Archive for the 'Oh The Stupidity You'll See' Category

The Dumbest Story Ever Told

July 9, 2008 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, Once Upon A Time.., The District Of Columbia

“I always look for a woman who has a tattoo.  I see a woman with a tattoo, and I’m thinking, okay, here’s a gal who’s capable of making a decision she’ll regret in the future. ” ~Richard Jeni

On June 25th 2001, exactly one day after I donned a red cap and gown and played my clarinet in a formal setting for the last time at my high school graduation, I moved to Washington, DC. I say that with a tear in my eye not because I am recalling how sad I was to pack up my shit and move to a place where humidity would take you in its clammy hands and immobilize you and suppress your ability to breathe; but because I was so god damn happy to get the hell out of that place. As I recall on the outside I may have cried while crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge but on the inside I was screaming “THANK GOD ALMIGHTY I AM FREE AT LAST”.

I was retelling the story of my Independence Day to coworkers yesterday because despite the oft-crippling fear of The Newness, I still do far better as an independent person, far away from what is most familiar to me. Which is how I lasted six full months in another country with absolutely no one I knew and a one sided grasp of the language. Meaning I could understand what was being said and was fully literate but the only thing I could respond with was “OK!” and lots of head nodding. I was a beacon of brilliance and compelling conversation.

So when I moved to DC, with my new-found freedom I did what any proper 17 year old with half a brain would do when sent 400 miles away: I procured myself a fake ID. Not just any fake ID, as you see, in New York the licenses of yore were made of a more flimsy, cardboard material. This made it easy to write and generally deface said license. With three colored pencils and a simple flick of the wrist, I turned 1983 into 1980 and was on my merry way.

(I should stop here and say that the awesomeness of this idea and patting myself on the back and being smug is called ‘foreshadowing’ and maybe one day I’ll tell you the story of what happened to that license)

And with my license I didn’t set out to start drinking, because I wasn’t much of a drinker at the time, I instead – and again - did what any FREE! 17 year old would do; I went out to get my tongue pierced. I found a tongue piercing to be cool and edgy which would in turn make me cool and edgy (I of the clarinet playing and non-drinking flavor of High School student). I could insert a very long diatribe as to the flaws in this logic but at 17 you are in your own little universe and whatever you say goes. You’re practically invincible of course and when you’re 17 and have just moved to a major city from East Bumblefuck, New York, well the world is your oyster. So you deface your body with a large needle. Again, count the flaws in this logic.

Full of adrenaline, I went to get my tongue pierced and was turned away not twenty minutes later due to a very large vein coursing it’s way smack in the middle of my tongue. I think this is why my tongue can reach the bottom of my chin, all that extra blood pumping through it. It’s also why I can tie a cherry stem quite expertly and I’m also a most excellent make-out partner. If said vein were to be nicked I could bleed to death and die and the Washington Post B section would read “17 year old girl with false ID bleeds to death after tongue piercing. Friends say she was a nice girl but such a dipshit”.

I was left dejected but I did what I do best, which is to get what I want, right when I want it. And if I can’t get exactly what I wanted in the first place, I go after the next best thing or I just obsess about it, whine, yell and scream and get it anyway. And my god, I sound like the most charming person on the planet. In lieu of the tongue piercing I decided on a tattoo. Yes! A tattoo! A tattoo would solve all of my problems. And only at 24 can you laugh hysterically at your 17 year old self at 6:30 AM because your 17 year old self was obviously missing a large part of her brain. The part of the brain that does cognitive thinking. The important part.

I walked my ass into that tattoo parlor – Jinx Proof on M Street in Georgetown, they also did my rook and tragus piercing – took out my fake ID, went to the wall of tattoos to pick out exactly what I wanted. The perfect piece that would adorn my body for all eternity. Something that would represent me for the rest of my natural life, forever and ever, amen. And I picked out a motherfucking butterfly. A Butterfly (it’s on my right ankle). An insect with wings that I have zero connection to except that I think they’re pretty. Not even pretty really, but mostly just nice to look at in passing if I happen to stop swearing and drinking and raising hell to notice that there butterfly right by my head.

Here’s a lesson; If telling your parents that you’ve defaced your body with a drawing of a bug on your ankle, start off by telling them that it’s not really that bad. Get them all worked up and worried that you’re dying or pregnant (first words out of my mother’s mouth “ARE YOU PREGNANT!?!?”) and then say, no, I got a tattoo. And then they’ll be too busy thanking God that they won’t be grandparents and/or planning your funeral anytime soon and hugging you because your stupidity will have cost them a grand total of ZERO dollars.

This all occurred seven years ago. I am far cooler and smarter now – or at least I pretend I am – and the minor pain from getting the first tattoo has long passed. I never thought I’d be one of those people who were decidedly unafraid of having needles stuck every which way. Which explains why I get a random ear piercing because I’m bored. Now with some modicum of an identity and something resembling a brain, I am a little bit more prepared and nervous-excited to get my second tattoo. I didn’t think I would get another one but over the last few weeks I’ve had the itch. And then I knew exactly what I wanted and where. It’s fun but more importantly has meaning and reminds me of where I was many years ago and thankful of where I am now. When it arrives you all will be the first to know and all I’m going to say is, no, it isn’t a damn ladybug.

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.

…and tomorrow I will tell Whoorl about my hair

March 20, 2008 | Filed under: Humdrum, Oh The Stupidity You'll See

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Susan is one of my very dear friends. She has many good qualities including getting up at 5 AM and having coffee ready and allowing me loll about in her living room for days on end while providing me with Sonic and white wine. Of course there are less superficial things but I will save those for another day. It is no secret that that woman can dress and will tell people how to dress and people search her out to get an honest opinion as to whether these shoes go with this skirt. And I’m sure she’ll be the first to tell someone that their boobs look smushed in that top. As that is her way.

The first time I went to her house though, I wore silver crocs. It wasn’t until much later when I pointed out the crocs that she said to me “Yeah, I wasn’t going to say anything…” her voice trailing off. I could tell form the look on her face that if I ever wore crocs in her presence again and I wasn’t wading in a pond, then she would tear my feet off with her bare hands. Sometimes she needn’t say much for one to understand that leaving the house like that, ever, is unacceptable. Point well taken. And so far I still have my feet.

For now. But here’s the part where she makes a special trip to New York just to remove them because of such offensive behavior:

Yesterday morning I was about to leave the house and it was raining. I was wearing a skirt, with Parisian tights and let me digress and say that if you ever go to Paris, get yourself some tights because they will change your life and you’ll start skipping and the Heavens will part because you will find what you’ve been missing for so long when it comes to fall and winter wardrobe. </digression> So, the skirt with black tights. I was wearing brown socks because I haven’t done laundry in like three weeks and no one ever sees my socks. The boots I had been planning to wear were at my office and they would complete the outfit but I needed something to wear to the office. My black crocheted Uggs were in the trunk of my car and I found myself on my hands and knees trying to find shoes to wear on the wet slushy streets. And lo I found some Birkenstocks! Birkenstocks I had long forgotten about. A March Madness Miracle!

When I put my look together, I saw this and immediately thought I MUST SHOW SUSAN:

She might die a little inside and she might kill me with her bare hands but I just HAD to show her that I walked out of the house, up the street, drove to Dunkin Donuts, got out of the car, waited around for some hashbrowns and coffee, drove to work, got out of the car, walked the 487 steps into my office building, waited around in the lobby for the elevator, and walked upstairs into my office with this offensive combination on. The entire time thinking of the number of occasions that will allow me to wear these shoes between now and Monday. My Easter outfit is bound to be these shoes and my black tights and nothing more for clearly, with my stupid boots with the god damn three inch heels, I’ve been missing out for several months. Thank God, Susan and I have such the friendship that even though I would rather look like hell than be uncomfortable, she pats me on the head, tells me about how awful it is, and loves me anyway. Or at least I hope.

Acts of Drama

March 19, 2008 | Filed under: Comes And Goes, Oh The Stupidity You'll See

“There’s a period of life when we swallow a knowledge of ourselves and it becomes either good or sour inside.”  ~Pearl Bailey

During lunch, someone made passing reference to the current Presidential election. I looked up startled and realized that that moment was the first time in five days that I remembered that there was an election going on. I could feel my face contort to a look of visible surprise when Barack Obama was mentioned as if I had never heard of him ever in my life. And obviously I had forgotten all about my pseudo-infatuation and that time he remembered my name. Every conversation in regards to politics that I have had in the last five days has been solely about the activities in other people’s marriages. It seems that everyone has a ‘roving eye’. I say that I don’t care but I listen intently and sucked into it anyway.

Later in the afternoon I would relay to Susan the facts behind my day. Done in great detail and dripping with inflection to show that I meant business. That rush that comes when so much has happened in such a short amount of time and it just layers and layers until inevitable explosion. It was one hour of drama that reminded me of an episode of “24” but with less Chinese torture devices and more of my threat to ‘choke that motherfucker’ and feeling so goddamn pissed off that I literally walked around in circles muttering to myself and kicking little cherub statues.

In the evening I couldn’t wait to tell Metalia about something that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Of this I am more than well aware. But I still couldn’t help but want to say, “You will NEVER believe what was just said”. I realize that the current drama threat level of a situation is at orange and I give it a gentle nudge towards red. For no other reason than procrastination and boredom and it is far better than watching grass grow.

I am now up to my eyeballs in drama. Ensconced by so much of it  that I can’t tell my head from my ass hole. Every other minute it is something new or someone else has said something. My gut reaction to be an enabler and claim that I don’t want to hear the latest and greatest most shocking thing only to lean in closer as if saying “But test me! See if you can shock me just a little bit more today than you did yesterday! Go on, TRY.” There is that natural inclination to want to know even if there is no reason to know. To dig and find out the details. To discern the fact from the fiction and then circulate the ‘truth’ or what is perceived as truth to the masses. For clearly, everyone and their brother should be in the know. Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, I realize that I shouldn’t care and I should stop enabling people and employ the ignore method but my inclination is to want to hear the story. So instead I employ the rock/hard place metaphor because while I shouldn’t care, I do. And while drama makes my head spin and there are way bigger things going on, I am still intrigued by the most mundane bullshit.

In the morning I wake up and write it all down for myself only to realize that more than my ass, this – not giving a shit - is something that I should be working on.

Quick! Change the subject

March 12, 2008 | Filed under: Oh The Stupidity You'll See, This side of the Hudson

“Now that it’s all over, what did you really do yesterday that’s worth mentioning?” ~Coleman Cox

Don’t think I didn’t hem and haw over titling this “And Ho Jinks*Ensue” or “What would I do for $5500”. But I think being good and mature and remembering that I have a job I would like to keep for a few more years has trumped my eagerness towards immaturity. It is different when something of this nature occurs several states away or across the country but when you’re standing in line for a breakfast taco in Austin and you see your Governor’s face plastered all over CNN with the word PROSTITUTION in 47 point font bold, well then you kind of want to curl up in a ball and contemplate moving four hours north. I hear Montreal is lovely in the spring. My tagline would have to be “Smarties for all!”

It’s been information overload on top of the usual debauchery as of late Obviously I don’t know what it’s like to watch things unfold in places outside of Albany but here it went from “No EFFING WAY” to “mind numbing”. I’d like to get back to the regularly scheduled programming of snow and wait, yup, more snow and oh wait, is that rain? Nope, it’s snow. Alas not.

I am certainly not about to climb upon my pedestal and debate the merits of extracurricular activities outside of the marriage (I’ve never been married) or where my taxes have mysteriously gone off to (seriously, I don’t care). I am actually going to sit here and revel in the miracle that was surviving four days in Austin without anyone kicking me in the face or an incident of tears. In fact it’s been several weeks since my last sob fest and I’m feeling back to normal. ‘Normal’ of course being powered by Grey Goose la poire, patron and guacamole for four days but normal nonetheless.

*Sarah is so effing brilliant. It kills me.