Way back in February – you remember February don’t you? With the cold and the ice weasels? – well way back then I went to Houston for three days. Three days in a room with Susan surrounded by women I have since….gosh, forever. Except here’s the funny part, the part where you can understand my pill popping ways: The first day we ordered bottles of champagne by the pool and slowly people that have always just been there appeared. Susan and I got pedicures at the spa and then got dressed for a Mad Men themed party. We went downstairs and started to mingle and instead of hugging and kissing it was as if I didn’t belong. Here I was in front of these Forever People and yet I couldn’t stand being there. I was there physically but mentally couldn’t help but feel as if I wasn’t wanted there. Like ‘they’ didn’t like me. I lost the ability to speak to others and a lump formed in my throat so I ran back upstairs. I tweeted something about being around all of these people I’ve known for years and yet feeling like complete awkward shit. I stared at myself in the full length mirror, shook my head and went back downstairs.

Everything else is a blur. A chaotic mess of wonderful memory. Where I had more fun than is legal and I laughed. Oh, how I laughed and enjoyed a tasting menu and hugged and whispered and talked about what was fun. And my God, I was inspired. During the keynote featuring Heather, Maggie and Gabby I tweeted, “This keynote is making me smarter” and later “I love seeing smart women do great things”. It was all better than good and I’m not sure why it has taken me so long to write about Houston or the ideas that I left with. Probably life getting in the way. Not enough time to really process. But four months have passed and I’ve processed and percolated. And now I sigh. I got comfortable. I don’t know why I was so nervous because those women there? The ones brimming with brilliance? They’re my people. Now can we do that again?

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.

Usually I’m very meticulous about the stories I tell you all because they are all a manifestation of something I’ve been thinking long and hard about for days. Sadly with NaBloPoMo you’re getting a heap load of verbal diarrhea: Exactly what I’m thinking as I think it. It’s my brain in real time. Discussion of vanity plates and how my brothers leave me out of everything are exactly what’s going through my head. Not about the economy or the world’s most heinous project but vanity plates and high pitched whining.

Currently* I want to go off on a room full of educated white women discussing how black people think. It’s a discussion of race and gay marriage. And oh, oh, the burning. It hurts to hear a group of people discuss race and to want to just throw yourself into that conversation but you cannot because you’re so livid by the overall tone and accusations that have come up since the election day debacle that you cannot bring yourself to insert yourself without your head doing a 360 degree turn at the absurdity of it all. Instead I fumed and spouted off and stomped outside to be alone with my ever sober self then came back in to drown my sorrows in chèvre. And to do as my mother said; which is to blog about it and use incessant run-on sentences and possible non-sequiturs to say: Oh my hell, I’m pissed.

*This was last night. I’m fine now. Carry on.

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.

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.

On Friday a family friend’s 17 year old son died in a car accident. One of those accidents that is played and replayed on some loop by stations around the area, analyzing and updating to the point where on the third day of seeing the story in the A-section of the paper, I threw the entire paper in the garbage in a fit of anger and annoyance because all I could think of was his mother.

His wake was earlier this week and when my mother mentioned going I promptly ignored the emails and her phone call with the trepidation usually reserved for meeting new people or being pulled into a closed door meeting with a boss. I hate wakes with the burning passion of a thousand blazing suns. I would rather be on a life long diet of cottage cheese and cooked carrots, my two most hated things, rather than go to a wake. But of course I attend, I always attend because it’s one of those times that no one really gives a shit about my intense fear of a dead person being a few feet away from me because it isn’t about what I want or don’t want to do. It’s about being there and supportive and feigning understanding even when I know that I would give my left arm not to experience that type of emotional pain.

A wake is the time when my social awkwardness comes out in full force and I literally have nothing to say, because what is there to say? The mother hugged me and I said nothing. The siblings smiled at me and I smiled back. The grandfather said “It was nice meeting you” and thanked me for coming and I mumbled a “You’re welcome” and gave a weak smile why he was welcoming. I feel like a simple I’m sorry is too trite and saying ‘My prayers are with you’ sounds fake and like I’m forcing it.

I don’t know what to say without sounding like a complete asshole but I figure that I can’t be that much of an asshole because I was there and that probably means more than anything.

I’ve been chastised for having my door shut and for shutting people out in general. Apparently it comes off as me being too private or plotting something or being a bitch. Even though it’s not a community door and there is no need for me to defend myself, I’ve been explaining it over and over again because I’m not plotting in here with blueprints of how to case the joint, I’m sitting in here leaned back as far as my chair will take me. My door is now wide open so people can watch me do the really exciting act of staring off into space and biting my lower lip while tapping the top of my coffee cup. Riveting.

Even when nothing is wrong something ends up being wrong and I feel at unease. Mornings have been for shit lately though I did surprise myself when I was sitting at my desk at nine AM and ready to take on the world at about 11:15. I know what needs to be done and I have to be reminded by others that things are not that bad and it’s not like I’m picking cotton so there really is no cause for complaint. I would say that I hate myself for being all ‘woe is me’ and shit but at least I’m honest when hit by the one two punch of ennui and petulance.

By next week I’ll be back to my normal, happy, wine drinking, table dancing, throwing up the finger to piss poor merging drivers, self. But for now I’m just eh and I really needn’t defend myself for needing a moment, but there you go.

“Certain flaws are necessary for the whole. It would seem strange if old friends lacked certain quirks.” ~Goethe

Today is The Great Mofo Delurk. I like the word Mofo though I use it so rarely because I’m much more fond of the more formal ‘Motherfucker’. As such, I am presenting you with a few of my pretty bad but not as bad as my propensity to drink two bottles of wine just because it’s in my line of sight, flaws. Feel free to delurk and divulge your flaws or just delurk and tell me how drop dead gorgeous I am or delurk and ask me a question like how I’ve managed to get through almost 24 years of life without spontaneously combusting from my overwhelming social awkwardness.

1) There are days that I feel like my only contribution to society will be rampant socially awkward behavior that will make others feel much better about their ability to communicate with other human beings. Whereas I kind of just stand there looking like I’m in severe pain, other people are able to, you know, open their mouths while making semi-coherent sounds. Though I was recently told, during a dinner, that one could sense that I’m a ‘writer’ (the noise you just heard was the sound of my eyes rolling). I choked on my fourth glass of cheap merlot and asked how and the woman seated next to me said that she could tell by the way I chose and used words very carefully. I laughed and patted myself on the back for being able to carry on a conversation for twenty minutes without sounding like I may have been dropped on my head and landed right on my soft spot as a baby.

2) I think that the telephone is the invention of Stalin and the Devil. Therefore using the phone requires deep cleansing breaths, acupuncture and a little hypnosis so that I can actually pick up the receiver. Prior to most any phone call, I write down notes on a 3×5 index card to lessen the chance of an untimely heart attack due to being unprepared for a difficult question. The ones that usually catch me off guard are the toughies, like “Is this Heather?” or “How are you?” I figure that with it being 2007 and all and with the wifi and the ability to listen to music on your telephone while wikipedia-ing ‘Squeaky Fromme’ means that one should be able to simply email a question. The phone doesn’t need to be used in every situation, in fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s use can be limited to dialing 911, ordering Chinese food, and possibly can be fashioned into some sort of weapon.

3) I received an email yesterday afternoon asking if when I said ‘Versailles’ I meant VERSAILLES. Is there another Versailles that I am not aware of? The Versailles I plan to visit next month has a Hall of Mirrors and Orange trees and Louis XIV once lived there and it’s located in a little place called France. The thing about my upcoming visit to France is that I am a notoriously awful planner. I say I’m going somewhere and then everything fizzles and my enthusiasm shrinks like a raisin in the sun, for prior to any trip there is thing called work which pretty much trumps everything at time, including eating and breathing and my ability to pee without bringing my crackberry into the stall with me. Because of this, I have two trips coming up that I have approximately zero plans for because when the enthusiasm doesn’t wane for me wanting a vacation but it wanes for deciding exactly what I want to do and see. Thus, my having to enlist Abigail to make up an itinerary for my upcoming trip to LA and the help I need right now from people that have actually been to France to tell me what I should see. I know the Louvre and Versailles and that big pointy phallus looking thing called the Eiffel Tower. Other than that I’m at a loss and the person going with me only wants to buy a bracelet at Cartier. So! Suggestions would be appreciated. For example, where can I go to get a croissant full of butter that won’t go straight to my ass?

Nine years ago I was in the throes of adolescence and thus constantly testing out one look or lifestyle after another. It was the chameleon effect as I like to call it, which is an unfortunate manifestation of my constant need to be a people pleaser and to have people like me. One thing that has always been consistent is my intense desire to just fit in and be like everyone else another unfortunate byproduct of growing up in one of the whitest places on Earth. Apparently black people aren’t too fond of the snow and the precipitation getting into their hair causing it to do crazy shit. For further evidence I point to any photo of my hair taken ever and you’ll notice how it’s always everywhere and it only took about 24 years to accept that that’s how things are.

Regardless adolescence is when one is most able to test things out to see how others live and who to possibly be. It was during this time that I decided to stop eating meat. I was going to Girl Scout camp with hippies and such and I ended up rather hippy like and one pair of Birkenstocks short of smelling of patchouli, wearing hemp and having underarm hair long enough to braid. I was rustic and camped and my mother would smile politely and purchase veggie burgers and kept me from setting up camp in the back yard. She also made me shower.

Given that I was a girl with a fondness for fried chicken and a Big Mac, the fact that I found beef to be revolting nearly gave both of my southern born and bred parents a heart attack. I’m pretty sure there isn’t a chapter in a parenting book as to what to do when your daughter wakes up one morning and says “I’m not eating those ribs and please remove the pork fat and back from my collards. Thanks.” My father would look at me like, who are you and what happened to my daughter who could suck down a plate of ribs? In fact my father for years asked me if I was still on ‘that vegetable diet.’ I will confess though that it wasn’t a moral thing and only recently saw footage of cow slaughter. Hell, I do have a little bit of a thing for a certain retailer of fine leather goods and there is really nothing better than smell of new leather boots come fall.

Apparently though this living from the earth – while simultaneously carrying all of my shit in a large leather tote bag with a little Coach tag swinging from the front pocket – phase went on a lot longer than expected and my father just started to roll his eyes and embrace the fact that I did not want bacon anywhere near my food and if it were there I’d vomit. This is about the time that he probably started drinking heavily. Oh, children, such joys. So as I continued my quest to be a little more ‘natural’ (or as I continued to get dumber) I contemplated the Peace Corps then grew out my hair (If you think my father didn’t enjoy the whole ‘vegetable diet’ thing, well my mother about shit herself when I said, “I don’t want no damn relaxer” and promptly cut off my hair) and cut it all off but ended up in Madrid where I became a pescetarian. The consumption of fish was because I didn’t want to miss out on too much but even then I had to very slowly explain to my host mother that I did not eat meat. One day during lunch she inquired that since I didn’t eat meat would I like to have some rabbit? Perhaps some lamb? Because it’s ok not to eat a cow but it is ok to eat a tiny fluffy bunny. Got it.

I’ve been a pescetarian ever since and anyone who has hosted me is well aware of this and has been accommodating. I’ve been eating a lot of shrimp and salmon and things are good.

So imagine Isabel’s surprise when I sat her down last night after my 15th glass of wine and said very seriously, “There’s something I have to tell you, but you can’t get mad”

“Up until yesterday (Monday) I haven’t eaten meat for about nine years”

The look on her face was dire shock at best then she put her head down on her arms, because in the 48 hours that I stayed with her I had managed to consume a very large hamburger with a surprise inside (cheese), teriyaki chicken, Italian sausage, prosciutto wrapped asparagus fresh from the grill and the most delicious pulled pork sandwich ever.

In 48 hours. Right down my gullet.

Isabel asked why I didn’t say anything. I drank the rest of the wine in my glass and said “Because I felt bad.” I’m an eternal people pleaser and she didn’t know and it all just sort of happened and god damn, those burgers were tasty and have you people ever had prosciutto wrapped asparagus?? Goes down like butter, baby.

I’ve yet to tell my parents about this. A) Because then they’ll force a hot dog down my throat, B) Because my father might think that the apocalypse is coming next or that while he was away for a week I found Jesus in the form of barbecue and C) Because I’m not sure whether or not this is a permanent thing or a fluke because I didn’t want Isabel to hate me. Not that she’s the hating type, but I don’t know…I just have a problem with feeling pressure wanting to make people happy and not being rude and oh my God, barbecue tends to taste as amazing as it smells. As a matter of fact, I am now sure that this was a fluke as my mother just mentioned some sort of penne with beef bits and I felt the bile coming up in my throat. And yet I still can’t stop smelling bacon.