Go ahead and blame your parents for all the ways you're screwed up. It's clearly genetic. The way they associated love and money is just turning out to be part of the DNA. You can't help it one bit.
I'm all for stem cell research. Maybe my kids will have a chance.

It's not as though I haven't had anything to say. Quite the contrary, actually. It's simply that I have nothing politically correct to say and so have plastered it on more secretive pages that do not reveal my true identity. Bless the nom de plume.

I've had such a bizarre year, in terms of personal evolution, that it almost seems unfitting to continue this blog. It's probably time to start a new one. Those in my personal circle can attest to the fact that I'm no longer who I was months ago, to say nothing of a year. I am amazed by the difference a year can make. The events of this past one, for instance, have made my life more complicated, more frustrating, but also more rich and fulfilling. Funny how that works. I've done away with many things that I thought made me who I was. Funny how THAT works, as well. Because I think I'm more myself now, than ever.

Out with: organized religion and arbitrary behavior/thought patterns associated with it.
In with: General acceptance. Perhaps I have become too much of a hippy is this regard, but I can't seem to grasp this world as the black and white picture of morality I was raised to see it as.

more to come.

To the very nice looking boy who disappeared on Saturday night: Even Cinderella was kind enough to leave behind a shoe. Couldn't you have at least spared your phone number??

Okay, so YES, it was I who broke Eleanor's tooth.
But really, it was her fault. SHE was the one holding the beer bottle too close to her mouth.

Isn't that the point of drinking from a bottle?
Shhh.
But isn't it?
Go away.
You're the boss.

Anyway, SHE was also the one silly enough to get so close while I was bobbing wildly around making fun of a certain tart.

That's what you get.
You again?
Yes. You go making fun of people and breaking teeth. It's amazing they invite you to parties at all.
Silence.
Fine.

So, as I was saying, yeah, I broke Eleanor's tooth. And I'm sorry. But love means never having to say you're sorry. Right? Right.

I am exhausted. For those who do not know, I was robbed. Here is a summary of my fun fling with credit card fraud.

Friday: My credit cards were lifted from my wallet (all the cash was left, so as not to arouse my suspicion too early, I imagine) at a bar in the East Village. We think we know who took them. Long story.
Saturday: I noticed the missing cards shortly before 1 PM, and called to have them cancelled. Too late. The woman who stole them had already gone on quite the shopping spree, emptying my checking account, over-drawing it and then emptying my savings, and maxing out my VISA card.
Monday: Fleet bank tells me they cannot restore my money to me without filing a claim to their insurance (debit cards are NOT insured) which they can only do with a police report. So, I called NYPD who then told me I cannot file a claim over the phone. I panicked and had three heart attacks until Jonathan offered to take me to New York to file their stupid report.
Tuesday: Drove BACK to New York where Jonathan and I met up with Caryn, filed the police report, had yummy Indian food and EVEN got to see Justin Timberlake in Times Square. We got back around 9, played a little Grand Theft Auto 4 (which is HORRIBLE and addicting, by the way) and then I went to bed with a police report tucked securely in my bag.
Wednesday: Still no word from Fleet, but I'm hoping they get on the ball because my meager $32 won't last long. You know how I shop. You know, Todd.

I run away.
When I was a kid, I'd pack up a ziplock bag of my dad's chocolate chip cookies and take a $5 piece of ply-wood to the middle of the grain field and sit, eating cookies. Not being at home.
Now, when I run away, I pack up my duffel bag, take a $20 bus to the middle of the biggest city in the country and sit, walk, drink, sleep, and eat. Not being at home. I don't run away to silent spaces anymore; maybe the silence makes my thinking too loud. Amplifies it. But in the city, where even my loudest thought is a footstep in the roar of downtown traffic, interference becomes and excuse not to think at all. And I don't mind. Interference on my tv makes me irritated, but in the constant prattle of self-indulgent interior monologue, it's a welcome distraction.
And when I climb off my $20 bus, she's there waiting for me -- the friend who doesn't ask questions to which I don't have good answers. It's someone to run away to, when there's ever so much to run away from. She lets me sleep the weekend away when we've already made big plans that end up being too tiring to accomplish. It's a good friend who not only lets you be the party pooper but still thanks you for coming.
Can't wait to run away this weekend.

A few days ago, my boss put on a show that would make Leona Helmsley seem slightly temperamental, if not mild mannered. At the time, I had wanted to shave her head and force her to eat her own hair. That's how irritated I was with her unprofessional attitude. And yesterday, sweet mercy, she apologized. Her excuse was that she was "getting her period and PMSing." I beg your pardon? THAT is your reason? Forgive me, but if it has escaped your attention, I too am female. And yet, somehow I manage to go all month, all year even and not throw a tantrum at work.
PMS is not an excuse for bad behavior.
It is ridiculous! It's infuriating! There is nothing more difficult than being a woman in a man's profession and being taken seriously. They look at my butt when I walk away, look down my shirt when I lean over, comment on my clothing and my hair but they do not listen to what I have to say. But I do have things to say. And when I'm angry or bullheaded at work, it is for a good reason. And I cannot tolerate the fact my boss runs around throwing tantrums and passing it off as PMS. It simply gives them just one more reason to not listen to me, as a woman, when I insist I know what I'm talking about.
I'm sorry, but women like her ruin it for the rest of us who want to be viewed as something more than a quivering pile of emotional instability! I try pick my battles, and I don't let people get away with mistreating me for too long before they get a reminder that I'm not to be walked on. Her excuse for her behavior (which she gave in front of a man I work with), will only serve to make my well-timed reminders seem like Heather's tantrum. Man, it must be that time of the month...Heather's speaking up.
It used to anger me that when my mother was particularly edgy, my father would say, "Go easy on your mom; it's her time of the month." Why?! I don't reserve the right to go completely unglued when my uterus (sorry boys) seems to be in control of the situation and I'm two seconds away from giving up childbearing potential and having the whole organ system ripped out of my body. Why do other women feel this is an acceptable practice? Take a break, take a pill, take a cab home, take a syringe of morphine but do NOT come to work and lose your cool with me and blame it on hormones or hot flashes. Because, that shit just don't fly, sister.

I rode the bus this morning in my usual way: headphones securely planted in ears (a clearcut 'do not disturb' to the colorful array of bus riffraff), and face buried in a book. And when my stop came, I almost didn't hear her voice over the music coming from my discman.
"That is a nice book, " she said, her delicate, accented voice the first of her charms. I glanced up. She had this face, the kind that doesn't leave your memory, but for no other reason than it was perfectly ordinary (olive complexion, dark eyes, slightly crooked teeth--one slightly forward of the others). And yet something about her struck me.
"Yes," I said, "It's really a great book. Very surprising. I just read the part about the American journalist and the land mine..."
"I could see it shocked you," she smiled. There was a timidity to her face, but a quick, brightness that I envied at once. She was not magazine beautiful, clearly. But in a second, I would have traded all my American vanilla sameness for her foreign (South American, was it?) je ne sais quois. Strangers on buses do not talk about books on their ways to their respective jobs on cold, October mornings. They are too wrapped up in emails to be written, errands to be run, or simply shutting out the idea that there is anyone on the bus besides themselves. She didn't buy into that. And I was perfectly willing to play her game. She was charming. That is the only word for it. Something unassuming and sweet -- the kinds of things boys fall in love with and can't name
"I loved the introduction," she said, standing when the bus slows.
"Amazing philosophy," I agreed, also standing.
"I hope you enjoy the rest of your book." and then we squeezed out of the crowded bus, her running to Harvard and me, walking in my long-legged pace to a silly job.
I wanted to be her.

My weekend was wonderful, thank you for asking!
The ride to New Hampshire was rainy and bumper to bumper traffic. Bryan and Cece had rented the cabin and by the time we arrived, they already had a fire going in the fireplace. We got cozy, and sat around doing silly card tricks and boy-against girl Trivial Pursuit and everything was absolutely perfect. The sheets were freezing until morning, when the air outside was too cold to leave bed. So we stayed under covers, laughing, with Cece's dog, Libby taking her half out of the middle.
We hiked Mt. Hale on Saturday. The leaves were so many different colors, and all over the trail and woods, it looked like a crazy carpet sample we get at work from time to time. The hike wasn't easy, but it was so much fun. My cheeks hurt from the wind and from smiling so much. We quoted Zoolander and Crank Yankers and pretended that sliding on the wet rocks didn't hurt that bad. We ate sandwiches at the summit and piled on more layers of clothing -- it was probably 35 degrees at the top. We took three pictures and headed back to the path where the wind couldn't get us. We half ran, half slid back down the mountain telling nature stories, childhood memories, and puking tales (after Bryan lost his breakfast on the trail), and laughing. We drove back to the cabin, stopping on the way to get more food than we could possibly eat in the next 24 hours. By 9:30, I was completely useless and dozing by the fire on the couch. It was, quite possibly, the most perfect day I have had in a long time.

You don't like the sound of the truth
Comin' from my mouth
You say that I lack the proof
Well, baby that might be so

I might get to the end of my life
To find out everyone was lying
I don't think that I'm afraid anymore
Say that I would rather die trying

Oh, swing me, way down South
Sing me, something brave from your mouth
And I'll bring you pearls of water on my hips
And the love from my lips, all the love from my lips

What a way to spend a dime
What a way to use the time, ain't it baby?
I looked at my reflection
in the window walking past
And I saw a stranger
Just so scared all the time
Makes it one more reason
the world is so dangerous.

Oh, swing me way down South
Sing me something brave from your mouth
And I'll bring you pearls of water on my hips
And the love from my lips, all the love from my lips

I'm going away for the weekend. You don't even know how good this makes me feel just to say it. Away. To the mountains of New Hampshire to hike, sleep and not answer my cell phone. So, if you're calling, FORGET it. Yeah, not answering my phone does leave me saying, "but what if there's an emergency and someone needs to get ahold of me?" Well, what about the 23 years I didn't have a cell phone? *send me a text message*

Have been having some really great e-mail exchanges with my brother the last couple of days. True, the situation is a horrible one but it's nice to know that we can commiserate with one another. He's so good. I mean it. Just a nice person. I, unfortunately, am not so nice.... but I have my ways and my reasons, and hopefully, I'll turn out ok one day.

My co-worker, Michael, paid me yet another excellent compliment this morning. I only caught the second half of it as I was pulling off my earphones, but here's what I caught:

"....look wonderful! Just stunning. So New York City."

I didn't him to repeat the first part, as it probably would have sounded a bit narcissistic. Tell me again how lovely I am!
This is my first leap into winter white, and so far, it's been a marvelous transition from my normal black-on-black look. Even Salman, the Pakistani fellow said, "You have such nice clothes today. You are ready for winter?"

Went shopping again at lunch. Why does it make me feel so much better? A sense of control in a world full of chaos.

i have no desire to hurt anyone
i just don't know how to cope with this
and eating myself fat
and shopping myself poor
are not helping

I don't have any fingerprints left. I wore them all off this morning binding an impossible number of proposals. Now, I can commit random crimes and they'll never be able to trace it to me. Unless there are cameras. Damn those cameras.

I'm eating chicken soup. I've got my warm, red-stripey socks on and Katinka's singing to the Dixie Chicks from under the bed. It's a good Sunday evening.

When Katinka first came to me, it was a shock and a disappointment that she did not love me without reservation. The very reason I had wanted a kitten so much was for that cuddly, complication-free affection inherent with small, furry animals. And so, three nights ago, after being in my home for nearly two months, when she climbed up on the bed and plopped herself down in my lap to have me pet her, I was touched. This afternoon, I even invaded the sacred space beneath my bed, her sanctuary. She let me. She didn't run, and she even voluntarily followed me out to the living room. We napped together. She slept on my chest. Last night, I woke up to her sleeping on my back. Now, granted, she still runs like the devil is after her when I catch her unguarded. But, something is definitely different. What suddenly changed her mind?
I guess sometimes those we love, mistrust us and dodge and scatter for reasons all of their own. And one day, should they decided to take us up on that offering of love, it's just our job to offer an open lap and not ask too many questions.

i'm messing with the template..

Today's Montage on FALLING

I fell off of the monkey bars onto my head once. If that explains anything.

Maury: What do you do when you fall off a horse?
Derek: (silence)
Maury: You GET BACK ON.
Derek: Sorry, Maury. I'm not a gymnast.

From The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
"Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves."

Time to take back the blog world.

I've been neglectful of this page and I'm not quite sure anyone reads it anymore. But I'm back in the swing (my mother will be glad, as how else does she find out these things!) and taking suggestions. It's time to go theme-related. Gimme an idea, kids. Anything. Give me a theme and I promise to dedicate one post, if not a whole month's worth, to your very carefully selected, hand picked for freshness topic. Tomorrow's will be: Falling. ( I just opened the dictionary and picked the first word I saw).

Tune in.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being... I am tempted to quote nearly half of what I've read so far in this post... but I won't. Get the book. Read it. Just because I said so.

We're all the same,
the men of anger,
and the women of the page

I've been thinking about those lines since I walked home from work last night. But why? Because I couldn't decide if I knew exactly what connects men of anger and women of the page. Is it frustration? Frustration drives men to anger. I say this on the assumption that most people don't get angry for any other reason than that of not being able to handle a situation any other way. They cannot do anything BUT be angry. So, there you have it. Frustration.
Is it also then, frustration that drives us, the women of the page (of which I, perhaps vainly, count myself one) to be who we are? We are writers. We spill our inky guts onto journal pages, computer screens with blinking cursors, napkins, receipts, odd scraps of paper -- anything we can get our hands on -- out of an inability to handle the current situation any other way? It's a viable theory.
Is it attention? Some people use anger as a way of getting noticed. And some of us use the pen. But I'm inclined to think it is the futility of our situation, and the frustration of inaction that spurs us towards outbursts, of rage or of the page.

Ack! It's been forever since I posted anything on here, I know.
Europe was so great. It wore me out sufficiently and so it's going to take a while for me to get up a synopsis of the trip. But it'll come, I promise.
Kastinka is so damn cute. She follows me around while I get ready, and this morning, we played hide and seek. I hid, she sought. She seemed to like the game. Now, if only she'd let me pick her up. It's going to be vet time in the next few weeks, and catching her is going to be an impossibility.
The bitch of a bellybutton ring infection that I got while in Paris is finally getting better. AND the airport found and returned my missing wallet (THANK GOD) for those of you to whom I complained about losing it.

I didn't mind the rain this morning. I had hot tea for breakfast, and flicked the wisteria bushes on my walk to work remembering how much I used to like walking to school on drizzly days when I was a kid. My shoes were trashed by the time I got home in those days (and they're pretty wet now) because puddles were just not meant to be avoided. And apparently, to a bus, I am not to be avoided when it comes to making contact with a gutter full of water. Jerk.
KaStinkasaurus Rex now follows me around when I get ready in the morning. But she does it in her Zoom fashion. ZOOM! into this room. ZOOM! under the couch. She has yet to let me touch her, but we'll get there. There's plenty of bonding time to come. I can't even tell you how much I love this cat. She breaks my heart when I look at her, she's so cute. She's eating in the kitchen now -- sporadically, mind you, as eating in the kitchen requires being among the humans. Shocker!
Tomorrow, I'm off on vacation. For 10 days. Don't miss me TOO bad. I'll try to write a few updates from the road... you know, beautiful men sitings. I mean, really cool historical thing sitings. Errr...something.
I forgot to thank all my neato friends for coming over on Saturday night. THANKS! And to Emma for the bamboo... I have never owned such trendy plant life! It's very cool-looking in its new home in the livingroom.
Wanna know what else is cool-looking? The scar Katinka gave me on my wrist. Some woman on the bus clearly interpreted it as a suicide attempt. *shaking head* I swear.

Let's do a weekend recap!
Friday, Nora and I went to see XXX. I am so in love with Vin. He's fabulous and I don't care WHAT anyone says, the movie was great. He could make a toilet paper commercial and I'd sit through it over and over and over. As long as he took his shirt off in it. hee hee. We picked Caryn up at the station after the movie, went home...and DYED HER HAIR. It looks so great. Better than great. She looks hot as a redhead.
Saturday was clean up the house, get ready for the party day. Cleaned the rugs, bought some booze, etc. The party was nice... fun to have everyone in the same house for a bit. We even got super nerdy and played Settlers... *sigh* we're hopeless.
Katinka slept on my bed on Saturday night and even came out (in a mad dash) to the living room last night. She's very silly... she will pounce and play as long as I pretend not to care if she plays with me. She's successfully avoided all of my attempts to Scoop N Snuggle since Saturday. Jenn calls it my Military Tactic. I'll just have to be extra crafty when I come home tonight... so we can have successful scoopin and snugglin. She's so frickin cute. I am in love with a cat.

Katinka Inga Borgovina NaNa made friends with her litter box last night. There is a God afterall, my friends.
Caryn is coming tonight! I'm so glad! The party tomorrow will be small, it turns out, but nice. The regulars, hanging out, doing the regular thing. Maybe we'll get a chance to cheat Corey and Amy at Asshole?? hee hee.

Anna went into false labor today. FALSE. Why, God, why must it be false?!!?!?

What am I supposed to do with a kitten that won't use a litterbox!?!?!? My rug is not a litter box!!! This is driving me nuts.

I just had some really great Katinka break-throughs! The previously SILENT kitten now purrs. Not only does she purr when I pet her, she purrs when I talk to her. AND, she played with a catnip mouse WITH me. Tadum! We're gettin' there folks. One day she might actually even come out from under the bed. THAT will be a good day.
Have I mentioned I love this kitten??

New York was a whirlwind of fun! Caryn and I had a grrrrreat time at Webster Hall on Saturday Night. Dancing fools, we are! Katinka joined us on Sunday. Very freaked out and still kinda sick. We had a little vet visit yesterday, and I think the situation is already vastly improved. She's not a real big fan of me dragging her out of under the bed to give her antibiotics and gooey eye medication, but she'll thank me for it one day. When she does let me hold her, she's very sweet and has THE cutest little face you've ever seen. Her tiny white paws are what fascinate me. Jenn and I adore her. So what if she never ever wants to come out of under my bed. She's cute as hell.

Dinner tonight with Mike Lewis, off to New York tomorrow with Eleanor and then on to spend some QUALITY time with Caryn, and THEN, pick up my Katinka!
Honestly kids, I'm exhausted. This weekend is going to be great, which is keeping me going. But after Sunday, it's crash time. I've been pulling 10 hour days at work, sans lunch, doing ACTUAL work, which you all know is quite foreign to me. I've had the whole moving/setting up house thing to contend with (good news, the curtains are finally up and I have found a way to circumvent the broken phone jack issue and now, once again, am on line at home). Plus, this heat is really getting to me. I don't sleep well when it's so darn hot and humid. It's gotta break soon. The heat will or I will.

Heather & Caryn
Constant Contentment versus... not

HLH5: But isn't part of the greatness of our being happy due to the fact that we can look back and compare now to how it was then??
See Solly: is it?
HLH5: I think so. When it's all the same, you take it for granted
See Solly: There definitely is merit to that, totally. But if i had a choice in the matter, I'd choose to be happy
HLH5: All the time?
See Solly: Why not?
HLH5: I benefit from suffering -- even a little suffering. My writing, my appreciation of people, my understanding of human plight...
See Solly: I do too, of course
HLH5: I woulnd't give that up
See Solly: What are you living for? My goal in life IS to be happy all the time. I wouldn't turn that down
HLH5: My goal is to be complete
See Solly: Then that is where we differ and why we think what we think - ta daaa!
HLH5: Absolutely

It's about the Ups & Downs

Amid the irritating glitches of poor cell-phone connections,Caryn and I were talking the other night, (both of us in a minor funk about work and other miscellaneous stresses), when we stumbled upon the realization that we were, despite minor funks of various kinds, very happy. The year 2002 did not start out in a grand fashion -- January and February being months blighted by disappointments and frustrations -- but slowly, transitioning from month to month, things improved (On a personal level, I will admit it was greatly my attitude doing the improving.), and here we are in August, quite content. Certainly there are funks (some tepid, and some coming to a rapid boil), but overall, I am glad to say, I am pretty satisfied with me.

Jenn and I had a related chat yesterday evening while lounging, listening to Leah Siegel. Seems like I'm doing a lot of therapeutic chatting these days... (Perhaps it's to take my mind off this heat, and these aggravating, sticky streams of sweat that don't seem to shower away). Would we rather be constantly and completely happy or complex and at times, pretty pathetic and tragic? Jenn's vote was for complex. Happy all the time would be boring, she said. I have to agree. I think it was a character in Vanilla Sky who said something about having to taste the bitter to appreciate the sweet. God, I hate the bitter. And I do so love the sweet. But bitter certainly does inspire an appreciation for the sweet... and well, we all know that too much sugar can give you a headache, a toothache and make you intolerably hyper. And fat. Don't forget fat.

Like the Duchess and the poor, poor Ass-Baby.

Thank you for calling...

A celebration is in order. This morning, when I opened my work email, there was a New Staff Announcement. Her name is, coinceidentally, Heather. She will start working tomorrow (8/14), and she will be... ANSWERING PHONES. A receptionist. Without any advance notice, a big bright ray of hope has shined upon me. Resolution. Starting tomorrow, I'm in my new corner office space, ALL day long. No more half-days pretending I don't have a degree, pushing that damn blinking button on the phone, faking enthusiasm when I say,
"Thank you for calling the Stubbins Associates"
and grinding my teeth when I hear,
"Is this the Stubbins Associates?"
"Did I stutter?"

New apartment, (re)new job, new kitten. New, new, new. Nice.

If you love me, you'll come to my house for a party on the 24th. I'll e-vite ya, but here's fair warning.

Little Joe Cook & the Lady at the Beauty Shop

He's ancient. Jenn will tell you that he's 102, and looking at him, that will not seem a huge exaggeration. He's tiny. I was taller than this man by at least a head. And he sings blues/funk/jazz at the Cantab Lounge on a somewhat regular basis. And he was adorable.
"Lady, at the beauty shop... you make my heart go bip-ber-de-bop" No lie... those are Little Joe's lyrics. He's like a piece of walking, singing folk art -- the man that time forgot. And I couldn't help but buy his CD (which he autographed!). I don't think Nora was as impressed with his CD as I was... but perhaps you have to have the full Little Joe Experience to understand my new amor.
On another note, this coming weekend promises to be a full one! I'll be heading down to NY to dance, write and adopt a kitten with my girl, Caryn. Perhaps, as a result of the weekend, you'll even see a sequel to Justin Timberlake Goes to Vermont. We'll see.

The move could not have gone any better! Thanks to everyone who helped make it go so smoothly!

Dear Girl in Front of Me:

It's not so much that I'm in a rush. Though I'm sure it seems that way as I give you that lookand brush past you. I am annoyed by your cutesy, giggly handholding and matching androgynous, Abercrombie's Bitch, urbanite clothing (you are squeezed much too tightly into yours-- which makes you a greater offense than him, by far.). An even greater offense is your choice of footwear. You watch too much Sex and the City. You love Carrie just way too much. And you're out here, on the cobblestone streets of little Cambridge, Massachusetts (dressed in your non-gender-specific, trendy clothing) and FOUR INCH HEELS. You are not Carrie. Go home and change your shoes.
But, before you do that, let me help you correct the biggest mistake you're currently making and MOVE YOUR BODY TO ONE SIDE OF OF THE SIDEWALK. I realize the two of you want to walk next to each other, as to optimize this time you have together, between Pac Sun and Starbucks... but in the middle of the sidewalk? And when I'm late for work? Ok, not your fault that I'm late... but this is AMERICA. We, with the exception of cab drivers and the elderly, drive on the right side of the road. And we walk on the right side of the sidewalk. I think they must have forgotten to include that information in your latest Abercrombie Catalog, so I am providing it for you now. Think of it as my public service for the day.
So, let's just recap for good measure: Get out of the middle of the sidewalk. Go home and change your shoes. And for GOD'S sake, thongs belong BELOW the line of your jeans.
But really, thank you for coming to our humble little Cambridge on your prospective college visit to Harvard with your boyfriend. There is no way you're getting in.

I have changed my address with the post office, my credit cards and all the utility companies.
I have spared my friends (excpet my poor, dear roommate) the horror of moving my clothes and shoes by taking them over in a car last night.
I have already lost/misplaced my new key (it will turn up).
And now, I must finish packing the horror that is my room, dismantle dismantle-able furniture and prepare for Saturday.

Moving is such a delectible nightmare with which I have a love/hate relationship. Anything new is good by me. Getting to new, however, is that laborious part that I resent. Thank you, wonderful friends, in advance for your help. Dinner Saturday is on me.

Oh... here... this is so funny:


Who's Your 80s Movie Icon Alter-Ego? Find out @ She's Crafty

Savasana

Bikram Yoga, or Hot Yoga, was one of the most intensely demanding experiences I have purposefully exposed myself to. The temperature in the room was over 105 degrees; the amount of sweat pouring from my body was clearly more than I'd sipped from my Dasani bottle during the day. The weight of my own body became nearly insupportable as I twisted and balanced and bent in ways I would never have imagined myself doing. The impossibility of it, as I imagined it, was the greatest challenge. My physical body, I'm certain, can withstand much more than the limitations my psyche imposes upon it. And at my breaking point, when it did not seem there was enough strength or water in my body to support even my own breath, the voice of my Yogi would puncture that natural fibre bubble and ease all my shaking muscles and strained mind with one word: Savasana. In Hindi, it is the Corpse Pose. Complete rest. Dead still. The lights would be turned off and eventually the soft sitar music would enter my consciousness and I would breathe deeply, sometimes tears forming in my eyes, using up what remaining moisture was left in my body. Savasana. Complete rest.

Thomas Paine, I believe, once said, "These are the times that try men's souls." A timeless observation of the cyclical nature of human suffering. We have obligations and emotions from which we cannot detach ourselves. We have relationships and loyalties that defy rational thought. And we have mental yoga sessions, so demanding and exhausting, that if one more drop of our precious emotional hydration is spent, if we do not hear that voice calling us to rest, we just may reach our limitations. Rehydration of our willpower isn't found in a plastic, over-priced bottle of water. Such relief comes only by something as sweet as the milk of human kindness, I think.

And in those times, when I am spent, and my entire self is bent and twisted in ways I did not know wouldn't break me, all I can do is hold the position, blinking back the sweat that stings my eyes, and wait for that voice to finally, calmly say, as someone swithes off the lights, "Savasana."

Weekend Do's and Don't's

On Friday, do not be late to see Goldmember. Or any top-grossing film in its second week, for that matter. Why? Because ANY actor's head will look distorted from the front row where you will be sitting, craning your neck to take in the enormity of the picture. My take on the film? Well, let's look at it from a skin point of view: Goldmember eats his, Beyonce shows hers off and Fat Bastard has it in excess. Thumbs down (disgusting), Thumbs up (she's gorgeous), and Thumbs down (um, gross). Over all, a very funny flick. It did end a bit weakly... but I'm not complaining. Oh, and DO watch gorgeous Vin Diesel in The Fast and the Furious.

On Saturday, do spend the day at the beach sitting next to Gerald Ford (aka Tim) when it's a zillion degrees out. Why? Because even though the water is hypothermia-inducing, it sure as hell beats the heat exhuastion alternative. And do spend the evening recovering on Mike's couch watching Zoolanderand downing half a bag of rippled potato chips. Yum.

Do take a look at my newly painted ceiling. I did it all by myself, kiddies and my hair is STILL brown. And for all intents and purposes (minus the curtains and such), the room is finished. Hooray! Do volunteer to help me move in this Saturday :)

And last, but not least, DO congratulate Sassy and her husband on their new arrival!! Hunter Elizabeth was born yesterday at 7pm. I can't wait to meet her in two weeks!

I have been so busy at work! No, it's not a lie, and yes, I'm still at the same job. I just got invovled in a super cool project that actually involves creativity and skill. Skill. At my place of employment. Can you believe it?? I scarcely can.

Blogging Passport

I've noticed that I get a lot of visits on the GoddessBlog from other countries--New Zealand, Canada (oh-so-foreign), Mexico, Brazil, Germany, France, etc. If you're one of those foreign bloggers stopping by, leave me a comment! I'd love to see how many stamps I can get in my blogging passport.

Shan't let a day pass in which I do not mention my hatred for Anna.

All I Have to do is Dream

Woke up in the middle of a terrible nightmare about Caryn. I didn't dare fall back asleep to finish it, because honestly, it didn't look like things were going to end on a happy note. I don't remember much... just lots of blood (gross, I know), which I'm thinking is related to the fact that Caryn volunteered at the Blood center last night. Let's hope.
I wonder, sometimes, where these dreams come from.

My work friend, Mike, walked by yesterday and leaned in to my desk. "You hussy!" he said. I automatically looked down to make sure I wasn't revealing any non-cleavage (that flat plane on my chest where most gals would have two breasts meeting each other), and sure enough, I wasn't. "Huh?" "I had another randy dream about you last night. " Then he laughed and walked off. No, this is not sexual harassment. Mike and I have talked like this for as long as we've known each other and he's never had any problem telling me when I appear in one of his NC17 dreams. Why? Probably because he sees no connection with what his dreaming mind creates and what he actually thinks about me, consciously.

Did you have a dream last night?

And Then, it Was Green

The week did not fly by. Hours of sanding, spackling, caulking and cleaning gave me blisters, sore arms and most likely, paint-coated lungs. Heather, did you eat paint chips as a kid?? Uh, yeah... kinda.

A girl can come up with a concise list of true friends after subjecting them to trials of manual labor from which they aren't gettin' jack squat. Jenn and Nora suffered along side me, doing things that were not what you'd call fun. They sanded, dusted, primed and spackled (though, not in that order), and haven't blocked my phone calls, threatened me with bodily harm, or thrown anything gross at me.

Jonathan was kind enough to spend hours chauffeuring me around for supplies, taping and painting, and even spray painting my once-ugly radiator to a lovely satin-finish white. It's funny how something so silly as a white radiator can make me so happy. But perhaps the kindest act he performed came after rolling the initial coat of a shockingly green paint onto the blank walls, and I had a sudden attack of regret. It had been a primed, clean, flat white. And then, it was green. It wasn't what I'd anticipated. Hours of work gone by and I'd put this color all over?? But he told me it looked great. I hadn't even expressed my dismay, or cried (which is what I wanted to do), and he said it was perfect. So I stepped back, and had to agree. It did look great. Not what I'd pictured. But maybe even better. Even Jenn's brother, Mark, said it looked really good with the white trim. Sigh of relief.

A big thanks to my very kind and very handy friends. I couldn't do it without you. If you ever need a kidney... I'm your girl.

We made the first Katinka purchase this weekend, too. A pet carrier. I'm not going to want to put that little ball of fluff into a cage when I'd certainly rather be holding her, and petting her ("naughty pet!") ... but I guess there are rules when it comes to trains and kittens.

The end.
Today, I really hate Anna.

It Makes No Sense

It makes no sense that I walk to work in heels
Drink Diet Coke with greasy, fast-food meals
I hate skinny models but love my Barbie doll
And I sit around and wait for that silly boy to call

It makes no sense that I work a job I hate
Know I must get up early but still stay up late
I own more clothes that I can possibly wear
Pluck my brows daily yet never cut my hair

It makes no sense that I always lose my keys
That I am suddenly allergic to sugar snap peas
I ignore the nice boys who fall for my charm
And fall for the ones who don't give a darn.

The end.
I hate Anna

This Old House

Last night, I caulked. And caulked. And sanded. And caulked some more. And came to a greater appreciation of what a huge undertaking my leap into the world of home-improvement has become. The task only grows in complication, due to the fact that I'm the kind to take a project just a little too far. I sure love it, though.

I have decided to do the ceiling, too. It's peeling and dingy and I think perhaps I could get away with just a quick sanding and a few layers of paint. I'm betting on at least three more days of sanding (maybe just two) before we get to priming the walls. Eric (an interiors guy at work) said that it's going to take at least two coats of primer to cover up the mess that the Pepto-Abysmal paint will have left behind. Jenn's been so good to help..even just by entertaining me while I'm on the up on the step ladder, my arms uncomfortably above my head, sqeezing gooey white caulk into the cracks above the molding.

Tonight, maybe I'll caulk some more... finish up that part of Heather-Loves-Home-Depot Awareness Month.

Manual labor does something for me that hours and hours of desk work has never been able to. Aching arms, yes. But some kind of sense of accomplishment, I suppose, when it's over. And more than that, it frees up my mind and sharpens my focus on an actual, physical goal. "I will have succeeded when... this room is no longer this god-awful color. When I have sanded the molding.. etc."
In the words of Mugatu... I'm a hot little firecracker.

I hate Anna.

A Downtown Crossing Story

I had forgotten, until this afternoon, how much I used to love being part of the flow of anonymous foot traffic in downtown Boston. Maneuvering among the vendors and dodging tourists in their khaki shorts and cameras slung over too-big Boston T-shirts. And me in black. Almost always in black, like the remainder of the Downtown Crossing crowd -- those who have escaped their places of employment for some air, food or people-watching.

Somehow, today I was not anonymous, did not blend as well as I am used to. And got mixed reviews for it. A beak-faced, African-American boy actually mooed at me on the stairs in the T. (Now, no one has mooed at me since I was in junior high and the words Heather and Heiffer were just too similar to overlook.) But not a few steps down Washington Street, still pouting over the "moo" incident, one vendor said in a rather loud voice, "Oh Lawd! Now that is what you call a beautiful woman!" I just ducked my head and prayed fervently that this man didn't have a thing for plus-sized women, that the two comments has somehow cancelled each other out. I was feeling like Boston's sore thumb.

So, I dissolved into H&M, plucked pretty items from the racks, cursing the European sizing. I refuse to try things on at that store. If I'm going to hate or love the way I look in one of H&Ms pretty somethings, it's going to be in the privacy of my own home where I may weep, or prance about freely, singing a selection from West Side Story, without drawing too much attention, or having stood in a line to do so. I have learned my lessons.

Having more than passed my alotted hour for lunch, I tried not to get antsy with the semi-comatose cashier, rather unsuccessfully. Perhaps I do not understand the beautiful complexity that is an exchange. Finally, credit card securely restowed in its proper place, I made a beeline for the T. I kept to the shady spots on the sidewalk, gracefully (I must say) avoiding tourists, fellow office drones and street merchants. No one made any barnyard sounds and no one seemed anymore aware of my presence than I was of theirs. Bless those expansive retail chains for restoring my anonymity.

Bless H&M.

Of Losses & Gains

Thursday: Lost: a few bucks in subway fare. Gained: Two real nice kids from Dallas.

Friday: Lost: 66.50 Gained: A new piece of jewelry & Brave Soldiers in the Hall

Saturday: Lost: $1.00 Gained: A pound of sugar snap peas at Haymarket & awareness of allergic reaction to said peas.
Lost: $37.50 Gained: H&M, baby.
Lost: $7.00 entrance cover to Waterworks & one sock Gained: New appreciation of "Single & Fabulous!" status of Caryn and myself. Oh, and probably about 15 pounds at IHOP.

Sunday: Lost: Two real nice kids from Dallas. Gained: use of entire queen bed. Ahhhhhh....

Ooooh, Sangria, you are sooo good to me. A big thank you to everyone who came to Tasca last night. I'll send real thank you notes later (umm...right), but Thanks to:
John, for leaving his brand new game of WarCraft 3 to come to my birthday dinner.
To Eleanor for making him.
To Amy & Jeff for the lovely card (& especially to Jeff for being such a ray of sunshine).
To Jenn for the most awesome chick book ever.
To Jonathanfor the purdy flowers (I killed one on accident!).
To Nora for wearing those pants.

Today is Midget Arrival Day. Sketti & Goik, the two best pets in the world, will be here around sixish. Hooray!

If you hate me so much, why are you reading this? I'm curious.

Three more days and I'm old. Too close to mid-twenties for my liking, and slowly (err, not slowly enough) inching my way to 30. Blech. But, I get to celebrate it by downing great Spanish food at Tasca with my pals. Not too shabby :)

Anyway, today I spent the day working on a Make-A-Wish Foundation project that my coworker is doing. A party for a four year old with Lukemia. Poor thing. She wants to have the "biggest party ever" and I'm designing the invites. It's nice to feel part of something beyond yourself.

Goik and Sketti are coming in 2 days!! Yay! And since Sketti failed to send me the flight information by the deadline I gave her, she is really going to have to sleep in the tub. We don't mess around, here.