Facebook Status Updates, sukkkkkassss.

TGIF, eh guys? Today, your Blogmistress is absolutely horrified by Facebook Status updates.

I need you to read these. I also need to tell you, I am related to the person who composes these.

(I really am not sure how... I... no words. Just read. If we are like-minded, you may just throw in the towel and quit the Internet.)

Finally... I am truly sorry for what I am about to unleash on you.

Here goes:

young money wher ya at in this bitch...we swanging n banging like a bat in this bitch... weeezyyyyy concert sukkkkkassss

weeeeezzzyyyy 2morow!!!!!!

one more day btiches..one more day... the motha fuken carter,,bitches on mi stick but mi name aint harry potterr................

i love it wen she say.....its cool i got it.. i got it... i gott it..

the shoes i wear u dont own a pair....weezy f baby 2 days bitchesssssss

wats in mi wallet dawg..big faced hundrreds..went to the mall bought errything that i wannteddd....suckas

lookin at new wips...anyone tryna buy a dodge dakota..

im so twisted i walk in swirls

july 31 weezy weee cant wait suckaaassss

im in the cut wit them ozzziiesss

oh kimosabe, big ballin is my hobby

i dont need security i need fan patrol

And the piece de resistance:

if u a bad bitch then im at chu like a pound of cake n a fat doode


*sputters*

So then there are people who respond to this garble... with something akin to:

lol ur so gay

Seriously? All of my senses are assaulted.

And who the fuck is weezy??

Oh my God, please comment. Lord have mercy, give me something to live for.

J, KC, The Nard Dog, and Me.

There are three sure-fire ways to get me out of a funk:

1. J, Husband Extraordinaire.

2.

3.

When I explained to J last night that I was feeling blue, he immediately sprang into action.

"What can we do to make you feel better?"

I thought about it for a moment, and then told him that we needed to clean the bedroom.

(Oh, super fun!)

But lo, the bedroom needed to be cleaned. And I needed to get organized. Cuz in the midst of my blues? Leaving the country next week (!). We're going to Buenos Aires and Montevideo (!!). Poor little depressed girl, must dutifully travel to South America. Don't you feel sorry for me?

This trip really sneaked up on us, though. So J, bless his heart, helped me sort the laundry and then, that man went and put it in the machine. I unpacked our bags from the NY trip. I straightened the bureau, and J dusted. Then we sat on the bed and made the Argentina list. As well as a list of cards and gifts that are PAST DUE. (Sorry, Koos. I really do love your baby. I'm just an asshat.)

Once we were organized, I felt I could breathe again. I ate some cherries on the couch and passed out during House Hunters International.

I slept more soundly last night than I have in weeks. It was glorious.

This morning I woke at 6, prepared a no-carb breakfast of eggs and turkey bacon, made some coffee, and then sent an email to Koos: how GOOD is coffee? Also, I watched Chelsea Handler. What of it? She is an irreverent beacon of delicious sarcasm and snark. LOVE.

At 7 I retreated to the office, and I filed and organized my desk while listening to Kelly Clarkson. Internet? Listen to Kelly Clarkson. KC = sublime happiness and productivity. You can imagine I was already feeling good and energetic, when my amazing husband sent me this email:

Subject: Start the day off right!

“They say you should never mix business with pleasure. Really? Well then explain to me how a putt-putt golf company operates.”

- Andy Bernard

And that is why, friends, I don't need anti-anxiety meds. I have J, KC, and the Nard Dog.

And happy hour! With dear friends Grace and JM (JM - don't you already have a pesudonym on this blog? Please advise.) Did I ever tell y'all about the first day of high school? Koos and I arrived and I believe we only had one or two classes together. (Koos? Please advise.) So I spent the first day observing the other chicas to determine whom I would deign to be friends with. (Er, or whom I thought might like my skinny, be-braced, nerd self.) And Grace and JM were the big winners!

I'm pleased as punch that 15 years later, we still can get together to drink cheap beer carb-conscious club soda and recall the old times.

It is going to be a good day.

%&$*#@@(!)

Arrrrgggghhhhh.

I'm having one of my days today, which is particularly trying, as I had one of these days yesterday. Hungover and sore from sleeping on The Real JC's air mattress, J and I sat on the couch all day, only removing ourselves from the gripping life of John Adams long enough to take a delirious trip to Wawa for chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (The need!)

And so I pulled out my planner last night, resolutely, and wrote down all of the things I needed to accomplish today.

And then I woke early, ready to start the day. But instead, I groggily plopped down on the couch at 6:30 to watch DVRed episodes of Chelsea Lately.

And then... nothing.

I walked the mile to the track, but found myself stifled by the heat and humidity. The run did not go well. So I walked home. I decided I needed to get out of the house today, so I showered and dressed and headed to my favorite coffee shop on Main.

But I couldn't pay attention to my conference calls; and after I composed and sent a few rambling emails, I packed up my laptop and planner and headed home by way of Machismo Burritos. (Damn you and your addictive power!)

I'm in my office now. I am trying to work, but I'm not present. I'm not sure where my mind is. This isn't working, I said to myself a few moments ago. This isn't what you're supposed to do with your life. The thought honestly occurred to me out of nowhere, as most days, I like my job a lot.

But I wonder if maybe there isn't a little kernel of truth to that last part. If this is my passion, wouldn't I be more, er, passionate? I wake everyday with the best intentions, but suddenly at 7 AM I feel... drained.

I blame E! True Hollywood Story.

When you watch that fucking show, you get the feeling that though everything doesn't come easily per se, these celebs know what they want and they work tirelessly - ruthlessly - to get it.

And then I'm suddenly inspired and embarrassed, because I have all of this potential, that I waste on the frivolity... Like E! True Hollywood Story!

It's a damn shame.

I don't know what's next. J and I talk about it all the time. We'll move, we say, once J is finished with grad school. Then I'll quit my job, and I'll go to grad school. While I'm at it, I'll write and have babies and be perfect and healthy and rich. The end.

I'm not sure where I am, or what I want, but I know I am at a crossroads.

To be continued.

**************************************************************

D'oh!

Believe it or not, I started this amazingly well-written and structured post to give a little fitness update. So here you go:

Meh.

That is my update, y'all. I have been running, but not so well the last two weeks. I am okay with that, as my half-marathon training needs to start twelve weeks before the event; so after J and I return from vacation (August 15th) I'll begin the program in earnest.

P90X is on hold, as I have a lot of difficulty keeping to a routine with my constant travel. But I am determined to complete P90X at some point this year. I'll just have to develop a tighter schedule, as I am just now beginning to take back the reigns on time-management.

And the diet? Well, my Far-Mor told my sister Cat that I was "too skinny" after the Colorado trip. So, good on me! Alas, I'm not too skinny. I'm slim. I wa able to sustain the no-carb diet for 2 weeks, and I felt great, though completely bored. Then J and I went to a family party in which I ate a cheeseburger sans bun, and the paparazzi got wind of it and asked me what kind of crazy diet I was on, and when I said South Beach my cousin Lauren told me I was going to desTROY my kidneys, and then my mom called me the next day to say of course everyone was talking about this CRAZY diet you are on, and I'm all, hello, if any of you MFers read my blog you would already know about this diet! And also: South Beach! NOT crazy.

I guess the moral of the story is my family doesn't support me, and also thinks I'm crazy.

I lost three - four pounds on Phase 1 of South Beach, then I let my amazing weight loss skillz get to my head and started eating everything under the sun. This weekend I drank 85004 Hoegaardens at the Beer Garden in Queens, and so today? Fare thee well, carbs. I'm not sure how we are ever truly going to make this work, but right now, I just need some time by myself. I really need to focus on my career - obvs! - and what I want out of this life. And what I want involves passion, and most certainly does not involve a giant ass. (Sorry, babe.)

Love, HV

Almost 30: Coming Soon to a Mall Near You!

For the record, the H did take me dress-shopping last night. I really thought we'd hit pay dirt at H&M, but the only dresses we liked even a little bit were maternity.

There is a very limited selection of stores in the Plymouth Meeting Mall, so we actually walked into Wet Seal for a hot minute, before I turned around and headed straight for the door:

"Let's get outta here," I said, bristling. "I'm a 30 year-old woman for God's sake."

(So I'm not quite 30. But 29 is a fake age. No one cares that you are 29. You're so old now that people just round up. You're 30. Just wait.)

(And you are definitely ten years too old for Pac Sun, Wet Seal, and Mandee's. In case you were wondering.)

(You are also thirty years too young for the "Charter Club" at Macy's.)

(I really should develop a reasonably-priced boutique called "Almost 30". A slightly more mature Forever 21, for the hip, sexy young woman who cannot now nor ever pull off a denim mini for the love of Pete.)

(*And that's our tag line.)

Alas, I didn't find a dress. They were all too cheap looking, too long, or trying too hard. I love me a nice pattern, but come on. Your patterns are ugly, dresses. Fire your designers and buyers and start over. I don't want to look like a I'm wearing a giant wall-hanging tapestry.

The end.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me: The Burritos of Shame!

There are a floppity-jillion perks to being married to J. He is good to my family. He listens to me when I speak. He does some most all of the cleaning. He consults me before he makes decisions, big and small. When we started dating, he single-handedly helped me take charge of my finances, get out of debt, and create an actual savings account! In which, I didn't merely sock away money just to transfer it to my checking account each time I rarely regularly bounced a check or overdrafted. Like, an actual savings account. With savings!

And whilst I am eternally grateful to this wonderful man, I must admit I miss the days when I could be deliciously irresponsible with mah cash.

Sigh. The shoes.

What is it with the dudes, ladies? Are they always scrutinizing your purchases? I mostly abhor shopping, but there are a few luxuries that I refuse to deny myself. These are:

*mani/pedis
* shoes (from DSW! Not effing Louboutins. Men.)
* burritos

That is about it, y'all. And each time I indulge, the inevitable interrogation:

"Where did those shoes come from?"
"Oh, what, so you went to the nail salon today? How much did that cost?"
"Another burrito? You just can't eat at home, can you?"

I live in a state of perpetual guilt about the money I spend. I'm stuffing newly purchased gladiator heels into the closet, hoping he won't notice. (This from the guy that once pulled a coin out of the "junk" drawer in our kitchen and demanded: "Who put this nickel in there?") When he inevitably does see the shoes, I am vehemently defending my choice of footwear: "They sent me a coupon! For $10 bucks! How could I not go?"

I am also too lazy to hide my burritos of shame. I now get the burrito bowls (I miss you like crazy, tortillas), and once I'm finished, I just throw the plastic container into the sink (food coma, obvs). Then J arrives home from work, and he discovers the contraband.

"Babe!" He says, shaking his head at me as he walks from the kitchen. "What's this?"

I am in quite the funk today, and though we are off to NYC tomorrow afternoon, I emailed him quickly:

I think I need Panera tonight. I also want to find a cheap summer dress for Saturday. Thoughts?

With lightning quickness:

Yes. No.

Girls? Halp.

Sleepwalking

Things are happening.

Believe it or not, George isn't at home in addition to this here blog, I keep a journal. I bought it in Turkey with my sister Cat in mind, but I ended up keeping it for myself. It's small and blue, with a tiny Turkish rug splayed across the front cover.

I typically fill it with all of the sap-tastic things I don't want to post, as well as fleeting ideas and "to-do" lists. I haven't written in awhile, but something made me pick it up on Sunday night, as I was heading out to the airport, Atlanta-bound.

I began leafing through it only tonight, from my hotel room on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (and of course, my frequent jaunts in the city leave me, shall we say, wistful?). In it, I found this jem:

Also, new obsession? Post-it notes. I seriously carry them in my bag and use them constantly: love letters to J, "to-do" lists, and bookmarks in my favorite how-to guides, as well as O magazine. A recently used post-it adhered to a magazine page reads:

We sleepwalk through the possibility of joy.

Were truer words ever said about me? I am sleepwalking. There is so much more, and yet I get bogged down in the distractions: the Facebook, the dramedy, the Sex and the City rerun.

I don't want to be here again. I don't feel like reevaluating, then making amends to right the wrongs, get active, and start actually hitting my goals, rather than jotting them down here and thinking, I'll start fresh tomorrow.

Things are happening.

I have been working on it. I've been running; I am determined to run that half-marathon in November. That is a goal I will hit.

Now, however, I have a new addiction; a new shield to hide behind.

Ladies and gents: I am addicted to planning things.

By June, I had planned virtually every weekend throughout the summer. Which friends can we see? Who can we visit? Where can we travel? What shows are happening? Where can we have dinner? I have a free Southwest ticket, J! Where should we go?

I lurve my friends and family, but dudes? I think you are my new crutch.

When I realized I scheduled a business trip to Pittsburgh on the same day I was booked to fly out to Denver to hang with my grandparents and dear sissies, I called J immediately.

"Babe? I give. You're right. I'm done planning. I'm not planning anything else this summer."

When J asks me why I can't stop committing to events, parties, dinners, travel plans, etc., I typically tell him: I'm just so happy to be alive.

I say this seriously. I am so ecstatic to be here; I can't imagine squandering any of this.

But then there is that small part of my heart that is still sleepwalking. That longs for a Masters, and a novel, and maybe someday a super-awesome baby.

But I can't have those things, because I don't devote the time and effort.

I sleepwalk, you see.

I'm still hiding.

Things are happening, though.

I am starting to get all panicky again.

The last time I had an episode, I was talking to Koos on the phone. I was driving from Providence to Worcester two years ago, when suddenly I wasn't okay.

My heart was racing. I felt light-headed; and most certainly not myself. It's difficult to describe; I was not me, and also, I was terrified. I had an overwhelming sense of impending doom, I was afraid of a fate that I was powerless to stop.

I pulled into an office park. I stopped the car, and told Koos what was going on. I tried to maintain a normal conversation to get my mind off of it (whatever it was), but I failed to calm myself. I ended up hanging up the phone and driving to Worcester with the windows down. I needed air. I couldn't breathe.

I called a doctor in our neighborhood later that week. I had never seen this woman, but as soon as she entered the room I burst into tears.

"I'm so stressed," I sobbed. "I don't know what's wrong with me; but I'm losing it lately."

The doctor gave me a sympathetic glance and a few kind words.

Then she immediately wrote me a prescription for Paxil and Ativan.

PAXIL! An anti-anxiety med that you need to take on the regular, for at least 6 weeks, before it begins to work... She'd met me for five minutes. She'd seen nothing of my medical history. She knew nothing about my life, except for a few weepy moments inside her exam room.

I stuffed the scripts in my purse, scheduled a follow-up appointment, and left, completely disillusioned.

I tossed them almost immediately. First, I talked to my then fiance, who convinced me I was just going through a rough patch, and was I really ready to commit to this medication? Was it medically necessary? I canceled the follow-up. With J's help, I began to slow things down. I began to breathe and I never once experienced the panic again.

That is, until last week.

It was the same prolonged feeling of dread and powerlessness. When I finally calmed, I decided that this bonafide panic attack was the physical manifestation of the sleepwalking.

The need to do and grow and be, combined with the frustration of all of my crutches: procrastination, planned events, and HBO dramas.

Suddenly, I had my Cher Horowitz epiphany: I needed a makeover, but this time? This time I would make over my soul.

With no Pismo Beach disaster to mitigate, I am setting out to not only accomplish my own stated objectives, but to also be a better person. To give back more. To be a better friend. To finally, for the love of Pete, reduce the call-screening by 50%.

In essence, I'm putting in the effort again. On all fronts. All systems go.

It helps to write so candidly. The panic didn't kick my ass this go-round. Once I could think rationally, I decided to get to the heart of it. What was really causing me to worry so extremely? What is happening in my life at this point?

And the conclusion I drew was that I'm overworked, overbooked, and stretched too thin to feel really productive and worthwhile.

So I'm scaling it back, and concentrating on the people that are important, including myself. Enough with the sleepwalking. It's time to make like Janet and get back in control.

Can I get a witness?

Tabloid Fodder.

Each time I enter our bathroom, I'm greeted by Kim Kardashian's bosoms.

"I move the Time magazine over everyday," J told me with a grin yesterday.

I can't say I blame him. Sister looks good.

(Notice the cover of the Time. Still waiting for him to observe the irony.)


Each day, I punish J by moving the mag slightly to the left.

Marriage is fun.

A Very Good Year.

Ah, Kins. I love you more than words. (Just like my favorite Extreme song!)

Together, we've created a world of limitless possibilities.

Thank you for an amazing four years. Today, I raise a glass from Cheyenne Mountain, and give my patented, eloquent, heartfelt toast:

To you, babe.

Happy anniversary.



Make sure you have sound!

Countdown.

Our thumbs, plus two glasses of wine I didn't need.

Last year at this time, J and I were getting settled in Punta Cana.

(Did I say getting settled? I meant J was trying to sober me up to make it past dinner. Sadly, he failed.)

Er, where was I?

Oh. It's been almost a year.

An incredible, surprising, exhilirating, adventurous year.

Wow.

Back from Canada, Hosers!

Remember when I told y'all I was escaping to Canada for a day hour?

Well, I toetally rocked that. And I learned a lot during my stint out of the good ole US of A.

Let's see, shall we?

My first inkling that I would be entering a foreign land was this sign. It says STOP in English, you see, but then it says ARRET en francais. Well, shit. They speak French here! This is exactly like visiting France.

More French! Sacre bleu! Luckily, I was ready with my passport and a big American grin. Get at me, Customs.

Hey - Customs here is legit! I was asked about 25 questions:

Where are you coming from, Ma'am?

You live in Buffalo?

What kind of work?

How are long are you there for?

Where do you live?

Did you drive in?

Car's got CT plates?

What rental agency is the car from?

What exactly will you be doing in Canada?

How long will you be staying?

An hour? Really?

Frazzled, I actually said: "Er, I really just came for a stamp on my passport."

D'oh!

I parked quickly, then learned a harsh lesson about Canadian ATM machines (hint: they do not dole out U.S. currency. Ugly American jackass.)

But look! A "washroom"! We ain't in Kansas anymore, folks.

It was time to feast my eyes on the glorious falls of Niagara. But wait - the hell? What's that boat doing in there? By God, it's a suicide mission! No, boat, no! Turn, turn, MAN!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Excuse me? Maiden of the wha? Oh.

Oh, I see what they did there. Here is a lovely picture of me and some boats filled with delightful tourists such as myself.

And then... I fell in.

Ha! You guys, it's just a camera trick.

(Also, my mobile? Unspeakably high quality photos.)

After a full four minutes of looking at the falls, I had seen all there was to see. So I stumbled into a gift shop, where I found a mecca of absolutely fabulous blog subtitles splayed on tee-shirts:

Classic HV!

And to drive the point home (or possibly because I can't figure out how to delete):

Why I never!

Isn't it?

Tell it, sister.

(Seriously, which one would you choose for this here blog? I have my opinion - which you are all entitled to, btw - but open to suggestions.)

And finally, no trip to Canada would be complete without one sparkling souvenir mug, to remember the precious, precious minutes spent.

Godspeed, Canada. Godspeed.

Late Night Phone Calls

The scene: 10 PM last night, in bed, nearly asleep. The phone rings. Baby Brother Ryan on other end of line.

"Hey - you here the news?!"

*Blogmistress stops breathing, loathes calls after 9 as tends to think of horrendous catastrophes only*

*is quite macabre, really*

"Jesus - what?"

"I broke my wrists!"

"The fuck?"

"I'm on my way to the ER now - I was trying to grab a basketball rim, and I slipped. The left one is BROKEN - you should see it - the right one is messed up too!"

"Shit - are you in a lotta pain?"

"No - do I sound like I am?" (Er, no. Dude sounds like he just won the lottery.)

"Who's taking you to the hospital?"

"My friends."

"No one's been drinking, right?" (Holy shit: Am old.)

"Nah."

"Do you have your insurance card?"

"Nope - lost it."

"Oy. You call Mom?"

"Yep - she's pissed. We're almost there"

"OK - call me if you need me; my phone's on."

"K."

*blogmistress hangs up, turns to J in bed*

"You see? This is why you must keep the phone next to the bed. Emergencies such as this!"

"Emergency? How did you help there?"

"I asked about his insurance card. Obviously. And now I'm informed."

*husband snorts*

"Fuck. I am going to be ridiculous when we have kids. I may never sleep again."

**********************************************************************

The scene: 11 PM last night, in bed, absolutely asleep. The phone rings. It's Far-Mor (that's hardcore Swedish for "grandmom", y'all).

*blogmistress has heart attack. Someone is most certainly dead this time.*

"Number one granddaughter?" (eat that, sisters and girl cousins)

"Hi Grandpop - what's up?"

"Why did you answer?"

"My brother broke his wrist and he's at the hospital; I was waiting for him to call."

"Oh no! I'm going to get Far-Mor on the other phone."

*goes to find Far-Mor, tells her Michael broke his wrist*

"Melissa? What happened? Michael broke his wrist?!"

"No, Far-Mor, Ryan. Ryan broke his wrist."

"How?"

"Playing basketball. Uh, what's up, guys?"

"The reason I'm calling," Far-Far begins, "is to tell you that when you land in Denver on Thursday evening, call my cell phone. That way we'll know what time to expect you."

"K."

"Do you have that number?"

"Yep."

"It's 719..."

"Got it."

"The girls have no idea you're coming! Well, I might have slipped today. But I'm pretty sure they didn't hear me," Far-Mor assures me.

"Great."

"So what happened to Ryan?"

"Um, guys, I'm gonna go now. I was sleeping."

"Sleeping! What time is it there? Oh - 11? Oh, okay, well, we'll let you go. We can't wait to see you! Love you lots!"

"Love you too. Night."

*blogmistress turns to snoring husband. says to self: the hell?*