’re a woman”. And ooh, just suck me in the gut with another implication of how much more new and improved a female becomes once she has given birth. So screw you childless people whether it by choice, circumstance or general inability to get pregnant. Also you chicks who adopted because you felt it was the right thing to do? FAIL. NOT A WOMAN. But if by the grace of Mother Nature you are blessed with giving birth naturally then I hearby dub you an actual woman with super human powers.

I’m not just annoyed by the tone but I’m also hurt and angry and kind of pissed off that I lost my virginity AND got my period AND got boobs AND started a career and I’m still just a little girl. Damn it.

*A link to the actual Momversation episode*

I closed comments on this post because of the ire and the martyrism but I am re-opening. Because I LOVE provacative discourse. And this has been such a great conversation despite the childish behavior of a minority.

If you are a living and breathing male, with all of your appendages and fingers, fine motor skills and ability to walk, I would strongly suggest not telling a woman who is visibly upset and who you’ve acknowledged has every right to be upset…well, maybe you shouldn’t call her emotional TO HER FACE. Or else you might find yourself missing an extremity, or a paraplegic or missing your tongue or worse yet, decapitated.

My bank account, the weather and my car causing me to lose my will to live each and everyday have finally converged into a perfect storm thus empowering me to finally go test driving. I’ve yet to tell you the story of the last time I went test driving but that’s because it involves a car salesman stalking me and two friends from one dealership to another and the subsequent phone calls because he wanted to date my friend Pam. There were tears involved and awkward storytelling and now I can’t look at a Honda without my right eye twitching.

It’s always been my plan to get a vanity plate for my new car. There’s no reason except that if writing daily about my life isn’t narcissitic enough, I figured I’d top it off with a license plate that says “ILUVME” or “DONTH8″ or “HOWULIKMENOW”. Clearly still working on it but suggestions are welcome. Anyway, this reminded me of a drive I was taking on the souther tier of the state between Elmira and Corning. Western NY isn’t really known for being a cosmopolitan place or a hotbed of diversity. Hell, I can honestly say that I could count on ONE hand the number of people of black people I saw while there. So I’m driving along one afternoon and I see a beat up truck with a vanity plate that reads…wait for it:

SLUMLRD4

And then I rearended the Hyundai in front of me. But why would one broadcast being a ‘slum lord’ which – and correct me if I’m wrong – is illegal in most locales. It’d be like “CRKWHORE” being on your license plate. Might be true but do you really want people knowing that you are a “SHITHD”? I think not.

The next day, I saw another good one – that I cannot remember now, of course – on a pick up from North Carolina with the world’s largest Confederate flag and a white trash sticker. It’s such a shame that “ASSHOLESEVRYWHRE” is far too long.

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.

Being over the age of 18 should come with a disclaimer: “WARNING: This shit might get expensive” or “WARNING: May feel like having something rammed up your ass every third day” or “WARNING: May feel tingly sensation, nausea and vertigo when you look at your credit card balance” or “WARNING: Dumb ass PAY YOUR FUCKING PARKING TICKETS”

I’ve never been tempted to share any of the email I get because it’s all fairly standard smooshy stuff that makes me want to nuzzle people who take the time to send a note. But when I received this gem while writing my post for MamaPop, I immediately stopped to read, then re-read, then to read it once more and go back through my archives for clearly I’ve missed a large part of my life. The next time someone calls me a lush, I can now say, I am such a lush that I forgot about that time I gave birth.

Liz and Lindsay have written epics on the terrible PR pitches they’ve received from companies who have clearly never read their sites. The person who sent me this email didn’t get past the about page. Though wouldn’t it be funny if I did have a kid and never mentioned him or her and then one day I launched into a complicated story about using smarties as a bribe to potty train the kid and then the next day I went back into discussing an extensive trip to Anthropologie and drinking Grey Goose in Georgetown. The sad part is that Schnozz would read that post and say, but every story you tell is that disjointed and I’d have to say “touche”.

Keep in mind that if they had offered an actual trip to Disney World, you bet your ass that I would have found myself a seven year old and gone on my merry way:

Hi Heather,

Hope you are well. We work with Maria Bailey and she suggested we reach out to you regarding an announcement from Walt Disney World. On September 8, Disney will announce its search for the 2009 Walt Disney World Moms Panel, www.disneyworldmoms.com – but we wanted to give you an early look at what the Moms Panel is about, how and when parents can apply as well as offer you a neat online “Search” button, if you’re interested in helping us out…

Launched in 2008, the Walt Disney World Moms Panel is an online forum that provides first-hand tips and insights for vacationing at the resort from a panel of park-savvy parents. This year, Walt Disney World is looking for a diverse group of moms, dads and grandparents with vast knowledge of the parks and a desire to share their experience with others. And, due to the overwhelming response last year, the 2009 Moms Panel will expand from its inaugural 12 members to 16.

It’s truly been a resource for families everywhere; in fact, the current panelists have fielded nearly 9,000 questions from guests who are trying to plan the perfect Walt Disney World vacation.

How to apply:

Beginning September 8 through September 19, interested applicants can visit www.disneyworldmoms.com/2009 to learn more about the Walt Disney World Moms Panel and enter. Candidates will be asked to answer a series of questions and write three brief essays; selected panelists will serve a one-year term and will each receive a 5-night, 6-day vacation to Walt Disney World for four people.

Attached please find an online 2009 Moms Panel Search button for you – we would love it if you could help us spread the word to moms and parents in your area. As a thank you, I have also attached “A Magical Back-to-School Breakfast” recipe for you and your family to enjoy.

Please feel free to contact me with any questions at all.