Archive for the 'The District Of Columbia' 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.

Milestones

May 26, 2008 | Filed under: The District Of Columbia, Whoopdie Doo

“Children make you want to start life over.” ~Muhammad Ali

Scene: Amy’s backyard. Amy and I are talking and Noah is standing on top of his brand spanking new play structure.

Noah: Hi Heather! Heather! Heather! HI HEATHER! HI HEATHER!

Me: Hey Noah!

Noah: HEATHER! HEATHER! HEATHHEEEEEERRRRR!

Amy: So then we decided on the Subaru even though we were thinking about the Volvos…

Noah: HEATHEEEEEERRR! HI HEATHER!

Me: Yeah, you might as well get the Subaru since it’s cheaper and it has the FWD.

Noah: HI HEATHER!

Me: HI NOSE!

Amy: Noah, what does an elephant do?

Noah: Demonstrates general elephant behaviors including stomping and using his arm as a trunk.

Amy: Are elephants tiny?

Noah: Nooooo.

Amy: Is mama tiny?

Noah: Noooo.

Amy: Mama is always medium in pictures. Is Heather tiny?

Noah: Heather is tiny

Seconds later

Noah: Petalsssss…

Amy: Yes flowers. We’re nice with the flowers. What do we do with the flowers?

Noah: Give them to Heather.

Me: (Dies)

Not five minutes later kid proceeds to sneeze in my face and then laugh at his effective germ spreading and then eats crackers all over my brand new black sweater. But this is a lovely improvement from screaming, hysterical flailing on the floor, puking because of his grand gag reflex due to teething and that time he pooped all over my freshly dry cleaned black pants. Thus leaving me more in love than I was before and very discreet tearing up because y’all HE SAID MY NAME. He likes me! He really likes me!

And then my ovaries popped out of nowhere and said, “Hahahaha! We’ve got you now, SUCKA!”

A thousand words

January 14, 2008 | Filed under: Comes And Goes, Fotografias, The District Of Columbia

“There was never a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him to sleep.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

 Right before this photo was taken, I was telling Amy about the two-week period during which I had the most visceral need to procreate.  There is no adequate way to describe it except to say it’s like having your reproductive system on some sort of caffeine high. It’s all BABY BABY BABY and even rational thought of logistics is unable to deter it and keep it off it’s progeny producing course. This was the one and only time that has ever happened and apparently it happens to many people but since Narcissus has me by the balls, then I’m convinced that it only happens to me and as such, some sort of CAT scan would be in order because this shit isn’t right. The feeling abated – thank God – and I was back to my happy go lucky non-ovary controlled self: Frolicking around liquor stores and buying unnecessary leather goods. Thank God, because twenty seconds after this photo was taken, I experienced a minor toddler meltdown. Absolutely nothing serious but I don’t think I’m equipped to deal with a two year old. I love Noah in ways unimaginable but holy shit; I think my little phase was due to a lack of babysitting; because seriously? That shit is the greatest birth control ever. But damn, if that photo doesn’t give me a swift kick to the ovaries. 

Diminishing Marginal Utility

October 17, 2007 | Filed under: Mmhmm That's Right, The District Of Columbia, The Great Moving Caper

“Very often a change of self is needed more than a change of scene.” ~Arthur Christopher Benson

Part of my major was Economics and though I did well in college level economic courses in high school, college was significantly more difficult. I retain very little information when it comes to math or science, which is why my attention span for the production possibilities frontier waned after the first 20 minutes. Those precious moments were instead used to think sweet thoughts of J. Crew and how to perfect a keg stand. The one thing I will always recall is the law of Diminishing Marginal Utility (DMU). With ‘utility’ being satisfaction, the premise follows that as a person increases their consumption of a product, there will be a decline in the satisfaction (utility) that the person derives from the consumption of each additional unit of that product. It’s the law that keeps Chinese Buffet in business as they know that while it’s technically ‘All you can eat’ no one is going to eat seven plates of orange, MSG filled, faux Chinese ribs even if the first plate is so awesome, the subsequent plates of ribs will be less awesome and then you’ll you want to vomit. Not that I know from personal experience or anything.

Lest you think that I’m extolling all of my economic knowledge on you, I have been finding that DMU applies to most everything. Like on Sunday, when we went apple picking, Matza and I each bought a dozen hot apple cider donuts. In years past she had to overnight them to me individually wrapped in order to retain their delicious freshness and I would have one – who the hell am I kidding? Three – and share the rest. I was able to eat them fresh out of the bakery this time so we both had one in the car on the way to the apple trees. Then because I was doing most of the work and demonstrating my flexibility by arching my back to get under a tree to a perfectly shaped apple, I was exhausted at the end so I had another. Then I got home and The Roommate wasn’t there so while watching Tell Me You Love Me, I had two more. There were other insignificant events that mostly involved me sitting in front of google reader and then going to the gym but each time I felt inclined to have a donut even though by the 10th (I shit you not), the allure of the crispy outside and the soft cake-like inside made me want to die. So I did what any smart woman who doesn’t need a larger ass would do; I dumped half a bottle of Downy Wrinkle Releaser on the last two donuts. On Monday, I survived on two apples and a bowl of peas.

I’m writing this from a hotel in DC, where my satisfaction of coming back to one of my favorite cities in the world, has significantly declined. The first time I came back to DC it was great, the second time still pretty good; I could see my friends, shop in Georgetown and buy as much organic seven dollar oatmeal from Whole Foods as I wanted. This trip will last until Saturday and it is my fourth in two months. If DC were donuts or plates of lo mein from the Chinese Buffet, I would have wretched all over the bathroom floor by now. It’s not that I don’t love it here, because I do and everything will always and has since compared to DC, it’s just that I have had this very large tub full of sweaters and boots sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor for like six weeks now. Every morning I have to choose which side to get out of bed based on what I fancy ramming my toe into that morning. Will it be the suitcase full of God knows what? Or maybe I’ll go for the hamper and the box of books? It’s like a fun little guessing game I like to call “How will I fuck up my toe?” and my big toe always loses.

At a fundraiser last night, people couldn’t believe that I lived in upstate NY and continually asked if I was happy and if it was good and how in the world people survived outside of the beltway. The answer is very, very easily. I might complain and compare and might punch the next person who tells me in excruciating detail what it will be like the first time I try to park in my neighborhood after it snows; yet my satisfaction of being in upstate NY has yet to diminish, in fact it’s finally starting to show.

I’m kind of a big deal

July 16, 2007 | Filed under: Just Add Alcohol, Oh The Stupidity You'll See, The District Of Columbia

“A sense of humor… is needed armor. Joy in one’s heart and some laughter on one’s lips is a sign that the person down deep has a pretty good grasp of life.” ~Hugh Sidey

Now is as good a time as any to admit that I am perpetually late. I always have been and always will be. It’s chronic and I probably should get help with my procrastination tactics and yet it just continues and manifests itself as rather flaky behavior. Thus I look like a lame ass who is easily distracted by shiny objects and is unable to tell time.

I had excellent intentions to impress Abi. Because, I presumed her to be classy and witty and she once promised to send me Trader Joe’s products, so I was hoping that if I impressed her then maybe she’d send me my beloved Macaroni and Cheese. Of course upon my ridiculously late arrival to meet her, I had to first stop and grope my best friend’s sister and then turned around and lo’ there was Abi and lo, I had failed miserably at retaining any cool points that I may have previously had with her. Truth be told I was late, I obviously am big on groping and I can’t play shuffleboard for shit.

To make matters worse, as we were departing the bar, I just HAD to stop and say hello to someone else, because I’m super important* and I generally flit my way about the city meeting and greeting and schmoozing. With a general ‘look at me! I’m fucking fantastic’ demeanor**. Actually, the person that I HAD to say hello to was Zandria. And it was on of those odd, I’ve had two beers and perhaps I’m still drunk from the night before but I swear to God, I KNOW that woman, kind of moments. I swaggered up to say hello with an abrupt “Hi, I’m Heather”. Because OBVIOUSLY, she should know who I am just by that statement. She did. We shook hands and then I saw my reflection and noted that the first impression both Zandria and Abi would have of me is a girl who wears brown tops with black flip flops and keeps her hair in some odd bird’s nest type fashion on top of her head.

So to recap: I’m late, I’m flaky, I can’t dress myself and my lord, THE HAIR.

Thankfully, some deity was looking down at me on Friday night and both Abi – who is lovely, classy and witty as hell and Zandria – who is taller than in pictures and seemed nice in the 20 seconds that I spoke to her– appreciated my oft randomness and well noted lush like qualities. And perhaps I am a fun person to meet…and you know, modest as hell.

The way I see it, despite the above faux pas, I was rather tame around these class act ladies, as opposed to the end of the evening, when left to my own devices and friends who enjoy a Miller light or Seven. Which kind of looked like this:

And that? That is what many of you have to look forward to in Chicago. I’m just going to apologize in advance.

*Borrowed from Schnozz
**For the record, I fucking can’t stand schmoozing and I’m pretty bad about it. And in addition to being perpetually late, I’m perpetually socially awkward.