HomeValley's Pop Culture Picks!

This past weekend was filled with much hosting, driving, movie-watching, cleaning, and reading. And also - much tambourine playing. Behold! HV's Pop Culture Picks of the Moment:

Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle

OK, I realize this movie is about three years old; I didn't realize I owned it (read: borrowed from someone years ago and never returned) until Ry, my sixteen year-old brother, came to stay with J and me for a few days. I rented 300 for the occasion, but no one was in a particularly Spartan-esque kind of mood on Friday after returning from the Brew Pub, where we feasted on cocktails, sushi, and chicken parm. (Why don't teens understand the joy of raw fish and avocado? Kids these days.)

We wanted funny, so I charged Ry with going through my DVD collection and choosing a film. And sadly, Harold and Kumar was the best he could do.

Admittedly, the dirty martini made me a bit sleepy, and I dozed off during some of the movie. I was awake for a hilarious dream sequence in which Kumar courts a gigantic bag of weed; and also, a scene in which a young woman shows her boobies, which is always v. comfortable when viewing with younger male siblings. *Shudders.*

The verdict: Meh. Definitely had its moments, and no doubt would have been fucking gut-busting when I was sixteen, a time when I most certainly did not engage in any illegal activity. No sir. Overall, a worthy film for having just arrived home from a night of drinking, though certainly not any other illegal activity. (P.S. Ry? Don't do drugs. Please? Thank you.)

(And also, I think Kumar is pretty hot. No?)

Hairspray

Continuing HomeValley Family Fun Weekend, I trekked to Jersey on Saturday to pick up l'il sisters Cat and Meg for a girls' lunch and an afternoon showing of Hairspray. My adorable sisters where characteristically underwhelmed, but I - having seen the musical twice now - found more reasons to adore it. It's delightful; complete with a deliciously evil Michelle Pfeiffer looking gorgeous as ever and a terrifying yet lovable John Travolta prancing about in drag. And, it's fucking funny. So funny that thirteen year-old Cat gaped incredulously at me several times during the film when I guffawed.

The verdict: Two words: Christopher. Walken. Go.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Housseini

There are certain books that have left an indelible mark on my soul; books that have remained with me for years, that have quite possibly concocted the person I am today. Judy Blume's Just As Long As We're Together tops my list, as does Go Ask Alice. As a young girl, I read and re-read these books countless times. I sought solace in them; they brought comfort when my adolescent world seemed out of control.

But in all my years, of all the books I've read, I can't now recount having been so moved by any one work of fiction. A Thousand Splendid Suns is Housseini's follow-up to The Kite Runner, a similarly harrowing tale set in modern day Afghanistan. The novel follows the lives of two women, Mariam and Laila, through the Soviet invasion until the devastating rise of the Taliban.

I can't do the prose justice here, nor the story of these two women who endure the incomprehensible. What I know is this: in my own life, I hadn't heard the world "Taliban" until Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I knew nothing about Afghanistan, and I suppose after the devastating attacks here, I assumed that the Taliban were Afghanistan. I knew nothing. The depiction of modern Afghani history through the fictional lives of Mariam and Laila was startling; I was stunned and overwhelmed by our shared humanity. Reading in bed each night, I felt outrage for what was happening there; and incredibly thankful for the privileged lives we enjoy here, the basic freedoms we take for granted each and every day (like traveling alone outside of our homes, without a male escort, or our entitlement to education).

I wept when I finished the book this weekend, and then I wiped my tears and asked J if we could have twin girls and name them Mariam and Laila? ("That would be a little weird.") And also, could we join the Peace Corps? ("Sure.") Help UN Refugees? ("Of course.")

The verdict: Please. Read.

Chabaa Thai Bistro, Manayunk

At our tenth? Eleventh? trip here, the Panang Curry only gets better. This BYO is quaint and lovely and makes the best Thai food this side of the Schuylkill.

The verdict: Try it; you'll see.

And, finally:

Flat Rock Saloon, Manayunk

J and I hadn't been to Flat Rock in years, so it was nice choice after dinner with friends Lauren and Eric. One martini into the evening, I suggested Jaegar bombs, which, I confirmed, are nasty.

The verdict: But then, a little cover band called Love Junk happened, and they handed yours truly a tambourine:

Which I played.

And played.

And also sang a little, through my playing.

I don't want to boast, but J called me the "best tambourine player ever."

I concurred.

Babies, Babies Everywhere

Congratulations are in order to friend and blog-reader P, who just yesterday was blessed with a baby girl, albeit a few weeks early. Hooray, P! Wishing you and your baby girl all the best.


Did you know that everyone is pregnant? At least most of the people I know, anyway. Except myself, and Grace. This morning, we attempt to name our future offspring via email:

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

I will have Helen and Grace.

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Did you know that my new favorite boy's name is Henry? How cute will our little regal children be running around?? Henry, Helen, and Grace! Now that is classy.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

I like Henry. Can I call him Hank after a few glasses of wine?

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

NO WAY. Well, as long as no one else hears and picks up on it. It will be like my mother forever protecting me from "Missy". I owe her a lot for that.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

well then you cant call my daughter Nan.

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Yeah right! I am totally calling her that.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

Hank and Nan. Sounds like the Boxcar Children...

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Like the Little Rascals. All we need is for you to have a Spanky.

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

too many jokes in my head right now

From: HomeValley

To: Grace

Today's life lesson:

"If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is "God is Crying." And if he asks why God is crying, I think another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did." - Jack Handey

From: Grace

To: HomeValley

as I was raised on the motto that "Children should be seen and not heard." -Diz (father of Grace)

From: Grace

To HomeValley

We are going to be great mothers.

Popping In

The Internet has turned against me. I have been absent from this beloved forum for so long, it won't let me in anymore. I am writing this to myself via email. It has gotten that bad!

Am also trying to figure out why, since J and I cleaned out our closets on Sunday afternoon in The Great Bedroom Redecoration of '07, our second floor smells of dirty laundry, and our closet reeks of cat piss. Seriously: why?

And speaking of TGBRO07, yes, we did spruce up our sanctuary just a bit, thank you for asking. We've really taken it to the next level. I wanted serene, and oh, we went there. The room once had a dim orange glow to it; it's now been transformed into a blue and white halcyon oasis. And it is glorious, right down to the fake orchid that now adorns our night stand. And it only cost us considerably more than we planned on spending. Still. Glorious.

It was also the perfect time to survey everything in our drawers and closets, and determine which items were Salvation Army-bound. (Didn't I just do this?) Ladies: a moment of silence for the two errant canvas Coach totes that were chucked into the big black trash bag unceremoniously. Yes, they were both nearly 4 years old, and neither had aged well. If only I could have done something, anything, to save them from this fate! But alas, a spot treatment stain remover did not work; and of course there was no way to patch the leather that had been scraped away through years of abuse. Still. It hurt. Take care of your Coach, will you?

In travel news, I wrote a long, eloquent post on paper (!!) last week upon my arrival at the Columbia airport in South Carolina. It was quite clever actually; I discussed how trying it is to travel most of the time, until you realize how many wonderfully beautiful and quirky people you can meet in an airport bar, like a chemist who recently discovered the reason why there is so much nitrogen in the soil, y'all! A scientific breakthrough that warranted me giving him my last quesadilla, because hey! It may seem banal, but I have discovered nothing lately. (Well, unless you count unearthing this wretched cat piss odor out of our perfectly-arranged wardrobe?) So, I wrote until my hand cramped and then it was 197 degrees in Columbia; and I decided it was much easier to drink pinot noir to combat the heat, and not post; and then I was so busy the rest of the week that I had no time to write; am lazy, procrastinating simpleton, etc.

In Big Party news, there may be a destination for the Event J and I will be hosting next July. More to come on that when the details have been sorted.

In I Didn't Realize HomeValley Was That Nerdy news, not only do I have a "Currently Reading" document in my files here (which lists all the books that I have read since 2004), but I also just discovered a list entitled: "Books I Must Read". Heh. Am lovable, and also well-read.

Finally, please, see the film Once. For your own good.

More to come, friends.

I Still Miss Someone (or City)

Spent lovely day in Manhattan yesterday, mostly working from my hotel room on 92nd and 1st, instead of trekking to our Manhattan office, way downtown at Broadway and Wall. Had dinner plans with Vanessa, but asked her to kindly meet me at Coach in Rockefeller first, because I was a woman with a bonus who wasn't afraid to spend it!

Alas, I was afraid to spend it. Damn you, J! Now I am acting all kinds of sensible. Behold, the bag I did not purchase:

Yet.

Over the most expensive glasses of Pinot Noir evah, Vanessa and I chatted the night away. In celebrity sighting news, V recently dined next to Tom Brady and Gisele at a quaint West Village Italian eatery. The word? They are the tallest people she has seen ("like giants!"); Tommy wore a leather jacket that he never removed, despite the oppressive heat; and Gisele is positively gorgeous sans make-up. Oh, and they made out the entire time. Fabulous.

I took the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan yesterday, something I haven't done in years; and impossibly, the views are even more stunning than I remember them. My alma mater, Pace U, lies at the base of the bridge downtown, and even that looked positively gorgeous yesterday in the bright sun. Immediately emailed J upon arriving at the Courtyard Marriott and told him that not only should we move back to New York, but we should probably just live underneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

Of course, during my hellacious commute this morning (10 blocks in sweltering heat to 86th and Lex, approximately 1 billion people clamoring to get on the 6 train, transfering to the 4 train at Union Square, all while lugging a giant computer bag and sweating profusely), I marveled that there was nothing quite like having a home office.

Unless perhaps my office was on the Brooklyn Bridge?

HomeValley in Springfield

New Domain Name?

http://www.omgmyweddingmakesmemiserablewhatthefuckiswrongwithme.com/

First, a heartfelt thanks to each and everyone of you who has either totally not mentioned the Thing That Shall Not Be Named to me, or who has contacted me with a recommendation to call this travel agent or that person who just had a destination wedding. Am grateful. Very, very grateful.

Maybe we don't call it a "wedding" anymore? Maybe we call it a super-fun party. Yes, Super-Fun Party. That takes a bit of the edge off.

Sunday night, I hugged J tightly and whispered in his ear, "Babe, do you think we could elope?"

"Sure," he replied.

"No, no. Really. Would you elope?" I pressed.

He thinks for a moment. "No. I couldn't do it. I'd want my parents and friends there."

Humph. I love you all, but, um, I probably could. No worries. Super-Fun Party is on.

Moving on...

Last week I asked J to print out a post I had written some time ago. I thought that I may have stumbled onto magazine feature gold with it. (I have since changed my mind. Writers.) Within the context of that same email, I mentioned that I'd like to start printing out this blog, so that we could save it. In my own mind, I reasoned that printing this text would allow me to remember my twenties vividly. HomeValley Jr. could then also experience my twenties vividly, and marvel at Mama's clever positioning of the "f" word in most entries.

J. I bounced out of my office to greet him when he came home from work on Friday, and plopped down on the couch.

And noticed a crisp new binder of prose on the coffee table, entitled, "Mullets, M. Gellman, and Mergatroid, Oh My!" Subtitled: "Queens is the New Manhattan: The Sophisticated Diary of a Young Woman in Her Twenties."

Wait! He included the "reviewers" quotes on the cover, like:

"Crude yet classy; raunchy yet adorable..." - J-Money, The Chronicle

"Definitely the next big thing with a clever writing style that challenges anyone not to laugh!" - J, Author of Pick the Next Big Thing

"It's impossible not to love this girl!" - Larry, Future Husband

It was fucking hilarious and beautiful and I laughed uproariously through my tears.

Greetings from the Windy City!

Except not.

Many thanks, US Airways. As always, you are as reliable as my ability to remember to water the damn plants in this house (i.e., not very).

Holy Shit! Heavens to Mergatroid!

Reason Number 734789 why weddings are evil: Both J and I completely forgot that this week marked our second anniversary. What. The. Fuck. Weddings! I will destroy you!

So because I am such an asshat and forgot all about our special day (and you will also hear from me when you get home today, J), I will have to post what I wrote for J on our last anniversary. Slightly edited (you don't get the really good stuff, Internet!)

My Dearest J, Larry, Orlandi, J-Mix Master Money:

One idle Friday morning, about a year ago, I was relaxing in my 3rd Avenue office, trying to invent ways to pass the time until happy hour. While browsing through my Hotmail contacts, I stumbled across your email address and was overpowered by an urge to say hello.

Now, an innocuous email has seemingly altered the course of my life; has changed it for the better in more ways than I can possibly count. Today, it is difficult to imagine my life before J-Money.

I am upping the ante on your 50 reasons, and I will now divulge 100 reasons why I think you are the greatest thing since Kelly Clarkson:

1. You are always patient with me, like when I accidentally break all the glasses in the apartment and you have to clean up the glass and then tend to my wounds with Band-aids and Neosporin.
3. You always keep your word. That’s amazingly rare.
4. You inspire me to keep my word.
5. You are cute when you “admire” your work.
6. You are unfailingly selfless.
8. You listen to me, even when I go on about books/roaches/mice/people/reality TV shows/Kelly Clarkson.
9. You have integrity.
10.You follow the rules on planes explicitly.
11.You always ask “How are you?” and I always believe you are actually interested to hear.
12.You work hard.
13.You are self-confident.
14.You buy me flowers for no reason.
15.You grin and bear when I order expensive martinis.
16.You want to see the world.
17.You will take me along with you.
18.You put up with my hypochondriac tendencies.
20.You love your family.
21.You always try to do the right thing.
22.You help your friends with their houses.
23.You help me with cleaning and organizing.
24.You encourage me.
25.You are responsible.
26.You want to have babies, and unfortunately our son will probably be named “Amani.”
27.I can rest assured that Violet and Amani are getting the best father on the planet.
28.You realize I am stubborn and independent, and you let me be that way often.
29.You tell me the truth.
30.I know you will always be faithful to me, even if you are an incessant dream-cheater.
31.You make time for all of the people in your life.
32.You always make sure we make plans together.
34.You know how to do everything.
35.I get to teach you the big words.
36.You are teaching me to be more sensitive, which can’t hurt.
37.You watch chick flicks with me.
38.You buy me ice cream.
39.You leave the Cheerios and bowl out for me.
40.You lock the door when you leave and I am sleeping.
41.You make my lunch.
42.You let me cry.
43.A hug from you can make it better.
44.You made Greece and Paris (edited in 2007 to say: and Thailand and Cambodia and Colorado and North Wildwood) the most amazing adventure.
45.You love me even when I am cranky.
47.You support me always.
48.You know that we need to discuss problems when they come up, even if I am reluctant. This means we have no lingering resentments. What is better than that?
49.We want the same kind of wedding. (Edited in 2007 to say: WEDDINGS! I WILL KILL YOU!)
50.It makes me incredibly happy to make you laugh.
51.You are absolutely gorgeous and perfect the way that you are.
52.We hold hands all the time.
55.You always assure me I am the most beautiful woman in the room.
56.I always feel like the most beautiful woman in the room when I am with you.
57.You are incredibly chivalrous.
58.You went and told my ex about us. It must have been terribly difficult and uncomfortable, yet you did it and you didn’t complain about it and you got through it. All to be with me.
59.You know what you like and what you don’t like immediately. You’ve got convictions.
60.You think many of my annoying habits are “cute.” (For now!) (Edited in 2007 to say: Yeah. Um, not so much. Anymore.)
61.We can act like kids together.
62.We can act like adults together.
63.Your family is wonderful and I feel completely at home with them.
64.You had Nana make me a blanket!
65.You always tell me you love me.
66.You respect me.
67.You respect my opinions.
68.We watch the Eagles together in our jerseys.
69.You are passionate.
70.Your heart has grown many sizes since we got together.
71.You are not afraid to have difficult conversations with people.
72.You are a true gentleman.
73.Even if you fart a lot on poor, unsuspecting bar patrons.
74.You love the beer garden! So do I.
75.You deal with me being a little jealous every now and then.
76.I can count on you. For anything.
77.We are buddies.
78.We are partners. You treat me as such.
79.Together, we form an unstoppable force of knowledge about all kinds of subjects.
80.We both kinda suck at math. And that’s okay.
81.You are good at your job.
82.You are good at everything.
83.People come to you for advice.
84.I never have to doubt how you feel about me. You are always reminding me in sweet ways.
85.Sinking into bed with you for a nap is the most beautiful feeling.
86.You rub my head sometimes when I have a bad dream.
87.You sing or whistle in the mornings.
88.You are not afraid to admit when you are wrong.
89.You apologize.
90.You tell me that I need to do both more often, and you are probably right.
91.You know how much my brother means to me, and you want to have him over for a weekend.
92.You think Bucky is humorous.
93.You understand why Churd is amazing.
94.You often ask “What can I do for you?” You always try to make me comfortable.
95.The massages. They are heavenly.
96.You really are a dreamboat. I did win the prize.
97.You have a picture of me on your desk. It makes me happy to know that.
98.You take the time to look me in the eyes and tell me you love me.
99.You will put up with my friends and even like some of them.
100. This list was unbelievably easy to write, and I am sure I could go on to 1000.

J, you really are a rock star.

Love Always,

Your HomeValley

Internet, you are free to go vomit now.

The Extent of the Crazy

Have just decided that I will no longer speak of this wedding to anyone, save J. So if you see me, and you dare inquire, "So, how are the wedding plans coming? Have you picked a place yet?"

I will grin maniacally and say only: "I'm right on top of that, Rose!"

Then I will back away from you slowly, still grinning.

Carry on.

So Tired

A long, long time ago, before I was betrothed, Grace and I met the creator of this website at the Beer Garden. He is/was a struggling stand-up comedian (though it looks like he is warming up audiences at The View now, so that's uh, really something).

He made an off-color Terry Schiavo quip early in our conversation, which was most decidedly not funny, but prompted Grace and I to refer to him only as "Schiavo" and shudder at the memory of his joke.

I digress. He was quite proud of his anti-wedding website creation, and he had many one-liners to assert his singular claim that nuptials, plainly, suck.

My point here? "Schiavo" got it right. I hate weddings. They are Giant Looming Purveyors Of Stress And Strife. And They Must Be Stopped.

*Shakes fist; looks up at sky*

That is all.

*sobs*

It's Official: I Am Not Pregnant.

I realize I have been a bit cryptic lately, but allow me to assure you: this new "project" I am working on? It's not HomeValley II. It was never even remotely HomeValley II. But I certainly appreciate the influx of emails and comments and inquiries I received about the picture of J and me* (read: 3).

(And when I am pregnant in two to three years, you guys will be the first to know. Maybe even before J. Seriously - wouldn't it be hilarious to snap a picture of myself in, I don't know, a tee-shirt that read "MILF" or something, and then post it here and send the link to J at work? I imagine the post would be entitled: "Get 'er Done!")

*giggles*

I know Grace's fears were assuaged last night at happy hour in Center City, when I slammed a dirty martini (although, that was mostly just olive juice, wasn't it? Conspiracy???)

But probably not, as I went sentimental like Koos last night when I announced to Grace and Marie** that the first day of high school, as we were introducing ourselves in class after class, I had decided that I would most definitely become friends with Grace and Marie**. And lo! Thirteen years later, we are sharing drinks at Oceannaire. Foresight is a beautiful thing.

* Actually, just a photo of J and me at Hotel Keti in Santorini, Greece. That will make sense soon. Mwah ha ha!
** Name has been changed to protect the innocent.

Things.

Working on a new project, which will be revealed in due time. Hey, did you want to hear what J and I did this weekend?

• Acquired bikes, thanks to my most generous Uncle in rural Pennsylvania. They are only on loan, but since bikes are so G.D. expensive, it is a benevolent gift bestowed upon my ravaged, potentially-thousands-of-dollars-over-our-wedding-budget soul.
• Packed a backpack with water and requisite granola bars (physical exercise makes me famished) and rode like the wind down Kelly Drive, around the Art Museum, and back on the Drive Formerly Known As West River. Did not hit one biker, but was passed. A lot. I tried not to take that too personally.
• Watched The Bourne Identity (fabulous) and The Da Vinci Code (again). Each featured tension-laden car chases through the Parisian streets. Yearned for a stay at Hotel Regina and croissants. Someday...
• Saw a children's swim meet. Thought possibly I should take up the sport. Ate hot dogs and fries as I mulled this over on a blanket in the grass.
• Booked a last minute flight to Chicago for next Tuesday. Just because I had a free ticket that expires on July 24; and I have never been to Chicago. Imagined myself singing in a parade and taking in a game at Wrigley Field; perhaps traveling to the top of the Sears Tower and meeting the Sausage King of Chicago. Wait...
• Finished watching the first season of House. My crush on Hugh Laurie continues to intensify. Also, medical school? A viable option for me?
• Finished this book (alright, I finished it last weekend. But it was so brilliant, so heart-wrenching, I thought you should give it a try).
• Started this book, just because I find the Fifties riveting. This makes me a huge geek. I am alright with that.
• Cleaned. Really! J says we can get a cat as soon as I vacuum the house every day for a year. This will never, ever happen. But once-a-week is definitely a step in the right direction.

This will make sense soon.

Here's lookin at you, Queens.

Dudes!

Happy one year anniversary, Queens is the New Manhattan, you gorgeous, gorgeous gal. In honor of our big day (tomorrow):

Number of beers consumed:

HomeValley: 1
J: 3 (and counting)

Number of rock star hair cuts:

1 (Short, people. Short, shorn, and Awesome.)

Number of minutes it took J to overcome shock at rock star do:

Any second now.

Number of bowls of ice cream consumed:

1

Number of Gin Blossoms songs downloaded:

5

Number of times HV listened to "Hey Jealousy" and danced wildly around house, swinging shorn locks and doing her patented "Molly Ringwald" jig:

7 (and counting)

Number of times HV marveled at how much she loves this modest little blog, and how grateful she is that you've stopped by to read her ever-clever drivel:

8 gazillion (and counting)

Hug and kisses and Gin Blossoms and love to you all,

HomeValley

Tomorrow, maybe, we can drive around this town? And let the cops chase us around? Exactly.

I remember when we were drivin' - drivin' in your car

In case you were sitting behind your desk this afternoon, wondering what was going through the brain of HomeValley today, please, take a look:

You can trust me not to cheat

And not to sleep around

And if you don't expect too much from me

You might not be let down...

Hey jealousy! Hey jealousy

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

Til I hear it from you...

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

Anywhere you go!

I'll follow you down

Folks, this acute condition involves all Gin Blossom lyrics, all the time. Why? Why do I yearn for 90s alternative music so frequently? Is anyone else out there afflicted?

J and I went to Cat's dance recital on Saturday night, and went apeshit when we heard "Wonderwall", "Don't Look Back in Anger", and "Fast Car". These songs? Fucking brilliant. How could we forget?

Oh, and I totally downloaded Oasis when we got home.

And I am totally downloading Gin Blossoms tonight.

And I totally just went rooting through J's antiquated CD collection, and found me some Belly, y'all. Belly!

Keep your head up, boy, when you're talkin to me

And be there when I feed... the... tree.

I don't know what it means - but I like it.

Perhaps a little Empire Records this eve, J?

Oh, and since I actually am still somewhat into contemporary music, this is what made me smile all the way to Pittsburgh last week.

And this is what made my heart soar yesterday.

Overheard in Philadelphia

Monday morning I was at the Philadelphia Airport grabbing a cup of coffee at Cibo Bar in the B terminal. It was before 7 AM, so I was not yet fully functional. A woman was seated next to me, working diligently on her laptop and PDA. She was no-nonsense.

I overheard her first call. "I'm just going to put this out there," she remarked assuredly. "How the FUCK are we going to meet this deadline?!"

I liked her.

A few moments later, she asked for her check, but not before instructing the bartender to "put their first round on my tab." She gestured to the other end of the bar, where four servicemen had just sat and ordered.

"It's four shots of Grey Goose; is that alright?" The bartender asked.

"Yes - whatever they want."

The bartender doled out the shots and informed the military men that the round was on the "lady in the corner." They chorused "Thank you, ma'am" in unison.

"Don't mention it," the woman said as she quickly gathered up her things to head to her gate. "I'd cheers with you if I didn't have meetings all day."

And the multitasker was off.

And my eyes welled with tears.

Because damn - that was classy.

Windfall

Now I hate to jinx myself, Internet, so I will only say this:

Things are good right now.

Just this week, I took Pilates for the first time, and assuaged my anxiety about the dentist. (J and I went for our regular dental check-ups this week, as it has been a shameful amount of years since we have each been. And no cavities! For me. Sorry, J.)

Though I am admittedly crippled from my Pilates class (my abs are stil smarting from the assault), things are going exceptionally well right now. First, came the incomparable Roberta. Then, the planned jaunt to Turkey. Then, remember this? Well, it turns out that things did work out for the best, because I got a promotion. An exciting one! Which I am very excited about! EXCITEMENT!

I feel incredibly blessed, like my Far-Far Hakan. (Anytime you ask Hakan how he is, he consistently replies, "Why, I'm blessed, how are you?" He says it so predictably that each time I politely inquire how he is doing, I picture him rolling his eyes and thinking: "I'm blessed, asshat, as always.")

Anyway.

I was expecting some new equipment with the new job; but today it is like Christmas in our living room. I now not only have a new laptop, but also a new desktop computer, which I haven't the faintest idea how to set-up. (Desktop? Does. Not. Compute.) This brings the total number of computers in our home to a whopping 5. Pretty good for a home that did not have Internet prior to 2007.

Why Brides Go Mental.

Dear Wedding Coordinator at an unnamed resort in Jamaica,

Thank you for your instantaneous, copied and pasted response to my wedding inquiry. I very much appreciate your detailed instructions on how to navigate your wedding website. Now, I think I am ready to book my wedding online! Here is my credit card number, expiration date, and security code. Forget the receipt or an agreed upon fee; I trust that you will take a fair amount for the initial deposit. You, Automated Response, have really put my soul at ease during this day-long process.

I am very much looking forward to receiving that email from "someone" on your staff one month before the wedding date to discuss decorations, flowers, the ceremony, the restaurant, the number of guests, etc. It will be wonderful to have all of the details worked out four entire weeks before my eighty guests are due to arrive. Oh hell, Automated Response, why not just surprise my future husband and me with your plans? We trust your judgment. My only request is that you make a tape deck available for my walk down the aisle; it has been my dream since I was a wee little girl to have a canned version of Canon in D played as I prepared to vow my eternal devotion to my beloved. But you already knew that, didn't you? It's like you are inside my mind.

I am putting the e-Vite together as we speak, dear friend.

Love Always,

HomeValley

P.S. Go fuck yourself.

Ex is Best

On Saturday afternoon I headed to P's baby shower with Grace and friends. It was a pleasant afternoon spent sipping white wine spritzers and eating delicious chicken parm, oohing and aahing over baby gear (until Grace snapped at me to stop doing that already!). I also caught up with an old acquaintance whom I have not seen in years, and who also happens to be an ex-girlfriend of J's from long ago.

When I arrived home, J informed me he was taking me out for a surprise on Main Street. And because he is so awesome, he took me here. We decided we'd grab a quick drink, and wasn't my seventh-grade boyfriend bartending at the new Manayunk version of this bar?

We chatted with Seventh-Grade Beau over Miller Lites as scores of people began filtering in... including another one of J's exes. Of course I over-excitedly extended my hand to meet her, when she informed me we had definitely met before.

Naturally.

We all chatted semi-amiably at the bar, but mostly she just seemed uncomfortable. After she left, I mentioned this to J.

"Yeah, I would expect that... That's two exes today - huh!" J said, smiling, as I suddenly noticed my sophomore dance date ordering a drink at the bar.

I ran up to say hello, just as my senior prom date came into view. Hugs all around!

On cue, my junior prom date appeared behind me.

Obviously, J.D. McGillicuddy's in Manayunk is where exes and high school prom dates go to die. You've been warned.

The Vanessa Reunion Tour

Gah!


Good lord; my heart hurts.


Admittedly, I have had far too many margaritas tonight to be writing this, but man. Tonight Vanessa and I met for drinks and dinner at our favorite spot in Midtown, Rio. Remember, Internet? Remember, when I wrote this?


I miss Queens.


And it's not that I don't love my life now; because I do, and I would not change what J and I have for anything in all of God's green goodness. It's just - well, sitting in a cab on my way back to the Courtyard Marriott on East 92nd with tequila coursing through my veins? It ain't right. Shouldn't I be sneaking into a taxi and sweetly telling the driver that we're going to 28-28 29th Street? Seriously?

Back in the hotel. Why are the Las Vegas Real Worlders having a reunion on my television screen? This isn't going to help.

Jesus. I am going to bed. And I am totally erasing this in the morning.

And also: shut up, Alton.

Got Bangkok to Montauk on lock.

There is this feeling I get when I'm about to land in a foreign country. It's an exhilirating mix of awe, excitement, and reverence. It's incredulity. I am where now? And I get to be here for how long? And I am so fucking lucky I might burst from joy?

I get that feeling when I look at our pictures, or when I pass the time checking out our former hotels online. This sensation of unbridled happiness, mixed with a twinge of sadness, for it's never certain we will return to any one place. (Except you, Cambodia. Oh, we will be back.)

Picking a destination is emotional for me, even though, J will assure you, I want to go everywhere, and see everything. Literally. Last night we watched a "program" (as J refers to television shows, as if it is 1956. It is adorable!) on Stockholm, Sweden, and I got way overstimulated and screeched, "The city is made of 24,000 islands?!?!! Oh my God, I cannot WAIT! We have to go, J. Immediately."

But we won't go to Stockholm next (even though I need to get there soon, to visit Uncle Kurt and get down with all the HomeValleys).

Dudes, we are going here in October:

Istanbul or bust, y'all.

Memories of Cambodia

Dear J,

Thank you for making this possible:

Who's better than you?

Love,

Me

P.S. Mmmm... Angkor Beer.

A New Arrival

Major update coming soon! (Seriously. I know I'm always saying that; but this time I mean it.) Ol's wedding weekend in Long Island! New career developments! Next vacation spot chosen!

But first and foremost today, I'd like to introduce you all to the newest arrival to the HomeValley clan:

Internet, Roberta. Roberta, Internet.

Roberta is a healthy, radiant, four-door Nissan Altima 2.5 S. She is dark slate with a lovely charcoal interior. She also comes with a "moon roof", inexplicably.

She is so purty.

And no, I am not quite sure why her name is Roberta. I went out to admire her last night after returning from the dealership, and the name popped into my head.

Roberta.

Welcome, love.

Also, do you think car salesmen are given a manual upon taking the job, perhaps: How to Be Smarmy and Make Patrons Generally Uncomfortable?

Because: GOD. Douche bags. If Mr. Sales Manager said one more time, "Man, I hope you don't need this extra $900 warranty; but GEEZ! Won't this come in handy if you do!" I was going to have to take him out. Or, my personal favorite: "Now, I normally don't do this, BUT..."

What It's Like At Our House.

J and I are currently sitting on the couch with computers on our laps, reviewing wedding invitations online. (We suddenly have 18 laptops in our home, inexplicably.) I spent the day in Scranton, PA (regrettably, no Dunder-Mifflin there), and I am drinking wine.

HV: Can I get you another beer, J?

J: No.

I dash into the kitchen for more chianti. Upon my return, J looks up and shakes his head.

"Your going to be a drunk," he laments.

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

So many things! To write! Can't focus! Too busy!

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

I am thinking of starting a family-friendly wedding blog, where I will use the word fuck a lot less. Yes, I know I don't update this blog nearly enough. But I'm tipsy and feeling ambitious.

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

Yes, I know there is no real topic here.

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

*Sips wine.*

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

"Babe!" J taps me on the shoulder, directing my attention to the invitation he's just created.

Lovely! A picture of us in Santorini, a photo of our potential resort in Negril, and a message:

Melissa is one hot piece of arse.

I plan to love her for the rest of my life.

God help me.

J! Aw.

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

"The Internet is awesome."

-J

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

Gah! I promise a real post tomorrow. I've got some time before a 10:30 meeting; plus, I've been grappling with a Big Decision that I may attempt to describe as vaguely as possible here, in the hopes of gaining some clarity. Or perhaps we can chat more about penis. Either way.

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

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auEceiMGGk4

Shocked and RuPauled

It's just tragic when you can't find the time to blog, if for no other reason that you lose your window of opportunity to use the aforementioned witty post title to describe your trip to a drag restaurant in Lower Manhattan. My friends, just know that this April bachelorette party consisted of "orgy bowls" (Rainblo's Poontang, anyone?) and men far more woman than I adorned in evening gowns and bikinis. Well, except maybe this lass:

There were lap dances and words we wish to remember forever (Ol, the Bachelorette: "I've had a headache since that queen's balls were in my face, banging my head into that damn metal pole.")

There were the lap dances that should have been; instead, Al and I cowered when we learned what we had volunteered for and scurried back to our table. (It would take a lot of Rainblo's Poontang for that, y'all.)

And there was Porky's, the land of alcohol-poisoned underaged kids from New Jersey drinking liquor from fish bowls and downing yard stick beers. And this guy. (Sadly, that is not us in the picture, nor did we catch him there. I'm just sayin'.)

I have long pondered the origin of the bachelorette party; more specifically, the incorporation of the phallus into any and all bachelorette activities. (I smell a future doctoral thesis!) Penis cakes; penis Jell-o molds; penis martini glasses (that light up!); veil adorned with tiny penises; penis straws; giant inflatable penises; enormous rubber penises; penis necklaces; penis earrings; I could go on.

That's a whole lotta penis, and why? Are we celebrating the acquisition of one final penis til death do us part? Or is this merely an homage to the penis that never was, and now never will be? Also, does the word "penis" look weird to anyone else after reading it this many times?

J and I have opted not to have bachelor/bachelorette parties. As we'll be having all of our guests travel to some Caribbean island in the oppressive July heat for our nuptials, we'll likely do some boys only/girls only activities at the swim-up bar or spa. Also, I have made Grace swear on all that is good and holy to a strict, no plastic cock policy. Lovely as the penis is, I prefer not to wear tiny replicas of it on a pristine white veil.

On the other hand, this guy? Totally welcome.

Game On!

GAH!

So busy.

All (mostly) good things: meetings and more meetings and wedding plans and classes and luncheons and girls' dinners and martinis and nature hikes and family gatherings and phone calls and cooking and grocery shopping and laundry and dry cleaning and bridesmaid dresses and car shopping and honeymoon planning and J kicking my ass to write a novel already and hosting a Mother's Day feast on Sunday and much Goddamnit, J - we cannot use paper napkins! Etc.

I promise a real update soon. I still love you, Internet. As proof, here:

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/report_70_percent_of_all_praise

*Edited to say: What the fuck is wrong with my webpage here? Can everyone see it's gone mad?

I call this post "Too Much Information." Enjoy.

New York.

Sigh.

Still incredible. This past weekend, J and I headed to Manhattan to take in a few shows; namely, The Pirate Queen on Friday night and Jesse Malin on Saturday night at Mercury Lounge. (I assured the boys that I was totally hugging JM this 4th show around. And lo - we held hands! For five seconds! Jesse lurrvvees me.)

Positively delightful and exhausting weekend. Am trying to recover in Boston, whilst reviewing my calendar and wondering how for the love of Pete have I managed to fill our schedules through 2008?

In desperate need of a weekend off. Fingers crossed for June, if I can move some stuff around.

Hey now! The new O Magazine is here!

Skimming through the letters in the May edition, I am reminded about the HORRendous article in last month's issue regarding smarmy dads offering their seemingly sheltered daughters "chastity" rings in a gallant effort to save young women from sex and boys and all the horribleness that follows. (For the record, few things make HV more uncomfortable than dads protecting their little girls' virginity, because: ew. And also: no celibacy for the boys, dads? You don't say.)

Sadly, from the wee bit of the article I managed to read, mothers and fathers and daughters are throwing Hooray for Virginity!(tm HomeValley) balls where girls wear flowing white gowns and proclaim their fathers to be the keepers of their metaphorical chastity belts; until, of course, they marry. Then, and only then, does another man receive The Key.

It's all fun and games, I'm sure, until Virgin Girl hits college.

I should know. Because this Virgin Girl? She was me. Kind of.

Oh relax. I never wore the Big V as a badge of honor in high school (yes, a certain friend and I used to crassly inform the more experienced gals in our circle: "The tighter, the brighter", but we were just being sardonic, and um, really crass); nor did I espouse (a la Jessica Simpson) that I was saving myself for marriage.

Nay - I was more a member of the Cher from Clueless camp: "You see how picky I am about my shoes, and they only go on my feet."

Moreover (J, really, relax), I never went "crazy" in college, as I suspect some kids wearing "chastity" rings are wont to do.

And why? Because I made my own decision. Nothing was shoved down my throat (pun absolutely intended); instead, I received a balanced message. My sexual education consisted of chastity pep talks at my Catholic high school; The Real World, San Francisco (and what was more poignant than Pedro's compelling, cautionary tale); long talks with those girlfriends that had ventured into sexually-active terrain; and a realistic mother, who always reminded me: "Tell me, and we'll get you proper birth control."

Big thanks to all, for that.

So, will the Hooray for Virginity! (tm HomeValley) gals eventually resent their daddies for pushing them to make this "no fornication" vow? Perhaps. Possibly these women will grow into lovely, well-adjusted adults whose early experiences weren't sullied by premature sexual encounters. Surely, we should educate young women on the physical and emotional perils associated with sex, but aren't we sending a dangerous message to young women by, well, forbidding it before marriage? Sex = bad = major issues later in life, no?

This from the girl whose mantra in high school was "the tighter, the brighter". Now there's something to pass on to a future HomeValley Jr.

Dear Readers: I Love You.

I am totally filing this under "Press", in my yet-to-be-created "Press" section:

http://gettingthinnerandthinner.blogspot.com/

Thank you for the shout-out, igroberts!

And also, a heartfelt thanks to another member of my beloved readership, who bestowed upon me an incredible compliment earlier this week. Dear Reader: You are so pretty. Love, HomeValley

And finally, a shout-out to everyone's favorite commenter, the_real_jc, who had this to say this to say about my official "Press", offline:

SWEET LINCOLN'S MULLET! Did you see this? The word is spreading. Pretty soon you'll be like perezhilton.com, and the_real_jc will be known throughout the internet for posting witty but accurate retorts about your fiance!

Dumb Things I Did Yesterday

Yesterday, I lost my mind.

It all began at 6:25 AM, when I FINALLY heard my alarm buzzing. I never sleep through an alarm, so I was a bit concerned that I had managed to do so for 25 minutes.

Perplexed, I crawled out of bed in West Warwick, RI, to start my day.

But I never really got started, as you do. I just sort of schlepped around all day, in a haze of fog. A foggy haze. A hazy fog.

Yeah.

I found myself searching for words during conversations and yawning continuously. Then my condition worsened:

• I hopped in my cobalt blue Chevy Aveo around 4:30, silently reminding myself to get gas. I then drove straight to the airport, into the Avis Car Return, and just as I opened my door I commented incredulously: "I forgot to get gas." (Luckily, a kind woman took pity on me and did not charge me the requisite $6.80 per gallon for my error. Nice lady.)
• I breezed through the security line in my typical self-righteous fashion, putting my laptop in its own bin, thankyouverymuch, tossing my shoes and coat in another bin in record time. When the TSA agent asked me if I had any liquids or gels in my bag, I shook my head and smiled. Like I would be silly enough to have liquids! Man, you must be living under a rock not to know - "Bag check!" Well: fuck. A wonderfully lovely security person removed my giant bottle of lotion and not-cheap perfume from my Coach bag. "I'm so sorry," I muttered, "I am not thinking so well today." She smiled benevolently, found me a plastic bag, and said good-naturedly, "I didn't see this!" Lord have mercy: the kindness of strangers is astounding sometimes.
• Next, I entered the gate area in search of the Adirondack Pub. I know from my vast travel experience that the Adirondack Pub - the sole restaurant in the airport - closes at 6 PM, so I had just a few more minutes to grab a drink and a snack before boarding my plane. I stumbled upon a Mexican cantina and marveled, Wow! This must be new. I grabbed a burrito and a martini, but it wasn't until I paid my check and headed to my gate that I realized there was no Adirondack Pub, as I was not at Syracuse's Hancock International Airport. And also: I am bat-shit fucking crazy.
• I actually managed to make it onto my flight and to baggage claim in Philly. While waiting for my bag, a woman made the mistake of asking me from which flight had I just arrived? * Blank stare *

Have either gone mental or am just suffering from exhaustion. No rest for the weary either, friends, as I am on the 6:52 AM to Manhattan, where there is much work to do! J is meeting me in the city this evening to take me to see the new musical The Pirate Queen. See, he is the sweetest fiance one could ask for, as he is deeply frightened by live people spontaneously bursting into song.

Love, Home "Hoping the Mental Retardation Wears Off Before Somebody Gets Hurt" Valley

A Small World, After All

So... freshman year of college.

Man.

Remember that?

The highs. The lows. The horrifying goth roommate who listened to the Cure all day. The Janet Jackson-adoring lesbian roommate whose refusal to buy toilet paper led Vanessa and I to passive-aggresively hide the toilet paper, which didn't seem to matter as that bitch still went in and did her business sans TP, inexplicably.

What? That was just me? Oh.

The long walks on the Promenade, gazing at the breathtaking Lower Manhattan skyline from just across the water in Brooklyn Heights. The drunken nights at the Clark Street bar on the corner of Clark and Henry, where the kamikazes and amaretto sours flowed for the underaged. The 2 train, the 5 train, and the 6 train, all to get to class. The $4 movie theater. Montague Street. The Greasy Pickle diner.

And my Kenneth.

I used to call him that. My Kenneth. A kindred spirit among so many foreign souls. My world had been so small growing up, and though I was loving all of the interesting people I was meeting (for instance, the former ladies' man turned gay occasional cross dresser, Paul), I was struggling to forge friendships with men and women I couldn't understand. I longed for the familiar. Before my Kenneth, I promptly located the familiar in smarmy men (for certainly, they exist in towns both small and large). I broke up with a nice boyfriend at home after falling for a smarmer; really, I had fallen only for common ground. In an environment rife with theater majors and transvestites, for a solid week or two, I felt as if Smarmy Man understood me.

Yeah, um, not so much.

Psychoanalysist HomeValley says in hindsight: I was desperate for the comfort of a relationship to fill the void.

When all along, I just needed a Kenneth.

Kenny appeared in my life instantaneously: one minute he was not there; the next, we were BFF. I had seen him at school and marveled that he was cute with his short, curly blonde hair and blue eyes. During the second semester, he moved into my Brooklyn dorm. He was living with his fellow high school alum Paul, and was completely at ease rooming with a gay man. ("I told him he'd be fine, just to sleep with his ass against the wall," Paul later told Vanessa and me.)

A bunch of us went out to the Pickle for breakfast one weekend morning, a smorgasbord of sexual orientations and backgrounds. When Kenny learned I was from Pennsylvania, he noted that his girlfriend was also from the state.

A beautiful, platonic, short-lived relationship ensued. Which, you understand, was precisely what the doctor ordered for Freshman HomeValley, in all of her glorious bobbed hair and naivete.

My Kenneth and I hung out. That's it, really. We spent time together talking and laughing, and he remained happy with his PA girlfriend, who I met a few times. If he was trekking to see her for a weekend, he would give me a ride home.

I have one picture of us together taken during our freshman year. We're sitting on my bed, in front of the wall adorned with Matt Damon clippings from magazines. And we're smiling. I am beaming. I am utterly at ease with Kenny.

The next year, K and I both left Marymount. While I was at Pace University, he was living at home in Long Island. Occasionally, he and his cousin Thomas would come to pick me up and take me there, where we would just hang out. That's it, really. Then, sometime near the end of my sophomore year, our friendship had run its course. Kenny left my life the same way he entered: abruptly. There was no reason for it; we just drifted, until one day I woke up and it was 2002, and I realized I hadn't spoken to Kenny in years.

In true HomeValley style, I called him one night after draining a bottle of vino at my apartment. I learned, via his mother, that he done grew up and got married at 22! And not to his PA lady friend. Another girl. "Wow," I marveled to Mom of Ken. "Well, tell him Melissa says 'hello'!"

Godspeed, Kenneth.

This is the point in the story where I would normally wax poetic about the nature of relationships: how some are fleeting, some are forever, but all leave an indelible mark. Our time as BFF was meaningful albeit brief, and with the clarity of years passed I can understand its significance.

But Christ, y'all, I hadn't even considered its significance until composing this post. Because today? Seven years later? My Kenneth? My goddamned motherfucking Kenneth was in the lobby of a Stamford, CT, hotel, at the same motherfucking time as me.

I was waiting for an appointment, when he breezed past me and sat at the table next to mine. Our eyes locked for a moment, and then I looked away and went back to typing emails. Of course I didn't recognize him. I am hopelessly oblivious to my surroundings most of the time.

But then, I overheard him introduce himself to the man he was meeting in that lobby and my mouth fell open. And lo - that man ran back to his room to change clothes, and I yelled Kenneth's full name and beamed.

He jumped up to give me a giant hug as he said, "I thought that was you! That's why I looked at you!"

For the record, we both look exactly the same (well, no more bob for HV). We are both just oblivious nerds.

We played the catch-up game, which was lovely. Married! Buying a house! Two kids!

He gave me his card, and though I was unable to reciprocate (what - you are surprised to learn I never remember to bring cards anywhere?), I am not sure I will contact him. Our time has passed. Still, how wonderful to see him once more, and to learn that he is happy. He seems truly happy. Go, BFF. Go forth and prosper and be ridiculously contented always.

That is what I wish for you, my semester-long soulmate.

The Secret

So last night J arrived home from work and I schlepped downstairs, still feeling sickly (though admirably, I had managed to shower and put on a little make-up). Since J comes from the school of "mind over matter", he decided the sure-fire way to get me out of my funk was to take me to Barnes and Noble, and Lowe's for good measure (since I was the one who broke the toilet handle on Saturday night, it was only fair).

Once secure in that magical happy land of literature, I decided on a book immediately for the first time in history (Stephen King's much-lauded Lisey's Story). And so I plopped my ill frame next to J in the travel section, as he perused books on Peru and Panama, our potential honeymoon destinations... A few moments later he was ready to leave, and as we meandered to the registers, I came upon the ubiquitous self-help phenomenon, The Secret.

"Did you figure out 'The Secret' yet?" J asked.

"Yes." I replied quickly. "Apparently it's the law of attraction."

"How so?"

"Well, whatever you put out there in the universe is what you will attract."

"Oh." Beat. "So what do you think you've been putting out into the universe lately?"

Humph.

"Um... Depression, bitterness, and, you know, phlegm?"

The Future H and his anvil of clarity have a point. HV has not been all sunshine and flowers lately. Most of it has to do with your run-of-the-mill, professional malaise, as I explained to J on Saturday afternoon.

"Can we PLEASE turn off The Flavor of Love now?" J asked for the fifth time.

"No, J. Am deeply depressed, and this is the only thing that makes me feel better about my life!" HV, in a troubling, melodramatic turn.







You know it's bad when you're relying on New York and Hoopz to throw you a life line.

The truth is, am not "deeply depressed." Have just been in major professional tailspin that has left me feeling overwhelmed. And whenever I feel overwhelmed, I become paralyzed.


This week, the paralysis happens to involves Sex and the City repeats (Third Season Carrie, you selfish, punning whore!), Easter Candy, and some nasty mucus.







Oh, and also some Woe Is Me! Talents Are Underappreciated! Am Doomed! stream-of-consciousness thinking, for good measure.

Please reference yesterday's post title. Did ya get it? Y'all remember the scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, when Ferris called sickly, pessimistic Cameron, who promptly told Ferris he was dying? And Ferris, wise sage, replied: "You're not dying; you just can't think of anything good to do."

That about covers it.

Am looking for something good to do and just may find it, if I can clear my sinuses and remember that I am Damn Talented, and that it is up to me to make it right! After all, if there is anything I learned from watching the first eight minutes of the hokey "Secret" video, it's that all of the great men in history operated via the Law of Attraction, and now that Secret has finally been shared with the masses, and that if we all just envision ourselves as millionaires, then we will all be millionaires. That's the gist, right?

Sarcasm aside, HomeValley is now off to her Happy Place, where she thinks only good thoughts and remains consistently assured that if she stays steadfast and positive (and stops referring to herself in the third person), all of her dreams will come true.

You're not dying; you just can't think of anything good to do.

Ugh.

Am sick.

I woke 85484 million times in the night with the goddamned itchiest throat in history, and then all of this magical phlegm came out of nowhere! I stumbled out of bed with J this morning, crawling towards the bathroom for the Advil Cold and Sinus, and mumbling incoherently about antihistamines.

I have taken 57449 vitamins in an attempt to heal myself holistically. Still, I am cranky, especially since I have been skimming blogs this morning and wondering why all of the other blogs get so much more traffic than mine? Especially since I am so witty when I discuss phlegm? And then I realized that blogs get that much more popular via networking, and am terrible networker in life and in the blogosphere, and will probably die of this wicked cold, never having been published. Then I gaze intently at my copy of Writer's Market and vow to start devouring it this weekend, as my adorable thirteen year old cousin Churd told me on Easter that he wanted to be a writer, and at this rate, he will be acclaimed novelist before me.

Have a great day, Internet. Enjoy your health.

The Drunk Girl

Wonderful weekend of wondrous news!


Cuzzy is engaged!


Koos is pregnant!


HomeValley was drrruunnnkkk!


You see, it was an incredibly momentous weekend.


A Martin Sexton show at the TLA on Thursday night plus one martini, two cosmos, and two beers equals The Drunk Girl. She giggles! She dances erratically! She "WOOs!" a lot at the concert and also shouts out inappropriately, like when everyone else is somewhat silent.


An evening out with Cuzzy and now-husband-to-be Dave on Friday night, plus one glass of wine, two beers, and two cosmos equals The Drunk Girl. She screams when Dave confides he will propose this weekend! She giggles! She talks loudly! She insists that her fiance does not realize the true depth of her love for him, so she protests by laying outside on the sidewalk.


"Babe, come in, please."


"I won't! Not until you realize how much I really lurrrvvee you!"


"I know you really love me. Now come inside."


"You don't know it! I shall protest here until morning." Uncontrollable giggling, as I find my protest positively hilarious.


After one minute outside, the cold gets to me and I resolve to move this sit-in inside.


"Oh hey," says J, emerging from the kitchen with a bowl of granola cereal.


I sprawl out on the living room floor.


After J finishes his snack, he lays down next to me.


He's sweet like that.


P.S. Mom of HomeValley is after me for an engagement picture. She cannot get my engagement announcement to the DelcoTimes fast enough, as she likely thought I would never take a husband.


P.P.S. No, really, she told me as much at Koos's wedding in January of 2005, when I was a newly single 24 year old living in Queens. "Oh Melis," she began, teary-eyed, "Did you cry at the first dance? I did! Oh my gosh, I am going to cry so hard when you get married!" Then her tone changed to one of absolute seriousness. "That is - if you ever GET married." She immediately flitted away, leaving also-single Grace and HomeValley slightly amused and bewildered in her wake.


P.P.S. This is my favorite picture of us. It was taken at a bar in Fira, Santorini, last June. Internet, the engagement picture:

I am the ULTIMATE Wedding Planner.

"Did you call the travel agent?" J asked me yesterday, for the 16th time.

As if I had time to call anyone, with all my work-related belly-aching!

To date, I have sent approximately three emails, called one travel agent, and purchased a book entitled Destination Bride.

Internet, my real planning prowess is in the details: jotted down in the moment in the "Wedding Notes" book that Vanessa gave me as an engagement gift. In it, I record what is really important:

2/16

Make sure Tom Jones's "She's a Lady" is played at wedding reception.

2/16

Drunk.

Play Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". Cause that will be awesome.

"Dick in a Box"?

Judd just suggested Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up". Genius! This is why we are marrying.

Mmm. Wine.

So I may not have an exact date, destination, or dress picked; but by God, I know at least two songs that will be played.

Taboo

There is an oft-written, age-old blogging rule that states:

Thou shalt not blog about work.

I have lived by this rule of thumb since beginning this venture, though I have certainly discussed my travel schedule, as well as vague company events. And still, I won't really post about my profession. I won't name the industry; nor the company; nor any of my coworkers.

I will, however, tell you that after 2.5 years on the job, I was informed that I am not quite qualified to...

(Drumroll, please!)

Do my own job, in a slightly more senior capacity. That is, not quite learned enough to explain to people what I do and how I do it.

Dejected, I was informed that there was indeed a light at the end of this proverbial tunnel: I am still regarded as a valuable part of the team.

Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? I am bowled over. You actually value my work? Gee, that's incredible, and quite the coup!

(I did try desperately not to let this biting sarcasm seap into the aforementioned conversation. I am sure I failed miserably.)

The truth?

It absolutely pains me to write these words.

I'm used to being good, thank you very much.

On the phone, I could feel my voice quaking in that way I abhor; I was about to burst into tears. Attempting to speak clearly, I bravely muttered that I wanted to "digest" this information and decide how I wanted to proceed.

I hung up and as my eyes welled, I called J.

I forgot he was in a meeting. I emailed Grace.

Then I put on my sneakers, grabbed my keys and my iPod, and headed out for a frappucino.

Jamiroquai buzzed in my ears that there really was nothing left for me to do but dance, all these bad times I'm going through. Canned heat in my heels tonight, y'all.

Despite myself, I smiled in the blinding sunlight. The eternal optimist in me thought, Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be.

Channeling that intriguing Lost episode that featured Desmond (That creepy old lady: "You don't buy the ring! You break Penny's heart and then you enter that boat race and then you end up on that island and then you press that damn button!") Perhaps I am supposed to get angry and frustrated. Perhaps I am supposed to finally move on and do something great.

Delicious caramel drink in hand, I headed back to the house to "digest" (fucking work-speak) my predicament and make some difficult decisions.

I am sure J will shoot this down, but how about "I'm just not gonna go anymore."

This ain't your mother's bridal shower! (Oh wait: all of our moms are here.)

On Saturday, the ladies and I hosted a bridal shower for Ol, who will be getting hitched on Memorial Day weekend. I was in charge of games and prizes! Eschewing traditional bridal party fare, I composed a game entitled "Famous TV Couples", and guess what I did? I listed 20 surnames, and made our guests fill in the first names of these "Famous TV Couples." Ha! Wayne? Conner? Roper?? No one said it would be easy to win my prizes, y'all: My Best Friend's Wedding DVD (get it?); My Big Fat Greek Wedding DVD (stop, it's too adorable!), and then some pretty blue candles with lovely stained glass plate thing-a-ma-jigs, if that's your bag.

As it turns out, no one really paid attention to my cutting age game, except of course my mother, who thrives on such competitive mindfucks. And watches far too much television.

The real moral of the story is that Ol, Allie, Koos, and I have been friends since elementary school, when I was in love with Fran N. in the fifth grade proclaiming Love Day a national holiday. Ol was dating Fran by the eighth grade, which was fine, because by then I was totally over him and dating Allie's younger brother (yeah, a few of us fell hard for some of those seventh grade boys). The four of us were inseparable during our 14th year, having sleepovers at Ol's and mischievously scheming to sneak out at 4 AM to meet boys and drink beers and get high! Er - fine. We actually we did none of those things; we opted for a 4 AM hike to the Dunkin' Donuts a quarter of a mile up the street; but hell, that trip alone somehow got Allie grounded for months (who ratted us out??). Bad-asses.

All of our moms were present on Saturday, and since they don't get together too often, they took some time to reminisce.

"Look at that face," Allie's mom said when I dropped by their table to interrupt their conversation. "Just like when they were kids! Where does the time go?"

You said it, Mom of Al. We're all - old. Getting married; already married; having babies (second babies, D!); growing up. I shudder when I realize: we've been friends for over 20 years. We've been through death, divorce, heartache; but also provided each other so much joy, complete with countless fits of uncontrollable giggling. After two decades, the mundane is still HILARIOUS when we're together.

Alarmingly close to 30, I guess it doesn't get much better than that.

Even if no one really cared about my damn party game and someone (gasp!) left her copy of My Big Fat Greek Wedding behind.

Jack Talk Thai, Part I

The days before our trip were as fast and furious as Britney's breakdown. I was traveling, unfortunately, to Providence RI, and Worcester, MA. I found myself putting in 12 hour work days, with nary a moment to blog.

The morning of the 21st, I arose at 5 AM in Worcester; drove to Providence; hopped a plane for Philly; took a cab to Manayunk; worked and packed all day; until Future Sis-In-Law whisked J and me to 30th Street Station, from which we high-tailed it to New York. Lovely ex-roommate Vanessa let us crash at her Hudson Street apartment for the evening, and at 8 AM, Feb. 22nd, we were finally JFK-bound.

Nerve Tonic in hand, we boarded our 17-hour flight to Bangkok. (Sweet, sweet Nerve Tonic. In lieu of valium, I opted for a homeopathic stress reliever, which I found earlier in the week at CVS. I don't really believe it did a fucking thing, but hey, I survived 40 hours of flying without a single panic attack! Am awesome and fearless.)

Flight was actually quite lovely, as I got to watch a ton of television and movies! And eat delicious Thai food! And I actually was able to sleep! Although, J and I were roused several times by the hippie woman behind us SCREAMING bloody murder, apparently in her sleep. And my GOD, the farting. But other than that, bravo Thai Airways. Bravo.

After another short flight from Bangkok, we made it through customs at Chiang Mai with no Brokedown Palace incidents, and at approximately 9 PM Thai time (9 AM our time, so yeah, 21 hours after we started this journey), we were delighted to find a man with a sign, bearing J's last name. And lo, though I practiced it mercilessly before we left, this moment was to be the only time one of us would utter the phrase:

"Poot pa sa ang grit dai mai?"

Which means, "Do you speak English?"

And then the reply: "Nit noi."

Which means, "A little."

Wow. Don't act like you're not impressed.

And so we rode in a taxi to our first hotel, the serene Tamarind Village. Which is truly a story for another day.

To be continued, you gorgeous Internet, you.

Time to Stop and Smell the Hazelnut Folgers...

Today, at Kinko's (yes, my sweet, sweet computer is busted once again), I purchased a book on organization. (In his office, upon reading this, J has just rolled his eyes and sighed tiredly.)

But no - seriously - ORGANIZATION. I think it is the solution to ameliorating the chaos in my life (order eliminating chaos? Imagine.) and regaining some sanity, as well as blogging time. I am always running around and making plans (by the way, I should have been at tonight's Manhattan event a half an hour ago), and something needs to give. Lest I suffer a complete nervous breakdown.

I think I have made some exciting decisions in terms of my professional life, ones that I will share here all in due time (Remind me later to tell you the "BIG THANKS TO JUDY" story. It's awesome and did not at all cause screaming and hair-pulling and histrionics on Friday night. Nope. Not at all.)

So - ORGANIZATION. It's a new idea that I fully intend to see to fruition. Join me, won't you? I am in super-list making mode and "Finally blog about your fucking magical trip to Southeast Asia, you lazy whore" is high on my priority sheet.

All my love,

HV

Love Day

In 1991, I was in luurrrvvveee with Fran N. Deeply, deeply in love. I was in the 5th grade, and Mrs. McCullough played Cupid and seated Fran and I next to each other in class, and God, it was beautiful.

In late February, BFFs Erin, Marie, and I began preparing for our first boy-girl dance. Fran prominent in my mind, we shopped for cute outfits. I just knew my hot pink leggings and flowery top (which billowed out into a skirt, like, how hot is that?) were enough to entice the object of my affection. And lo, on March 9th, in the St. Gabriel's church hall, Fran asked me to dance! Three times! To the strains of Jodeci's "Forever My Lady", I felt my heart swell. In May, Lisa Moore would mouth to Fran "Will you go out with her?" as we sat bored in Mass, and Fran would, um, nod his assent, strong silent type that he was. We would then speak twice on the phone in the next six months, and then my love would unceremoniously dump me that October as he played football in the schoolyard.

But glorious, glorious March 9th was The Greatest Day in My 11 Year-Old Life. Thus, I declared it "Love Day" as I day-dreamed in my bedroom at Dad's house. I proceeded to cut out pink construction paper hearts and scribble "LOVE DAY. MARCH 9th" on each of those hearts, throwing them around the bedroom, humming to myself.

Happy Love Day, y'all.

Jack Talk Thai, Part I

The days before our trip were as fast and furious as Britney's breakdown. I was traveling, unfortunately, to Providence RI, and Worcester, MA. I found myself putting in 12 hour work days, with nary a moment to blog.

The morning of the 21st, I arose at 5 AM in Worcester; drove to Providence; hopped a plane for Philly; took a cab to Manayunk; worked and packed all day; until Future Sis-In-Law whisked J and me to 30th Street Station, from which we high-tailed it to New York. Lovely ex-roommate Vanessa let us crash at her Hudson Street apartment for the evening, and at 8 AM, Feb. 22nd, we were finally JFK-bound.

Nerve Tonic in hand, we boarded our 17-hour flight to Bangkok. (Sweet, sweet Nerve Tonic. In lieu of valium, I opted for a homeopathic stress reliever, which I found earlier in the week at CVS. I don't really believe it did a fucking thing, but hey, I survived 40 hours of flying without a single panic attack! Am awesome and fearless.)

Flight was actually quite lovely, as I got to watch a ton of television and movies! And eat delicious Thai food! And I actually was able to sleep! Although, J and I were roused several times by the hippie woman behind us SCREAMING bloody murder, apparently in her sleep. And my GOD, the farting. But other than that, bravo Thai Airways. Bravo.

After another short flight from Bangkok, we made it through customs at Chiang Mai with no Brokedown Palace incidents, and at approximately 9 PM Thai time (9 AM our time, so yeah, 21 hours after we started this journey), we were delighted to find a man with a sign, bearing J's last name. And lo, though I practiced it mercilessly before we left, this moment was to be the only time one of us would utter the phrase:

"Poot pa sa ang grit dai mai?"

Which means, "Do you speak English?"

And then the reply: "Nit noi."

Which means, "A little."

Wow. Don't act like you're not impressed.

And so we rode in a taxi to our first hotel, the serene Tamarind Village. Which is truly a story for another day.

To be continued, bitches.

Obviously, the network veeps are reading.

Thank you, faithful reader "A", for this brilliant gem of information:

NEW YORK (AP) -- Those Geico "cavemen" shouldn't be so upset after all -- they may get their own television series.
ABC said Friday it had ordered a pilot for a comedy, tentatively titled "Cavemen," that features the characters used in a series of ads by the insurance company.
In the ads, cavemen appear insulted by a Geico pitchman's claim that the company's Web site is so easy to use that "even a caveman can do it."
The potential series, one of 14 pilots that will be produced by Touchstone Television this spring, features the cavemen as they "struggle with prejudice on a daily basis as they strive to live the lives of normal thirty-somethings in 2007 Atlanta."
It's unusual for characters from an advertising campaign to move into shows of their own, but not unprecedented. The CBS comedy "Baby Bob" featured a talking baby that had been used in several advertisements, according to Daily Variety.
The advertising copywriter who helped create the "cavemen" ads is writing the pilot, the studio said.
A pilot order is no guarantee a show will make it on the air; in fact, the majority of pilots don't make it that far.

Vacation Over. Seriously???

Home, once again!

It's hard to imagine that just two days ago, we were in Siem Reap, Cambodia, and Bangkok, Thailand.

Then, at 1 AM Thailand time we were airborne for another 17 hours, flying over China.

Then, Judd's parents lovingly fetched us at JFK at 6 AM yesterday morning.

Then, we arrived home, showered, and slept all day.

Then, we woke up at 8 PM, but couldn't keep our eyes open, so we went with it, and kept sleeping, finally rising at 4 AM and watching Lost on DVR. (And wasn't Jack in Thailand, on Phuket, in an episode we missed!)

And now, it's back to the daily grind, isn't it?

Sigh.

Was amazing, beautiful, magical voyage. Stay tuned for a more in-depth analysis, and 748784 pictures! Now, I must dig out from a million emails and will myself to work, when all I am interested in doing is adopting ten children from Cambodia, or being back in that longtail boat, headed for the Railey West beaches in Krabi.