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.

After every other step I took in Philadelphia this weekend, I would stop, look around and declare my undying love for the city. There was a brief moment while at Lori’s when I started to suggest that maybe she should get a roommate. And that roommate should be me. Lest one think that I’m destined to live in suburban upstate NY for the rest of my life, you would be wrong and/or high. Philly is the size of DC but lacks the job factor and the oppressing heat and humidity come in July. It’s that type of humidity that you step into and you can feel it surrounding as it asphyxiates. As you are choking on every last word, the humidity is making you its bitch.

Someone recently asked which of the cities I’ve visited would I actually live in. DC, San Francisco, Chicago, Madrid, Brussels and Atlanta made the cut. The thought of living in Manhattan with several million other people all up in my personal space and breathing my air makes me violent. Philly wasn’t even on the list and had been shamefully forgotten until walking around yesterday afternoon. But the part that really drew me in, the part where I realize that I’m slowly turning into an actual adult that takes cost of living very seriously; was when I got my check after spending Saturday night out where I had more Grey Goose and sodas than I care to remember, two shots of patron silver and a giant ass plate of pizza tater tots (that last part is proof that there is a God) and my bill came out to like 13 dollars and some change. Love means never having to say you’re sorry. It also means being able to buy four drinks with a five dollar bill.

And now I get to tell people the story of that time I made out with Philadelphia.

I’m standing behind a man who doesn’t understand the difference between gallon and quart. He then takes approximately 53 years removing his belt and shoes. By the time he steps foot to the other side of the metal detectors I have gray hair, seven grandchildren and a walker has magically appeared by my side.

When it is finally my turn, I expeditiously remove my Vans, belt and blazer. My boarding pass is in my right hand and my left hand is doing a really shitty job at being a makeshift pair of suspenders. I shuffle through and get to the other side peering through to my suitcase. I begin to think the sweet thoughts of exploring future options of doing what the kids call ‘checking luggage’. But the kids aren’t anal-retentive assholes afraid of losing their precious pink and black Chuck Taylors or the world’s greatest bra. So I suffer.

I keep peering as TSA lemming #1 stares at the contents on the x-ray. TSA lemming #2 then puts it back through. I’m still clinging desperately to my pants and feeling anxious because I only have an hour until my flight and I’ll need to sit and breathe for 45 minutes. I can feel each and every neuron spontaneously imploding because my lord, there is absolutely nothing in that bag that would warrant 17 searches and the use of a dog. So the bag goes back through again and TSA lemming #3 (How many TSA agents does it take to go through a Samsonite?) says that she needs to physically go through my bag.

PHYSICALLY GO THROUGH MY BAG immediately causes my left eye to twitch and I have to resist the urge to kick her in her giant head (dude, it was HUGE). She unzips it and actually removes each item of clothing and I lifting up my shirts and inspecting each and every shoe with a magnifying glass looking for a ‘piece of metal’. She starts to interrogate me as to the whereabouts of this mysterious piece of metal all the while removing my underwear and bras from the mesh pocket. I continue to stand there gripping my pants and boarding pass while the people in line behind me start to shift uncomfortably. She is still looking for the ‘piece of metal’ because the metal is in there and it is probably wrapped up in my boy cut underwear or perhaps I hid it in my Hope in a Tube or perhaps it’s embedded in my t-shirt.

She literally has the entire contents of my meticulously packed bag splayed out for the world to see. I am actually getting physically ill watching her take every item out, unfold it, then haphazardly toss it back in because do you know how long it took me to iron my ‘I Love Ghana’ tee? And yes, I do own several pairs of hot pink panties and all of Albany probably knows my cup size. She then shrugs and says “Thank you”. I give her the my best, I hope someone drops an anvil on your big toe and that your car gets hit by a Mack truck transporting a mobile home and you break your hip on a patch of ice, white hot, fiery glare of death. Because “Thank you”? Really? I roll my eyes and she has the audacity to say, “You could be a little more polite”.

I am so sorry. For some reason my politeness factor takes a giant leap out of the window when I’m standing in the middle of the aiport with my pants halfway to my ankles and everyone in the greater capital region knows that my ass and boobs really are that large and that I wear a lot of mesh because it makes things airy. My bad.

In Boston this summer, I spent an entire four day period as a recluse wanting to throw my own little tea party. And of course there were tears. My cycle of social awkwardness goes: HB doesn’t like new people, HB gets overwhelmed, HB rushes into the bathroom on the ballroom level of the Westin Copley Place to have a good cry. Because God forbid I actually attempt to open my mouth and speak to someone. What might I say? What could happen? What if I confess to wanting to bludgeon half the people in the room because I cannot handle the bullshit?

The thing is that I can be a ‘large party’ kind of girl if I know several people at the party. This is how I managed to successfully walk upright in Chicago for four days straight and look like I was having fun while doing it; because I was. Otherwise, I like intimate settings. My brain goes into sensory overload when surrounded by too much at one time and to stave off the inevitable explosion (SEE: Tears) I need to step back to survey my surroundings before diving into the hors d’oeuvres and handing out business cards. I don’t recall always being so skittish and edgy around new people or large groups, but it has happened and so I must deal with it. Or else I see myself on a trajectory towards failure since talking to people seems to be a large part of my job.

Several months ago, Helen Jane, offered up a ticket to SXSW. As I recall it was the middle of the day, so I was completely of sound mind and well aware of what I was doing when I said yes. I said, yes, to spending five days in a city I’ve never been too with exactly four people I know. While it isn’t rare for me to have bad judgment and overestimate my ability to behave like a person with average social skills (and by ‘average’ I mean I can speak to people without biting them or wanting to claw them to bits), it is rare for me to face a large social gathering completely head on. I’ve been so very flippant about going to Texas, that every time someone has asked I say “Oh yeah, Texas…yeah…” Then forget about it once again. I usually do well with bloggers, perhaps because we all tend to be a little on the misanthropic side. So it ends up being a large group of people who are all prone to hermitic behaviors who love to drink. Awesome.

Anyway, I am going to Texas. I will be standing in the corner either with my margarita or with my margarita and Aimee. I am not nervous but instead, abnormally excited to be in close quarters with several thousand people that I barely even know and 70 degree weather. Oh, and that noise you just heard? That was the sound of Hell freezing over.

I hate to be a downer but every time someone asks me how I am or how things are going I shrug my shoulders, sigh heavily, and say “It’s OK”. I sound like Eeyore and anyone who crosses my path half expects my tail to fall off or for me to keel over due to an extreme bout of ennui. I can’t even get into the spirit of the season without it all feeling extremely forced and obvious. I’ve baked cookies while listening to Ella Fitzgerald with a fire crackling in the background and yet I would look outside at the snow, the thing that signifies the loveliness that should come this time of year, and the only thing I wanted to do was beat myself in the head with a crowbar. Nothing says “Joy” like blunt force trauma.

I’ve actually kept most everything to myself – especially as of late – because I don’t want to be a bother and I’m boring and most people find whining to be abhorrent. So I stay silent. In general though I tend to be shy and quiet. Some call it aloof but I like to refer to it as observing my surroundings intently so that later I can write about all the drunk dumbshits within five miles. So my rather subdued behavior ends up being advantageous.What really ends up happening is that I keep it all inside, bottled up and under pressure. And much like a bottle of Brut, once the cork is popped, everything comes pouring out. Sometimes it’s messy and I end up with verbal diarrhea and tell my life story to some unsuspecting friend and other times I try to let a little out at a time so as not to frighten everyone away. And if you were wondering, several glasses of wine might cause things to spill out as well and suddenly I’m telling people about shit that happened in 1995 and apparently I am not over an incident involving my brother, a bike and a pool cue.

God willing, barring any ill winter and something I’ve been trying to keep from discussing due to jinxing it all but I just cannot hold it inside: I will be going to Oklahoma City for a brief vacation. Susan thinks that it is just to drink wine and bask in her presence when in reality so that I can unload all of the shit that has been plaguing me for months and months and months. Thankfully I’m being quite nice to her and writing everything out in list form; that way I know what I want to say and it will keep my thoughts in place. It will be a lovely way to spend the pre-Holiday: Me talking endlessly about myself, because I don’t get to do enough of that already and Susan sitting there possibly bored to death but oh so very happy that someone came to visit her in one of the reddest states in the country. For nothing says “Merry Christmas” like slowly killing the ones you love with loquaciousness.

My first trip to Europe was a weeklong visit to Rome to visit friends of mine who were studying abroad. Being beyond giddy about going somewhere that wasn’t Canada, I was full of endorphins upon landing. The rush of the sights and sounds carried me from the airport to Trevi Fountain to my friend’s apartment where I promptly saw a pillow and swore I would have it’s babies if I could just rest my head on it for a few moments. I felt like every fiber of my being, anything holding me upright, was being sucked out of me via my toes and my body was languishing and about to toss itself off the nearest precipice if I didn’t shut my eyes soon.

It seems that my body is a bit of a delicate flower and does not handle time change well. Yet I feel the need to keep pushing and pushing it by pretending that I don’t need to stinkin’ rest. It’s like I’m seven years old again and my bedtime is at 7:30 PM yet I just can’t sleep even though the need is made evident by my repeated thrashings against my bedroom door, but I fear missing out on something exciting by sleeping. Such is the reason for why I thought I was a bad ass my first day in Spain and instead of sleeping, like I so desperately needed, I stayed up until 2 AM learning the hard way that euros are worth more than dollars and drinking sangria. I woke up the next morning in tears and promptly fell out of the shower due to exhaustion and the worst hangover I have ever experienced since the night after my 21st birthday.

Before I left for France I knew that when I got back I would have a 36 hour turn around in NY before going to the west coast to Las Vegas and San Diego. My mind was all “FUCK YEAH!” and my body was all “You are such a dumb bitch. I’ll get you, my pretty.” The initial descent into Sin City was just fine it was the subsequent all-nighter that had me in the fetal position ordering room service for three days straight while everyone else ventured off to Mexico and made light hearted banter over cocktails in the hot tub. I spent four days in San Diego barely able to say my first and last name together. I spent four days known only as Heather from New York. Heather with no last name. I was like fucking Madonna.

Anyway, I’m back now and back into semi-top condition having spent the last week laying in bed or watching Weeds or sitting in my office with the door shut having a ‘moment’. Attempting to recoup several lost hours and days of my life that at this point are nothing but a foggy memory of pictures and sliced words and bits of paper found in my pants pockets. Each one reminding me that I went somewhere new, ate something and from the number of receipts from bars and the perpetual feeling of fuzziness, I’m pretty sure I had a good time.