I’m writing this from a hotel in Chicago, over a pot of coffee in between checking various email accounts and gazing out the window. It’s a yucky day here. It started last night when I sat outside in a rocking chair while watching a storm roll in over Lake Michigan. Hours before the storm I sat on the beach for a break. A beach that New Yorkers don’t think is a real beach because it’s on a lake and a lake isn’t a real body of water capable of having a place to sit one’s fat ass for an hour between meetings. Whatevs. There was sand and now I have a tan line.

All photos taken with Instagram. I’m HeatherBarmore

Since I’m here in Chicago until eternity and there are so many people I’d like to see, I’m going to do a meet-up on July 5th at Quartino at 6-ish. Because wine is the best way to get people to say “See! She only plays an asshole on Twitter!” See you then.

If you haven’t been following along probably because I don’t think I mentioned it; I’ve been in New Hampshire for the last ten days. Ten entire days in Concord. At the start there was a lot of sighing and eye rolling and serious questions as to whether or not there would be any black people there because black people don’t do northern New England. What? I’ve seen studies and we talk about it in our secret black people meetings.

If you follow me on Twitter then you know that I am loving New Hampshire. It’s a beautiful state and the people are kind and Concord is lovely and I took the most amazing yoga class Sunday morning and then went to my favorite hangout spot The Common Man. The same restaurant that has half-price wine on Wednesdays. As my friend Leah said, “Your #NH tweets make me think you’ve skipped the Rapture and just gone straight to heaven.”

I’m enjoying myself. It’s nice to be on a work related break. But not on vacation but working. Does that make sense? Because my life has become all kinds of ‘just pack up and go’ lately. The last two months have been an adventure of epic proportions and every morning I wake up and I am so thankful.

Even on the gray days.

I cannot believe I almost let several friends scurry off to New Orleans without imparting my wisdom of New Orleans area restaurants onto them. How selfish of me. Shame.

Quick background: During the summer I spent six days in New Orleans and here is where you wonder how I endured spending several days of my life in a place whose weather could be likened to walking through hot soup. Each morning I would awake to my – already a mass of curls eating my face – to see that it had grown inches in width. The only way to combat humidity of those proportions is to pray to the conditioner Gods. Dear Treseme…is how I’d begin each day. Anyway, during those six days I was able to enjoy some of New Orleans’ finer dining establishments. Not “fine” as in black cloth napkins and candlelight but “fine” as in “damn. That was good. *burp*” It was enjoyable to open my eyes each morning and despite the sight of my hair in the mirror I would then go straight to wondering what and where I would eat each day.

Every single day included John Besh’s restaurant Luke in the Hilton on St. Charles Avenue. There were burgers the size of my head and their French 75′s were delectable. Happy Hours were also spent here where I had my first fresh oyster. The oysters might look daunting but remember that they have an aphrodiasiac quality so hug your sweetheart tight. The way I was taught to enjoy my first oyster was to take a saltine. Place an oyster on top of the saltine. Put a dollop of cocktail sauce and horseradish on top and enjoy. Another note: Squeeze lemon upon the oysters to get them really delish.

One night a friend turned colleague decided on resies at Restaurant August, John Besh’s pièce de résistance that involved a tasting menu that changed each evening. If there is anything you should know about me is that “tasting” “menu” and “pairing” should be part of any young woman’s vocabulary. Though we didn’t do the tasting menu there were tears and jeers of jealousy that I was able to breathe the same air as Besh. It’s one of those places that serves foie gras prepared three ways and knows that the truffle is the most magical thing on the planet.

Then there was the evening that I had to choose the restaurant for my bosses. This was tough because I often that my job might depend on whether or not I chose a satisfactory restaurant and pathetic given that I do think that I might lose health insurance if my boss hates gazpacho. Herbsaint was my choice thanks to Yelp and Zagat. In fact in the last three years I have only received praise for my restaurant choices. Never mind my actual work! That steak was delicious! Get her a raise! Because this was so long ago I don’t remember what I had except for the watermelon soup. A could soup with a vodka gimlet on a steamy night in July? Perfection.

Then there are the places you should make time to visit no matter what. I don’t care if you just lost your arm in a streetcar accident! You need to get yourself to Mother’s (biscuits, gravy and grits), Acme Oyster House (an institution and crowded. be prepared to stand outside), and Cafe du Monde (if you don’t know about the beignets then you should be ashamed of yourself).

This is far quicker than I thought but those are my suggestions. Now go forth and enjoy. Oh! If you need a new tattoo, there’s a fantastic place in the Garden District that did mine. Didn’t hurt a bit.

I think this post more than any other summarizes me as a person: Food, tattoos and alcohol. Yup. That’s about it. Have fun, lovelies!

I’ve been to Austin three times and every time I am there I declare my undying love for the place and its breakfast tacos and profess the need to live there. I am not trained in anything but working in politics, is my rationale for moving to the state capitol of the Lone Star State. I roam around 6th street basking in that breezy but warm air thinking, “Oh yeah. I like this”. It probably has something to do with the immense amount of sunlight across the city. Or being able to have the windows rolled down and telling people how fly I am. Just like a G6. It’s probably because after that long, cold, lonely winter I have had it up to here (puts hand level to forehead) with this winter/snow/wintry mix/I’ll show you COLD, bullshit of the previous four months. So anything that can give me Vitamin D without taking a small tablet, is something that I will welcome with open arms.

I was in Texas for a little SXSW fun and to visit my friend Chris and because you guys? It isn’t illegal to wear sandals in early March. Did you know this?? I had beers outside and fancy migas inside. Every conversation was too short and the hugs were just long enough. I needed a vacation and that weather and that realization that everything is about the little things so grab them, grasp them and hold onto those moments because they’re fleeting.

Now c’mere, Austin. Lemme smooch you.

There’s nothing and I mean NOTHING like leaving a town covered in ice, which, I should say, makes things to magical yet mysterious post storm and yet when it’s covered upon your car and leaves all four doors frozen and you chipping away at bits and pieces until your ulna and/or radius breaks in half and…wait, where was I? Oh yes. There is nothing like leaving all of that behind to head for anything above 40 degrees farenheit. I landed in Austin last night and was all puppy happy, panting away, butt-wagging the second I stepped outside. I ran around the airport and peed on a fire hydrant. Then a TSA agent.

So, last we spoke, I was planning on moving to DC. Still doing that but in between trekking down the North East corridor there will be blood and trips. I just got back from Brooklyn where I attended the launch of Eden and Alice’s book and the next day came to Austin. When I get back to Albany, I have meetings and then a series of events in Western New York which, let’s face it, I might as well head to Ohio for the week. And then I get back from way out west and then I go to DC to at least introduce myself and then I go to Long Island for my aunt’s 40th birthday and then I go back to DC.

Sometime around March 22nd, I’m totally going to sleep my face off.

Right now everything is in size venti and my apartment looks like something out of Hoarders. But here I sit at my best friend’s table sipping coffee listening to “The Extent of Radicalization of American Muslims”. Or as I like to call it “McCarthyism 2.0″. I have an excessive amount of “work work” and “writing work” to do and at some point I need to write about finding a balance between the two because I try not to be that asshole who refers to one job as my “real” job and the other as if it’s not real work because that is just an insult to those who do write (then again, I only write-ish) for a living.

I’m rambling. My apologies. Needless to say, I’m busy and attempting to cope with the excitement. Let’s just say that for someone prone to hypo-manic states right now I’m fucking flying. I’m going to attempt to enjoy the ride.

Hope you’re doing well.

I went on a business trip to Santa Fe and because I returned late last night I ended up crashing at my mom’s. I took out my camera with the behemoth Tamron lens still attached. She looked up from editing a paper and said, “You brought your camera with you to New Mexico?”

“Yeah…”

“Por qué?”

“Porque…”:

I’ve never wanted to go to Santa Fe but when the opportunity to discuss pedagogy AND politics presented itself, I packed up my Samsonite and not nearly enough moisturizer and off I went. It’s beautiful. One of the most beautiful places I’ve been to and I’ve been to Versailles. But there was something magical; almost powerful something about Santa Fe that made me want to put it on my To Do List for another time.

That last photo was taken from the mountains at Ten Thousand Waves. A Japanese inspired spa and bath house where I spent three hours completely nude and receieved a massage that got (most of) the anxiety ridden bitch out of me.

Santa Fe was by no means gentle on me. I got nose bleeds and altitude sickness and by Sunday I lay in my bed for three hours praying that I would just puke and get it over with. But what it took from me in energy it made up for in just sitting back and relaxing. Santa Fe makes you sick because it doesn’t want you to do anything except soak up the pretty and appreciate every wave, ripple and burst of wind.

Nine: The number of fucking days I will have been away from home by Sunday. NIIIIINE. 

1,499: The number of women I’m surrounded by right now. That’s a lot of estrogen and PMS and people looking at the shoes you wore with your porn skirt. 

2010: That’s next year when BlogHer is in…wait for it…New York City. 

3: The number of hours it will take to get there. IN MY CAR. 

10:45 AM: That is the time on Saturday, July 25th when Kelly, Stefania, Karen and I will be speaking about Women of Color and Marketing. Come see me look like an ass.

We interrupt these great NaBloPoMo posts of late to instead bring you an update on the whereabouts of our intrepid host. You see, originally she had plans to show you photos of the most delicious cupcakes she’s ever made in life or perhaps she was going to tell you about her utterly pleasant day that involved sitting around over a leisurely breakfast just chatting away and laughing her ass off and then an empty IKEA store for her to roam. But all of this was brought to a sudden halt when as she was about to tell you about kittens and rainbows she experienced the worst turbulence she has ever experienced in her life. Not to brag but I don’t know if you know that your host has flown across the Atlantic like 12 times. She’s flown between Europe and Africa and back again. She’s flown across the United States, never north but often south and not once has she ever had the pleasure of experiencing turbulence so bad that she didn’t know whether to curl up in the fetal position and accept her fate or vomit while going bumpity, bump, bump over the Delaware River. She quickly ceased with all writing and overuse of adjectives to grip white knuckled to her armrest with Baltimore so close yet so far away.

Hopefully we’ll hear from her tomorrow. After the nausea has subsided and she’s secured a train ticket back to her home 400 miles north. But for now we wait and hope that come morning she won’t exclaim fuck flying and decide on driving everywhere. Though if that is the case, how do you all feel about chipping in for a Subaru?

Monday was my first day back in the office after a three week absence.

I’ll give you a moment to think about just how full of love and harmony and pink puffy hearts, I was after those six miraculous hours.

When I planned to do Chicago, San Francisco, New Orleans and Martha’s Vineyard in rapid succession, I pictured myself being strong like a bear and quick like a bunny rabbit. As if there was a magic elixir that would put me on a path towards neverending light and ensconced in forgiveness when surrounded by a grand total of 15,000 people in three weeks. All of them sharing my oxygen like that shit is free and coughing and breathing and smiling in my general direction as if to say “Oh you like to be alive and full of phlegm?! Me too!”

It was a grand scheme that turned into a giant Fail Whale. That has been my favorite phrase since leaving San Francisco. Everything is a FAIL! I use it more than I use “Fuck” in all of it’s forms. Though in a Red Bull induced high I did start saying “Fuck me, FAIL!” so perhaps there is no hope for me. The last day of vacation was horrendous. So horrendous that I cannot discuss it without ending each sentence with “…and then I had to physically restrain myself from choking that man in the middle of the street”. It was an epic disaster that will can only be cured by magical chocolate chip cookies of groveling and forgiveness and perhaps payment for the new tires that were needed because of shitty karma. So I ended that night with rum, vodka, the view of a light house in East Chop and a charming eight year old named Emma.

Emma likes to read and write and I’m pretty sure she’s a Mensa member. I told her that when I was eight I liked to read and write and now people pay me enough money to get my eyebrows done because of my reading and writing so from what I understand, literacy can be a good thing. We even did a little show and tell of the perfect arch of my eyebrows. Then her aunt requested that I write about her on my site and Emma’s face lit up like I said that ponies would fall from the Heavens if she got a mention here. Emma, darling, you’re cute as a button and I’m sorry that a paragraph on my site will not elicit seven million dollars and a new Webkinz but at least someone once publicly said that you are absolutely charming.

The next morning I spent a long drive home on the Massachusetts turnpike wondering why Massachusetts couldn’t inch itself closer to New York. Just a few more miles…yep…to the left…ahh, right there. Nicely situated on top of Lake George. I also contemplated how 24 has been and that when I was eight years old, I pictured 24 being far different than it has turned out to be. Good Lord; I once upon a time envisioned children and a husband at 24. Not a cat that shits everywhere and coming home to three bitches – of the four legged variety – four nights a week, an addiction to Swedish Fish and the breakup from hell.

You know how people have diaries that chronicling the stupidities of their youth to look back on? Ones that require seven keys, a combination code and the oath of office to open? At times I’m both thrilled and utterly terrified that I have shared most every dumb ass, alcohol ridden, mistake of my 20′s publicly. Then again, when I am older and look back on July of my 24th year; the month when I had to spend the entire time around large, anxiety inducing crowds and I never once had to use physical harm on a single person. I imagine that I’ll look back upon that month and see how much restraint I had and realize that was the month that I discovered a little thing called Emotional Growth. I’ll give myself a pat on the back and be thankful that I had witnesses.

Yesterday afternoon I decided to take the train down to Manhattan this morning – Sunday – to meet Metalia and Ali for brunch. It’s been like 28 minutes since I last saw Ali and Metalia huffed and said, “Bitch, I saw you like nine times this spring. I was looking forward to a summer without you“. I also wanted to use all $11 I got from blogging last month to purchase half a shirt and perhaps a hair clip from the H&M on Fifth Avenue.

Not three miles from Albany the train suffered severe engine troubles. So severe that the scruffy, barefoot, hippie sitting next to me thought he was in dire straits so perhaps he should call everyone in his phone to tell them that there was no air conditioning or air circulation or oxygen for that matter, on the train and if this was his last time ever speaking to them again, they should all be aware that he had been up since 4AM and had driven from Plattsburgh and he might die because apparently civilization cannot thrive along the Hudson River and he had run out of Patchouli.

After two and half hours spent six miles from my house, we were brought back to the station and I had given up hope on a peaceful brunch where Ali and I could reenact BlogHer for Metalia. Including the part where I cried and drank wine out of a paper cup. When I got out to the parking lot, I looked down at my front left tire and noticed that it was low. Incredibly low. Like gasping for air and saying “Take me now!” kind of low. As an aside, I love that when something very obvious is wrong with a vehicle and so everyone at every stop light and street corner (damn, those hookers are so kind!) feels the need to point out that your tire is low so perhaps you should check that shit out.

Anyway, when I saw the tire, I sat down on the ground in a freshly dry cleaned white dress with pockets. And then The Universe, stuck a perfectly manicured finger out at me and said, “Yippie-kay-yay, motherfucker” and laughed.

True story.