Hi kids. Been to strep throat hell and back the last couple of days, but don't you worry... I'm slightly buzzed on vicodin and not contagious anymore, so let the fun begin.

That project that I beat the Duchess out for? Well, we landed the job. The $80 million job. And I got a "Couldn't have done it without your help" from the Principal-in-charge. Nice. Gimme a raise.

I haven't had anything really profoundly inspiring to say lately, so I continue to post these silly personality quizzes. Maybe deep down, I'm hoping that they'll sort me out and help me to understand myself. But when the result is Miss Piggy, and those around me show no surprise, I'm more injured than aided. Miss Piggy? She's mean! Ok, I'm mean. But she's selfish..and a show off! Um, wait...check, and check. *Sigh* Ah, well. Them's the breaks, I suppose.

I was reading my journal last night (one that I kept in college), and I found something I had written at a pretty low point. It said, "Being lonely is like going to bed hungry every night. You might grow accustomed to that low, dull ache in the hollow of your stomach, so much so, that you might eventually forget you're hungry. Until you see someone else eating. And then you're very aware of what you don't have."

Hmmm. Food for thought.
Mmm...food... must get breakfast.

Take the What Explosive am I? quiz by PhoenixSpirit001

Once upon a time, not too very long ago, in kingdoms separated by a wide and untamed wilderness, there live two princesses. They were lovely, smart and talented young ladies and were quite well-liked by all those in their respective kingdoms. But the two princesses were bored. Very bored.
They kept the Internet Fairies very busy sending messages back and forth to one another, lamenting their shared boredom. "We have so much to give!" one cried, "Why must we sit here idle, oppressed by their Royal Highnesses, waiting for happiness?" "What ever shall we do?" cried the other.
"Get a freaking hobby," screamed one of the very tired, over-worked Internet Fairies one evening, after a particularly long day. "My lord, you waste a lot of time bitching and sending me across that wide, untamed wilderness! You could use that energy for something a whole lot better than:
'Dear Princess. I am still bored. Love, other Princess.'
Don't you think? For crying out loud!"
So, the two Princesses got a hobby. A fulfilling, fun and exciting hobby that made them feel joyful and creative. And so as not to keep any Internet Fairies in the unemployment lines, they entangled themselves in a hobby that promoted the use of the fairies...who, undoubtedly, thank them very much.

The end.

A Weekend at Solly's....now that was ZACTLY what I needed.
Whatever funk I was in has now, thankfully, disapparated.

We had a great time (Sean, Caryn and I) battling over Settlers of Catan (we're junkies, I tell you), a brief walk on a beautiful, but very windy and cold beach, and eating/drinking gluttonously at a few choice spots in the East Village. Quirky does not begin to describe the restaurant Caryn took us to on Saturday night. The ceilings were strung with Christmas lights--varied shapes, sizes, colors (even an absurd quantity of chili-pepper shaped lights)--that would have any claustrophobic person on edge. It was amazing. And FAST. The Soup Nazi's of the Indian world run the Panna II. The second you've caught the last dribble of curry sauce on your naan, there they are whisking away your plate to get you the hell out. Tables fill the second they are emptied. VERY good food...

Bonus--this morning, the Duchess was an hour late, and the last minute preps for a very important interview went to ME...and when her Highness finally arrived and attempted a hostile take-over of my project, the Principal-in-charge said, "It's already been taken care of. Nice work, Heather."

Tadum! Take that, Duchess. Don't mess with the Princess.

Now, I don't know about Go-gurt...but I can deal with Spaceman Spiff, for sure.

take the what amusing entity are you? quiz by kimburk

You are Spaceman Spiff! Zounds! You are the intrepid Spaceman Spiff, the engaging explorer ensconsed in an unending universe of exotic and evil extraterrestrials! You're brave, but you should give that dictionary a rest. Take the What Calvin are You? Quiz by contessina_2000@yahoo.com!

It's amazing the silly things you can find out about yourself from these personality quizes. I hate the results of mine. But here it is, in black and white, the result of a really nerdy quiz.

You're the IMG tag- you like to show off, make sure you are always looking your best. You can be a little stuck up, but you are always willing to share your glory with a friend.

I read a book once, that described the scene in which Virginia Woolf put heavy stones in the pockets of her coat, stepped across the pebbly shore in her good shoes and walked calmly into the river's rushing current to her death. (Michael Cunningham won the Pulitzer for it, so give it a read, if you like.)

Imagine that. Walking calmly to your death. I can't even walk calmly into moving to San Diego (social suicide?), or looking for a new job after only a year and a half (career suicide?).

Do I have a commitment problem, or is basic dissatisfaction with my life warranted at this point?

Let's break it down.

I have a degree. I don't use it. I speak Spanish (quite beautifully, I'm told). But I don't speak it. I am quite bright, but the biggest decision I make at work is whether to put someone on hold or send them to voicemail. I fucking HATE my job. Caryn says I'm not to use the word hate (not to mention the f word), but I think I'll be allowed it this once. Sean says that everyone prostitutes themselves to their employers. But know what? Even prostitutes make better money than I do and the level of daily humiliation is probably about the same.

I'm not going to go any further. Let's just leave it at "Heather is in a funk" and move on (or I'm likely to say a whole bunch of words that will be unacceptable). I'm sure it's fair to say that I have a commitment problem...that I'm never satisfied and always looking for something better. That's fine. But at least I'll never have to wonder if there is. Maybe that's what good ole Virginia had already figured out -- that there never was anything better.

Maybe so. But still...I think I'd rather keep looking than fill my pockets with stones.

San Diego, here I come.

Maybe.

Oh, and I'm Miss Piggy. Could someone please just kill me?

	You are Miss Piggy! You're something of a diva, but that's only because it would be a crime to let your looks and talent go to waste. Vous êtes magnifique!
Take the What Muppet Are You? Quiz!

I just read Caryn's blog... and AMEN.

I think Rob has the right idea. It's all about being a lesbian. No men involved at all. Now, if I could only somehow become unattracted to them...

I'm angry at the world. But it deserves it... so feel no pity.

Just got a "Great job! Good for you!" on a project I just finished for one of our prinipal architects. It was a powerpoint presentation, for God's sake, and he acted like I'd perfomed brain surgery on his dying parakeet. Ok, so it was pretty cool...I did some photoshop magic and threw in some "sexy" colors (yes, he actually referred to them as sexy)... but why didn't he just pat me on the head? It would have been less patronizing. "Good for you, Heather. You make such pretty pictures." Dumb ass.

I'm going to eat lunch and see if it will make me feel less bitchy. Let's hope so.

I was going to start today’s entry with, “Percy Shelley once wrote…” and then I decided against it. Why? Because he was a colossal asshole. He drove his first wife to suicide (she drowned herself), while he snuck around with that chic that wrote Frankenstein, and basically used people for his own benefit. So, although he says really pretty things above love, he knew nothing about it. And he will not be quoted on this page.

(Ok, so his “Love’s Philosophy” is still on my refrigerator, but a girl has to set her limits.)

Instead, I’m going to quote Fred Rogers, who oft said, “I like you just the way you are.” Fred’s little quip got me thinking this morning.

My friend, Karlea, wrote to me and said, “I really do believe you have a gift to love and be friends with everyone... There are not many people in the world like you.” Hmmm, I thought. That is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has said to me, (besides Rachel Holloway’s “Heather, I think you’re going to be the best mom…”) but I’m not quite sure how true it is.

Regardless, I am coming to see the intrinsic value of liking people “just the way they are.” I’m not super good at it, mind you. But I’m trying.
Like my sister, for instance. Well, sister/roommate. There are monsoon seasons with showers of shorter duration than Nora’s. I mean, REALLY. And sometimes, that is the only thing I can think about (like, when I’m late for work)…My GOD, how dirty can you be that you need 37 minutes to wash yourself??? But then she puts Princess Fruit Snacks in my dope-diggity lunch bag, and sends me an ecard, and then I remember that she is funny, and silly, and the best person to wrestle with when you’re having a tough day. And then I even appreciate (to some extent) that she takes really long showers, cause that is just part of who she is…and it takes so much more energy to get angry at her than it does to book it to the bus stop.

Ah, don’t get me wrong. The showers will still irritate me. But I like her. And I like her just the way she is.

Maybe it was easy for Mr. Rogers to like me just the way I am. I mean, he never met me--never put up with my constant teasing or heard me snort when I laugh too hard. But I like to believe he’d do so anyway. ‘Cause, after all, I’m around me all the time, and I have to say, I like me just the way I am. :)

I have had many, many male friends complain to me that being the gentleman and treating girls well only means certain death. “Girls love a bad-boy,” one told me. Another, “If you’re nice, she wants to make you her friend…and that’s it.” “No way,” I tell them. And then, after endless email conversations that peak in them professing their lofty motives when it comes to women -- They, unlike all the awful men of the world, don’t want to get in her pants…they want to get to KNOW her (yeah right) -- I either get toxically annoyed, or I begin to feel sorry for them and revert back to the conclusion I came to many moons ago:

Nice guys finish last. Unless you’re John Cusak.

I once wrote that there might be no such thing as falling in love. I said that this notion I have of finding utter, incomprehensible bliss with a man—that this “in love” feeling I expect (but never find)--is just some cocktail I’m drunk on after watching too many John Cusak movies. And indeed, it just may be true. But why?

Well, because the adorable Mr. Cusak not only finishes far from last, but he finishes with the most adorable, shockingly down to earth, gorgeous girl-next-door co-stars. And he doesn’t make it look easy. So we believe him. It was tough for him, so it was real.

The message it sends to the male-viewer psyche? He’s no Tom Cruise…and look at him! Nice guys CAN win.

To women it says: Love, itself exists, simply to make us happy, AND there are nice, silly, but endearing men willing to make a fool of themselves (say, by standing outside your house with a boom-box playing some meaningful, yet sappy song) just to say, “I think you’re pretty damn special.”

Mel Gibson even delivers a line in a movie that follows, “Girls just want guys to like them and to hang out with them. And guys…well, guys basically just want sex.”

The point of all this? Well, Mel may be right…but what John Cusak does is make us believe that this isn’t necessarily true. And he not only makes it acceptable to believe in purely-motivated, mushy, ecstatic love…but he makes it fashionable.

And as we all know, I’m never one to argue with fashion.

Oh, Canada...
I can name five ways in which my very first Canadian experience has been unique, as far as travel experiences go:

1. Handsome Tom the Carriage Driver and his horse, Princess. (Nora has already spoken for him, so I must find someone else to threaten to marry.)
2. No passport on person = detainment. Not as much fun as it sounds. I can live without these kinds of adventures.
3. Favorable exchange rate. God Bless Canada.
4. Montreal = SUV capital of free world. I want one, too. Do I have to become Canadian to afford one? If so, I pledge allegiance...
5. Restaurant which specializes in "Californian" food. I kid you not. Silly Canadians. What does that mean?? Avocados and Sunkist oranges? Silly Canadians. Wait, did I already say that??

And guess what? I remembered that I speak French. Ok, not a lot, but a whole lot more than I thought I would remember. I think I slept through the last three years of it in high school. What's funny is, if you return a convincing "bon jour," these folks will just keep talking to you in French...and since I refuse to be that retarded American, I just play along. And it's fun. Like playing dress-up.

Anyway, I like these Canadian folks. And I love this city. If I were to defect to say, "Screw you," to Uncle Sam, this wouldn't be such a bad choice. Plus, I hear they let any old weirdos live in Canada. ;)

Yay! Blogger is fixed! Phew. I thought I was going to have to go an entire day without telling the world exactly what I thought.

Today, Caryn's post asked up to come up with five ways we are unique. And I figured, if I did that, it would just sound like bragging. hee hee. So, instead, I polled friends, family and coworkers and they came up with some interesting reponses. Here they are, in random order, the 5 ways in which Heather is Unique:

1. My "ability to decide which pair, out of twenty almost-identical pairs of shoes, would look best with a certain outfit." (Thank you, Nora, for your insight)
2. My "ability to be sarcastic to my teachers and make them love me" and my "ability to see the ridiculous in things" (That's appreciation, Mom-style)
3. My "sense of humor and laugh" (Sean takes a stab at originality)
4. My "positive approach to life. I mean, initially. Once you give people a shot, and they still bug you, it's not your fault. But I think you have a very positive outlook." (Bonnie, the nicest person to work for in the whole world... and who obviously hasn't seen my demonic side.)
5. My ass. I mean, it. I've never seen another one like it (on a white girl). Jen balanced her drink on it at a bar last weekend. It's one of a kind.

This excercise was difficult for me. Once, someone told me that I was a cross between Mary Poppins (practically perfect in every way) and Darth Vadar (drawn to the Dark Side)...Sean tells me all the time that I don't make any sense...and Eleanor and I discovered that we are the SAME person. So much confusion as to my identity.
I think too much. I tease too much. And I care way too much about split ends. But that hardly makes me unique. But, you know me...what do you think?

As it turns out, my new e-friend, Paul, is not only follicularly blessed, but quite the gifted storyteller as well. I have to say, he rocks.

I think he was meant all along to be part of this strange web of amusing people I know. But somehow, God goofed and sent him to Canada, of all places (though, I'm beginning to see that it must be safer for him there, anyway). Anyway, it took a nearly-tragic boating incident, some Superman shoes and a heavenly gift we call Webshots to bring us together. If I didn't believe in fate before, I just might now.

I haven't done a smidgeon of work today. Ok, that's not true. I stuck little labels on about 2,000 envelopes this morning. That was when I was still in the post-Girl Scout Cookie haze and didn't mind the monotony or the papercuts. But the rest of the day, I have spent puttering around with my web page. Putter, putter, putter. It's still pretty amateur and pathetic, but a girl has to start somewhere.

I have been cracked out on Girl Scout Cookies for the last three days. And if you've ever had a GSC hangover, you know my pain.

Well, sports fans... no updates at the close of the day. I wrote back to my new pen pal, but thus far, my thought-provoking email hasn't sent him rushing back with a reply. Pity. Also is a pity that I ignored instinct and didn' t close the email with: P.S. You have good hair.

Caryn will be so diappointed if I never hear back from him. She said, "You're supposed to fall in love and get married and stuff to make the story really great!" Hmmm... that may be just too Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks for my liking, but a new pen pal wouldn't be so bad. Espcially one with such nice hair.

Once again, Caryn and I find ourselves in the middle of adventure. Another strange, silly adventure. But this one, you'll be relieved to hear, does not involve me sleeping with Justin Timberlake. I know... get over it.
In our Webshot Ecard Wars, Caryn found a picture of a nose-painting fella (by the name of Paul). I happened to mention he has potential, attractivenss-wise. She then IM'ed me to say she'd left my contact information with the owner of the community page she stole the picture from. Hee hee hee...love my Caryn. And you know what makes her even more lovable? He actually sent me an email.
Not only does this fine young man paint with his nose...but apparently he breathes with his hands, as well. Once I find out exactly what that means, I'll let you know.
But for now, I'm just going to giggle my way back to my mind-numbing job.

I made two horrifying observations when I woke up today.
Just when I thought I knew myself...just when I finally understand the intricate workings of my own life, it seems it is possible to discover I don't know me at all. To my complete and utter bemusement, I came to the shocking realization that I am...*gasp* a morning person. My God, how could this be? The second of my pre-lunch time epiphanies: I am too old to go to the late show on a work night. No, no, no! Has the universe collapsed in on itself? I think so. Nearly. Things are not as they have always been. And I'm not quite sure I like it at all.
I spent many a good half-day in my teens and college years sleeping when I was expected to be awake. Yes, I slept in. And I was good at it. But I've found that now, even on the weekends, unless I've had too much (soda, Mom...SODA) to drink the night before, by nine in the way-too-early-AM, I'm cheerfully awake wondering how I'm going to pass the two hours until my favorite cooking show comes on. And WHEN did I get a favorite cooking show??? I'm afraid I'll have a meltdown altogether if I go into that, so onward...
Now, perhaps the second one can be fiddled with to make it not seem so...tragic. Perhaps I'm not too old at all...and the movie was just really emotionally draining... so it's understandable that I would be completely exhausted when I finally went to bed in the wee hours of the morn. Ok, it was 12:45. 12:45! Hardly the wee hours of anything! I've gone OUT at 12:45 in the past.
I think it's official. I'm going to wake up tomorrow with wrinkles and gray hair and I'll start spouting phrases like, "When I was your age," and "Kids these days" and I'll actually MEAN them.
I comfort my self with the thought that at least my breasts are still in their right places.

Good news! Thea came over yesterday and we had a Barbie Tea party and watched the Wizard of Oz. (Thea is three years old---this is not one of my regular Sunday Activities.) As part of the Barbie Extravaganza, Nora brought home two new ones. Sunshine Day Barbie. And guess what, beneath Sunshine Day Barbie's disco fantastic threads, we discovered???

BARBIE NOW HAS HIPS!! They're actually there, wider than her shoulders, and filling out her skirt. And her breasts, now not half the size of some small island nations, sit above a...tummy. A rounded tummy complete with belly button. Can you believe it!? God bless Barbie.

I was standing at the mirror, wondering WHY exactly they lied to us--Acne has nothing do with your teens, oil, bacteria or the number of Johnson's Clean and Clear products you use in a lifetime. (It has more to do with God HATING you, but let's not get sidetracked.) So, there I was, at the mirror, and I could hear my roommate flipping through one of her law school textbooks, obviously searching for that horizontal slice of pink that she was sure was on the left-hand side somewhere between pages 174 and 263. She knew it was going to be important later--I mean, that's why she red-flagged it (or pink flagged it, I guess), in the first place.
Finally, she gave up and joined me in the bathroom. We're not close. But if we were, I'd have told her about God hating me. But we're not. So I didn't, and instead went back to my room where I picked up my journal and read an entry about a boy I really used to like. He had dumped me and I was clearly still clinging to the tiny threads of hope that he'd realize his horrendous error and crawl back, on hands and knees over broken glass and molten lava just to say how wrong he was. Ridiculous, I know. Why would there EVER be molten lava in Massachusetts??
I read a little, and then my mind flipped to something he said once, quite casually to his roommate. I remember that it struck me as odd at the time... odd in the "is there something fundamentally NOT right here?" sense. Out came the pink highlighter. But then, it passed, the roommate left, and we commenced making out. But I obviously red-flagged that moment, for whatever reason, and didn't even think to flip back to that page until just last night...months after I knew it would somehow be important.
I should know by now, that when I actually bother to use a highlighter in my mental textbook, it's destined to be on the test later.

Woke up to Janet Jackson. Ate cold, pineapple pizza for breakfast. And didn't have to take the bus to work this morning. I'd say things would be pretty near to perfection. But I still had to come in to work this morning. Bus, or no.

Does everyone in America hate their jobs as much as I do? I'd venture to say that everyone in the world does, but I know that's not true. I saw the Julia Roberts Goes to Mongolia special. And she said everyone there was perfectly happy with their daily lives. Who'd have guessed? I mean, they live in tents, and ride horses and somehow manage to eek by without a Starbucks or Au Bon Pain. They don't have cars, electric bills, frozen food aisles or Blockbuster Video stores. And they call that living? Absolutely. They work hard, feed their children, laugh a lot, and get mega-stars like Julia Roberts to sweep in and pay a visit.

Simplicity. What's not to envy?