Oh, and...

...I'm pretty sure I sauntered up to my old boss (the regional VP) last night at the hotel bar in Boston, wrapped an arm around him, and demanded he sing karaoke with me (despite no karaoke machine anywhere to be found). Using my Miller Lite as a mic, I proceeded to sing a few bars of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". I was reassured this morning that he really enjoyed my performance.

The moral of the story?

I'm awesome.

When People Stop Being Polite...

J and I had a lovely Memorial Day weekend. In fact, as I watched my brother light sparklers at Grandpop's house on Sunday at dusk, my heart swelled. I watched all the kids in the front yard and thought: One day they'll remember these picnics fondly as the best days of their lives. It was a scene you'd recognize from a movie montage, with "What a wonderful world" playing in the background as the children scrambled around, laughing and playing.

And then, I was brought promptly back to reality.

Lord, I wish I could write it here. But it's personal stuff. Suffice it to say that a typical bbq broke off into a much-needed extended family therapy session, complete with tears and truth-telling, and "I love yous" had by all. And for all of the pain that was discussed, it was a very hopeful conversation. We said things the things you don't talk about; the unpleasantness that is typically swept under the proverbial rug. It was really very liberating, and I hope the conversation affected the others so profoundly.

And if I haven't said it here before, I'll say it now. Happiness? Is hard work. You can't sit on your ass all of your days, waiting for it to find you. As if you spend all of your life in misery - moaning about your job, your family, your friends, and Mondays - and suddenly Senor Happiness drops by your home unexpectedly, and you're all: Finally! Man - it's about fucking time you showed up!

I have been unhappy. I have been through pain. Sometimes, I wonder if I am able to remain optimistic because I haven't quite gone through enough pain yet; and then I begin to worry about impending doom, and then I say Shut up, brain! You mustn't worry about the things you can't control. And that actually works. Mostly.

I am so very grateful for the life that I have. Possibly I am obtuse. Most days, I feel lucky and blessed. And this is a very bold statement, but I think you should to. Even if you're not happy, I say, pretend you are. Then do the thing(s) that will make you happy. Then eventually, you will be happy. The end. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

J and I got home on Sunday night and, as I absently watched Hitch on TNT, I couldn't stop thinking about the important conversation I had had earlier. I wondered what I could do to help; how could I be supportive? I started to feel awful before I realized that I cannot take all of this on. It's not mine. I can help; but I can't obsess.

Happiness is a choice. For some, I believe other barriers (chemical, emotional, trauma) make that choice much more difficult. For me, I wake up most days with the steely intent to enjoy my life. To be nice to others. To be grateful for all the wonderful things. To love my husband and family and friends.

Some days, I suck at all of those things. So I wake up the next day and try again. It's simple to me, and I hope you see it Secret Person(s) That I Am Speaking of Incredibly Vaguely Whom I Love Unconditionally, or SPTIASOIVWILU.

Always here for you.

*******************************************************************************
In other news that is incredibly humbling, J and I went to visit his Nana in her new home, a "nursing and rehabilitation center". Nana is 91 years old and remaining strong. She can still speak, though it's difficult for her, and J's mom worries that she is in pain. Dyke (I am sure he hasn't heard that one before), J's pop-pop and Nana's husband of 68 years, sits dutifully by her side each day, holding her hand and keeping her comfortable.

Her neighbor, the incorrigible Victor, sits in the hall with a towel wrapped around his head. He moans, "Oh God! Oh God!" repeatedly. He snaps at young children and nurses who walk by: "What have you got to EAT! I'm hungry!" As J and I sat visiting with Nana on Saturday, he finally wheeled himself to the doorway, smiled and waved to me.

"Hi," he said kindly. "Say, you got anything to eat in there?"

Humble and grateful. I'm just sayin'.

Ballin', but Greasy.

Was it my gorgeous, greasy hair? Was it my bloodshot eyes, bedazzled by gray, puffy circles, thanks to an utter lack of sleep? (Shot bolt right up in bed last night about 1:30, and, wide awake, finished the third Sookie Stackhouse novel) (Addicted!) (Digression.)

Whatever it was, there was something about the way I sashayed into the Columbus Northwest Marriott this eve that screamed: baller. The young man at the front desk took heed! He looked me over and then stated plainly: “I’m gonna hook you up.” He told me I’d be on the top floor (“use your key to get up in the elevator”), and, with a wink, warned me: “Don’t get lost in your room.”

Ballin’.

And so I greet you from the the concierge floor, which is really quite a snoozefest without my sidekick J (though the tub is divine) AND the real concern here is mah greasy hair. My. Greasy. Hair. Do you know how celebrity stylists are constantly berating us to skip the shampoo? That our hair will be so much more manageable and lovely if we go a few days between washings?

Lo, I am not that girl.

For shame!

Sexy greasy!

Does not do Grease justice.

It's really such a terrible, oily tragedy, just one day sans washing. Do not let this happen to you! Lather-rinse-repeat, as needed. Indeed.

In other non-news, I could get used to nonsense blogging!

HomeValley's Helpful Hints!

If you have forgotten your mobile phone charger at home, and if you have subsequently forgotten to buy a back-up charger at the Providence Place mall (despite that being the reason you went to the mall in the first place but oh Forever 21 is there!), fear not! Just go to the front desk at your hotel and ask to borrow one of the 89803 forgotten chargers they have stored behind the desk. That's because of people like me! You're welcome.

This has been a HomeValley Helpful Hint!

Doin' It Badly.

Has it really been nearly a month since I've written anything?


Aye, it has.


I have been very busy perfecting my life and ignoring my blog. Case-in-point, last week I bought an audio CD: 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself, by Steve Chandler. And you know something? It's actually quite effective! Consider that Steve says that one of the reasons we avoid doing a particular task is because we are afraid we'll do it badly. The solution, then, is to just do it, and embrace doing it poorly! In fact, do it as badly as you must, as long as you are doing it. I liked this one a lot. I hope you do as well, as I present an exceptional foray into mediocre blogging. Won't you come along?

I have spent a lot of time and energy making lists, setting deadlines, and trying to achieve my goals - the lofty ones, and the daily ones. To date, I've:

• Made a bonfide chore chart! It's true. I brainstormed and jotted down all of the chores that need to be done on a weekly, bimonthly, and quarterly basis (no seriously) and created an excel spreadsheet, which I printed and fill in whenever I manage to get something done around the house. Yes, there are still more "J"s on my chart than "M"s, but this is progress.


• Run, a lot. I was completely overwhelmed on the eve of Mother's Day, as per usual. Each year, J and I prepare a lovely meal for our immediate families to celebrate our mums, which means we host roughly 10 people. I am always consumed by the task, though this year I vowed to be calm by preparing to-do lists well in advance, and having a test run of the proposed meal the week prior. When the test meal wasn't quite excellent enough, I was in panic mode. I whined to J out of frustration, and silently thought that I would have to nix the Susan G. Komen 5K that Sunday morning. Now, because of my lack of preparedness, I've foregone the 5K for the past two years. The fact that I even entertained the idea of bailing a third year made me angry. So I stopped moaning; J and I went to the grocery store and resigned ourselves to a meal of pasta and meat sauce. I rose the next morning at 5:30 AM, caught the 6:11 train for Center City, and made my way through the race festivities, alone. And it was glorious. It's quite humbling to stand among breast cancer survivors, feeling their hopeful energy. It makes it impossible to complain about your trivial troubles. By the time I started the race, I felt positively giddy. I made it through the course in 30 minutes and 2 seconds, which was good enough for me. More exciting was the turning point; the decision to take action, and the subsequent feeling of triumph. I could do it! Since, I've run roughly every other day, 2 or 3 miles at a time, and I am committed to running the Philadelphia Half-Marathon on November 22nd. And you know what? This time feels different. This time, I know I can stop making excuses and accomplish a damn goal already. I'm ready.


• Made lists, and then more lists. For work, I made a list of what I need to do on Monday mornings (shit- must do those things ASAP); I made a list of what to do on Friday afternoons. I hung it up in front of my desk, and, when I am working from my office (i.e., not now), I know what needs to be done (change VM to accurately reflect weekly travel; return emails/VMs, etc.) It's all terribly mundane but conversely very exciting to me, because it alleviates the pressure. I don't have to hide or cower; I just have to do these things. Brilliant! I also created a Master List of things to accomplish in the month of May, which I have been attacking little by little. Again: progress.


• Developed a new found respect for Arnold Schwartenegger. I am not being facetious. In 100 Ways To Motivate Yourself, Chandler discusses the time he interviewed Arnold in the mid-70s, around the time his first movie flopped at the box office. He asked the future Terminator: "Now that you've retired from professional body-building, what are you going to do next?" To which Ahnuld responded calmly: "I am going to be Hollywood's biggest box office star." I, along with Chandler, was floored by that; here is an Austrian man who had an extremely successful career as a body-builder; a massive career as an actor; and an equally impressive career as a governor of one of the largest states in the country. And yet, seemingly, he had it in him all along. He told himself it would be so, and it was. Respek.

So, that's the gist. I am trying to get my affairs in order, and also trying to ascertain where my writing fits into it all. J and I spent last weekend in DC with lovely friends Matt and Maria, and at one point Matt asked me if I was still blogging. I wasn't sure how to respond to that; nor could I expostulate on exactly why I have been so reticent to write lately. I am sure all will become clearer as I continue in my odyssey of organization and self-actualization. Stay tuned.

I've got PMS.

There is one large pimple on each side of my face, the frightening pair adorning my cheeks like freakish goiters.

I am inexplicably angry and dangerously immobilized. I can go from contented to egregiously annoyed in mere seconds.

That's right, folks! I've got PMS!


Today I growled at J like David after Dentist.


"Oh no!" He cowered. "A week of this?"


It's true. The familiar tidal wave of hate has arrived!


Circumstances are making my case slightly more dire today. I was scheduled to be in DC this morning, though I had nothing pressing (er, nothing) on my calendar. I foolishly decided to make the trek on I-95 South (brave little martyr) and was ceremoniously defeated by nefarious rain and traffic. About 70 miles into my journey, I actually, you know, called the DC office to double-check that I had nothing pressing. Once confirmed, I immediately turned around and white-knuckled it home through the downpour. Nothing like a completely pointless four-hour drive in the rain first thing on a Monday morning!

I also initially titled this post "I've Got PMS and a Handgun" (an homage to the tee-shirt that was once ubiquitous on the Wildwood boardwalk); then I realized dude, you're an asshole! It's only the 10th anniversary of the Columbine massacre. I am crabby and insensitive.

Then, as if I needed another reason to be absolutely miserable, I watched a documentary of the Columbine killers on You Tube. Man, those fuckers were out of their minds. My heart aches for all those affected by the tragedy.

In a vain attempt at a pick-me-up, I headed to the gym. En route, I turned the dial to a radio station that insists upon saying the name and artist of every song played in the most hideously irritating voice. I had a thought, smiled, and believed I had stumbled upon blog brilliance. I promptly pulled out a pen and wrote this on a scrap of paper:

radio stations saying name of every song! haha fuckers! pop eyeballs out and throw at them. Hard.

Wow. I am an amazing writer.

And so I (and my long-suffering husband) soldier on through a week of hormonal high and lows. I will attempt to quell the wrath for your benefit, kind readers, but I make no guarantees.

Procrastination Station

'Member when I confessed I had a l'il problem with procrastination? Yes?

The ramifications continue. Turns out, when a friend spends the night in your third floor guest bedroom in January, and comes down the stairs in the morning and says gently, sorry dude, but you've got squirrels in the walls, the best solution is not to simply hope they go away.

It was certainly a valiant try, though.

Alright you, little bastards. You go the way of your raccoon cohort. ASAP as possible, bitches.

DUDE, Why don't I delete emails EVER?

That's all.

Slight Movement, and Stacking Trays

Siiiigggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

There. That's better.

So, I hit the publish button. Then I went downstairs, kissed my husband, and made a strong martini. We sat and talked, and I started to feel the tiniest bit better. Lighter. My martini made me slightly drunk and my eyes welled with tears and I told J I could do it! I could reach my potential! This was it.

The next morning I woke up utterly panicked. I had to delete that post! It was way too personal; likely my most intimate piece to-date. I ran to my office and promptly pressed the power button on my computer.

Then I went downstairs and ate waffles. I took deep breaths and went about my Saturday morning routine. This is a good thing, I told myself. This is a fresh start.

I kept reassuring myself on the elliptical at the gym. I kept breathing as I walked into Staples.

And here I froze. Because I have this thing.

It's this very real obsession with starting fresh. And this obsession brings with it the acquisition of new notebooks, journals, and planners.

It's a distinct pattern in my life, you see. I can't finish what I start, but I can start anew. And so that's what I do, over and over again. My bookshelves are littered with unfinished journals, mindless new beginnings, year after year.

I wish I could tell you I broke my pattern. But like a junkie, I feel victim to all of those shiny new FiveStars, chock-full of fresh, clean, blank goodness. I stayed so long in the aisle picking them up and running my fingers over their smooth covers that a salesperson asked me if I needed help. (Ha!) I picked out two identical books: one black and one gray. And I told myself firmly: This is the last time. You cannot do this again. You need to commit. You just committed. There.

There.

So I earmarked one of the books for "GMAT Studies"; the other for "Writing and Ideas". I also bought some shiny new rollerball pens, for good measure.

There.

On Sunday I opened up my dog-eared copy of Overcoming Procrastination. I took out my highlighter and started to read about stacking trays. I bought the plastic trays in January when I organized my files. I piled three on a cabinet, labeled Mel's Inbox, Mel's Outbox, and To File.

On Friday evening, directly before the HolyShitYouHaven'tSentInYourTaxesWhatIsWrongWithYourGoddamnBrain debacle of '09, J looked at the mound of papers in my Inbox and asked, "Babe, do you ever go through these? I'm getting worried you are missing things."

Er, yeah. I am missing the entire point of the goddamn stacking trays, thankyouverymuch.

I revisited the trays on Sunday. And do you know what I almost bloody neglected? A tiny postcard, from the New York Center for Independent Publishing. The invitation to the annual conference, with keynote speaker:

Wally. F'in. Lamb. (!!!)

Wally is only my favorite writer. Ever. He's brilliant and insightful and moving and humane. I want to take walks with him through meadows and hold his hand and swap life stories.

Coincidence?

I screamed, then bounded down the stairs waving the postcard wildly. "J! J! Guess whaaaaaattttt?!"

It was good news. And maybe it's the impetus I need to begin living my actual life.

Also, to file (promptly!) under Things that Put All Your Bullshit into Perspective:

Yesterday, as we celebrated Easter Sunday at Grandpop's house, my mom pulled out a silver book commemorating my grandparents' 25th Wedding Celebration. It was full of guest lists, gifts, and keepsakes. One card was from my late Grandma Bea, whom in 1979 wrote a letter to her husband thanking him for being such a wonderful man. "We haven't always had it easy, but we have four wonderful kids who are so good to us. We have our health; and we have each other. I don't tell you this enough, but I love you."

My beloved grandpop (who is still young and spry) wrote a note to Bea as well, entitled "Our first Ten Years, 1954 - 1964"). In 1961, he said, "I lost my job; but I didn't lose you."

Yeah, and then my heart burst.

I am optimistic.

In front of the Sphinx in Cairo, just because it's awesome.

Inertia

Everything I do, everything I say is disingenuous.

It seems that my paralysis has seeped into every facet of my life; for I can’t even string coherent sentences together; thus the sight of a blank post template makes me slightly panicked. I can’t write! There is too much to say. Too much to do elsewhere. And I am so overwhelmed that I can do nothing. I am frozen in time. I can read and watch reality TV. I can escape; and I can make lists. But my lists are superficial. They read: Drop off dry cleaning. Make car payment. Buy groceries.

They never get to the root of the problem. The reason for my lethargy. Am I depressed? Am I in the throes of a quarter-life crisis?

I want to talk about Egypt. I want to post that Jordan was an extraordinary country; that we had an amazing time despite a myriad of challenging – and sometimes frightening – situations.

It’s all true.

But I can’t write it.

There is too much else in my brain, and it jumbles around and I can’t be bothered to make sense of it all.

“Maybe I should see a therapist,” I say to J, after a particularly grueling argument regarding my failure to send my city taxes in by J's April 10th deadline (which I agreed to, after postponing the date multiple times). J roared, and I bolted. I got in my car and decided I would drive to the mall. (I quickly nixed that plan once my mind cleared a bit and I remembered that I loathe shopping.)

I drove. And I thought. I attempted to get to the heart of it; to think long and hard enough to reach into my soul, and find the day it began. As if there was one single day in my life – maybe I was three? – when I decided the answer to life’s problems and nuisances was to stick my head in a book. If it overwhelms you, Lissa Jean, tune it out. Do nothing. Come sit here; read Where the Wild Things Are and escape awhile, won’t you?

“I don’t think you need therapy,” J says, not unkindly.

If I must read, it might as well be self-help, eh? I have highlighted most of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Overcoming Procrastination. Most – not all.

I never finished the fucking book.

GOD!

So I make another list, and I check off the little things. But I completely miss the point. I can’t see the bigger picture. I can’t apply to grad school, because I can’t take the GMATS, because I can’t find time to study. Because if I study, and I fail, I might have to hold myself accountable! Better to see what is happening on The Biggest Loser. Then I will be inspired to change my life; then I will create another list. I’ll tell myself firmly: I’ll start tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow is my drug of choice. Tomorrow is looming; but right now? Right now I can sit on my couch and drink this cabernet.

So you wanna be a writer, kid? Well, publish one fluffy feature with a local paper (last November!), and call it a day.

You got published! Now, take a load off. Take a hot bath. You’ll come up with another good idea tomorrow.

My situation is dire. I am rapidly running out of twenties, and I need to be better. I need to do better. I need to be more.

And yet my head feels heavy with the weight of it all.

I am ready to begin again. I am ready to press reset and right the wrongs, all the wasted hours. I am not sure how to do that, but I have an inkling that the first step is being honest, writing it down.

And, of course, hitting the publish button.

Here goes.

I call this post: Time Crunch

Oh, did I mention that today, at about noon, J and I embark on our greatest adventure YET?

Friends, we are off to Egypt and Jordan!

And I have managed to fit all of my demure clothing into a miniscule suitcase, and still, my husband says: "You're not gonna extend that bag are you?" Nevermind that we are checking. J is obsessed with the weight of the bags we must carry, like, from the plane to the car, and then from the car to the hotel. I suppose once a hostel-staying back-packer, always a hostel-staying back-packer, eh?

So we are all set for this trip, but how can I leave for this trip without presenting notes and musings and quotes from my last trip. I have "holy shit I am going to be seeing the Pyramids on Thursday" brain, so, here are the EXACT scribblings from my journal. Enjoy.

DAY 1

February 18, 2009

Evening ( overnight) flight to London.

Just asked Grace to keep something on the low-down, to which she replied "down-low", to which I replied, "no doubt." Then we laughed for about 10 minutes straight.

We're almost underway! Just ten and a half years since our last transatlantic flight, we embark on journey #2! Completely excited and just a tiny bit drunker than last we boarded.

"And I'll keep the change." - HV

"Ya filthy animal!" - Grace

"It's called 'Chunnel' for 'channel' and 'tunnel'. It's kinda like brunch." - Grace, authoritatively

"Yeah, I get the word combo." - Rousseau*, dryly

Covent Garden - Nagshead: beers and good conversation (Note: We talked about that chimp that ripped that lady's face off for an hour. Now that's deep.)

Buckingham Palace - Municipal Building; underwhelmed (For real, y'all. B-league.)

HV and Renaldo* own this city! WHAT UP?

"I am having the best time!!!" - HV, apropos of nothing

"I have never felt so awake!" - HV, exhausted and deliriously drunk

"Quit dippin' your fat in my shit!" - Grace

"That's what she said." - HV (Boo yeah!)

PIG FAT.

Heart Attack. Baker's dozen for me! Fatty FAT FAT. (Note: Remember, these are my actual notes.)

"And I ate a goddamn pigeon." -Rousseau, upon finishing her pigeon

Dear Diary,

Renaldo spilled his wine on me. Very upset.

(And mercifully, we end Day 1 here, though there was much drunk haiku-ing later that evening.)

Day 2

Today: Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Portobello Road, Notting Hill Pub Crawl

"Oh, I want that postcard!" - Grace, pointing

"The one with that lady?" - Rousseau, inquisitively

"Yeah, Rous. That's the Queen." - Grace, sarcastically

"Did anyone kinda giggle every time they said 'crown jewels?' - Grace, naturally

"We shall call you 'Will'." - HV

"How about 'Renaldo'?" - Renaldo, on his new blog-pseudonym

"You know they saw our Westminster Abbey bags and were all about that!" - HV, on how attractive American tourists who shop at gift shops actually are

"I like to call it 'Victorian bling'!" - David, the kindest tour docent at St. Paul's cathedral

"Maybe if you bitches would have gone out to get the coffee!" - Renaldo, tiring of listening to four women yap

Day 3 - The Penultimate

Bacon! HP sauce = delicious

Post cards from Prince William

Coffee at The Bean, onwards to St. Paul's Cathedral ("feed the birds")

Gorgeous - dichotomy - plain and "Victorian bling"

Crypt - Duke of Wellington and Flo Nightingale

Away to Shakespeare's Globe - Romeo and Juliet

Onward to Borough Market - venison burgers, fish and chips, and Turkish delight

Away to London Eye - regroup

Grace and I off to Red Lion pub by Westminster to compose correspondence from Queen Elizabeth and Prince William to friends back home

Evensong at Westminster Abbey - incredibly emotional service

Off to Harrod's from WA Station

Play in food hall - purchase our weight in chocolates and teas

TOYS!

Champagne bar! Brilliant

And London Eye at night.

Lovely dinner (despite rude hostess) at Light Bar

Back to N's flat - time to party

Wear sequin shirt with magical party powers since am able to stay wide awake through 2, at which time we all head to Sosho

Dance until 4 AM - London brilliant and busy and electric!

"How can I perfect my English accent?" - HV, after yelling one to many "Cheers, mates!"

"Well, for starters, try being born in ENGLAND." - Lovely new friend Brad

In bed by 5 AM

Heathrow by 10:30.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

And well, that about sums up a frenetic, unforgettable trip.

Cheers mates!

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Blimey!

Back from London!

'Twas a rollicking great time, one that I shall not soon forget. Though I havn't much time to write it all down right now, I did manage to keep diligent notes in my journal, often pausing to write down particularly brilliant quotes.


There were also many, many haikus.


On evening number one, I ate pig fat. The waiter marveled: "Oh, try the middlewhite; it's brilliant!" So Rinaldo* and I decided to sample the local fare, and were sorely disappointed. But: when in Rome. (Yes?)

On my last evening in London, Grace and I traveled back to Westminster Abbey for "Evensong", the nightly prayer service. Inside the nave, next to the graves of Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin (!), an all-male choir sang the Magnificat gorgeously. Tears of joy filled my eyes, and I began creating a mental list of all I had learned in the UK, in a mere three adventurous days. The first of which, I share you with now:

Am a lucky, lucky lady.

How blessed I am to have traveled to such wonderful places during my 29 years! To find myself, on a random Saturday in February, having visited St. Paul's Cathedral, Bill Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the London Eye, Westminster Abbey, and a charming pub (in which Grace and I drank Leffes and composed wickedly funny postcards)! To sample delectable food (it improved greatly after the "pork scratchings"); to drink good wine with new and old friends; to dance until 4 AM; to shout "Cheers, mate!" to one and all; to indulge in Toblerone and British tabloids! It was all perfectly blissful and beautiful and lovely.

I can't wait to share it with you all!

Unpublished.

Where are the bags from?

Westminster Abbey, uh huh!

Watch! Watch! (

*Sadly, we shall never know how this drunken haiku would have ended.

London Calling: A Haiku.

Lord, I am so drunk.

England! You served me pig fat.

I am so naive.

Oh Bloody Hell!

OY - it's been a while, huh?

Let me just say: the new job? She is quite hectic. I have been traveling more than ever, as well as learning a million and four new things per week. It's a lot for my tiny brain (which I just typed as "brian", then chuckled. Doesn't take much.).

Now, what has your blogmistress been up to lately?

Loads.

*Laughs at inside joke.*

Grace and I are about to hit the road; we're taking off to jolly old England for a much-needed vacation on the sunny UK beaches. We leave on Wednesday; but before that trip, I've got to hit up Pittsburgh for a spell. So today I am preparing for London:

You see, when you pack for a trip to the United Kingdom, you do not want to forget the essentials, those being: your beloved copy of The Office, starring the incomparable Ricky Gervais; a biography of Anne Boleyn; and your Once DVD. I mean, you will be near Ireland, at least.

By the way, in the interest of showing you pictures of stuff in my bedroom, here is a postcard that is placed strategically throughout our home:

Obviously, not as effective as I had hoped. But we'll get there.

In other news, Happy Belated Valentine's Day! J and I pretty much refuse to celebrate this holiday, because, as my dry cleaner told me yesterday: "Everyday is Valentine's Day when you are in a good relationship." Wise soul.

But my husband knows his audience: he took me to Barnes and Noble! It was a lovely treat. Four books later, we grabbed a bite to eat at Derek's in Manayunk, where I consumed exactly one seemingly benign Manhattan, which had me effectively drunk by 6:15. So I did as you do, and I made up rock songs about the movie we were planning to watch:

I now pronounce you Chuck and LARRRRRRRRRRRRY!!!

Which, incidentally, was a fairly offensive and boring film. Which, incidentally, is the excuse I gave J for why I was fast asleep by... 7:30.

"The Orientals cheat, you know."

I watched President Obama speak today from a small pub in a hotel in Pittsburgh. I was – as per usual – the lone liberal in a sea of conservatives, so there I sat, alone, breathing in the exquisite moment. Tears pricked my eyes as I listened to our pragmatic new Commander-in-Chief speak firmly about inclusion and equality, proclaiming that all nations are our friends. And Muslims? You are also our friends, and we will all learn to coincide in peace!

If you saw it, regardless of your politics, I don’t think you can deny the purity and grace of our new President’s message. My heart still soars for me, for you, and for all our future babies.

Of course, at the airport bar just now, a middle-aged Steeler fan remarked that he does not, in fact, gamble, at least not since “those damn Oriental women started dealin’ at all the tables.” They cheat, you know."

Yes, indeed, Mr. Obama, we have a ways to go. But we will succeed. Yes we can.

The Last Year of My Twenties. Let's get real.

A few weeks ago, as G and I browsed the stacks at Border's, I came across The Complete Idiot's Guide to Overcoming Procrastination.

"Well, look at this!" I announced, holding the book for G to see. "This is what I need!"

"Ha," she snorted. "I would put off reading that."

"Yeah, me too," I agreed. But I bought it anyway.

Now the missive sits next to me, dog-eared and highlighted, adorned with 15 post-it notes, all instructing me to declutter this and organize that. It's actually working! I've cleaned out my entire office (all of my work and personal files), and I feel positively lighter. My brain is being decluttered, and I feel like I am finally in control of my own destiny, as opposed to just hiding in Friends reruns, willing myself to feel inspired to write, to clean, to cook, to exercise. To live my life. I am doing it, and that's that.

So here it is, my 2009 Resolution list. It is considerably smaller than last year's. Drumroll please:

(Joy to the World!)

1. I will finish what I start.
2. I will write. And write. And write. And when I am spent? I will then write some more.
3. I will become a more loving, caring wife, daughter, grand-daughter, sister, cousin, and friend. (See also: more timely "thank you" notes.)
4. I will get into supreme physical shape via increased cardio, strength-training, yoga, and healthy eating. (Okay, okay, I know it's trite, but really, what do you have if you don't have your health? Besides, I am also very interested in wearing a bikini this year with zero misgivings. Sue me.)
5. I will drink less. Lest I become haggardly elder lady. In my THIRTIES.

So that's that. And yeah. It'll happen this year. I feel it.

On a separate, unrelated note, the new Bachelor looks like George W. Bush. And he just said "amazing journey" twice. I bet this time, things'll work out.

Happy 2009! I am a rock star!

So it's 2009, and I have been MIA for many, many days. Miss me?

Well, I missed you. Terribly. And for the three of you who are interested, I still have a job! And I totally meant to blog about my adventures in securing said job. Let me just tell you, I had already written the post in my head. It was entitled: "And then I got my period." (I thought it sounded like a country song chorus, right?) And since you ask, US Air lost my bag. It took me 3 cabs to find a mall. I then got stranded at the mall in Columbia, SC. My luggage arrived the next day. Broken. My return flight was canceled. I had to drive to Charlotte. My face wash exploded in my bag. My flight was delayed. And then I got my period. No, really. It was so insulting. But all's well that end's well. The end.

And now I find myself in Orlando, Florida, at the start of a new year, and it is time to review last year's resolutions. Oh boy! This should be an exercise in futility! Let's see:


Become more clear-headed. - Sure.

Perhaps drink less alcohol. - Next.

Also, consider a mantra. - "Mmm. Wine."??

One Thing At A Time. - No, that's better.

Because honestly, we can't go on with our head so - cluttered. - Ahem. Better luck in 2009!

Meet Howie Mandel. - Haha! Yes! Did it, bitches!

Provide Internet photographic evidence of said meeting. Blam. What up!

Take the GMATs. - I'm a loser.

Take them again and really rock them. - No comment.

Apply to graduate school. - Well, at least I took a class. That's really something.

Actually go this time around. (Don't ask.) - Well, we'll actually go later this year, won't we, HV?

Be amazing future wife. Think special presents and thoughtful gestures, amongst, ahem, other things. - Now I am depressed. Although I did just gift J with a day at the shootin' range, something he has always wanted to do. But I also told my mom to get him a humidifier for Christmas (he needed it!). Yeah, those two cancel each other out.

Visit a California winery. - Check! Three down!

Develop exquisite physique for July nuptials. - Meh. Not exquisite, but serviceable.

Avoid burritos. - Switched to burrito bowls. I am giving myself this one.

Watch less television. - F you, resolution list.

Finish Anna Karenina. - No. And I am taking this off the '09 list. Come on, Tolstoy. Throw me a bone.

Even though Lisa Turtle gave away the ending trying to impress that snobbish intellectual she had a crush on in that one episode.

Reduce call-screening by 50%. - If I'm being honest... No.

Call Grandmom more. - I'm a jerk.

Give more compliments. - I will give myself this one. You are so pretty.

But make sure they are sincere. - Well, you are somewhat attractive.

Stop DVRing Sex and the City on TBS. - Yes! Your puns are silenced forever, Bradshaw.

Stop worrying so much. - Sort of.

Consider another mantra for this. - "Don't worry. Be happy."

More. Yoga. - Nice work! Until after the wedding. Lazy.

Get published. - Yeppers! One article down, 894090 to go.

To this end, definitely drink less and cut out bad TV. - Look alive, HomeValley!

Post more. - I'm an asshole.

Become a friend of the blogosphere. Delurk. - Meh.

Floss. - Nope.

Organize office. - We did it!

Maintain organized workspace. - Good luck with this.

Send "thank you" cards. - Did it!

Visit Africa. - March 2009.

See the pyramids in Egypt. - Soon enough, my precious.

Go on a safari. - Not this year. Not next.

Quell road rage. - Ehhh.

Get promoted. - Or move laterally! Good for you, though.

These are stupid:

Become a better networker.
Volunteer at least three days this year.
Become a student of theology.
Pick a religion that works.
Stop offending Jesus.
Become spiritual person.
Quit complaining.
Gossip less.

Finally get belly-button ring removed, because honestly. You got that thing at 18 on South Street. Time to let go. - Change of heart about this one. Stay young.

Develop solid wedding song playlist. - Well, I think all who attended can agree. I rocked this.

Avoid most wedding cliches. - Yep.

Share your success in these quests with the Internet. - You're welcome, Internet.

And also those damn Istanbul pictures already. - Merhaba, friends.

So, was it a successful year? Meh. Probably not, resolutionary-speaking. But I will remain steadfast this year. I've discovered a newfound zest for organization, dedication, and a little something I like to call: finish what you start, you silly blog-mistress. That's what 2009 is about. And I swear, I am going to do it.

Happy New Year, y'all.

Imminent.

"What are you working on?" The kindly older gentleman seated next to me at the coffee house inquires, as I toil away the hours on my Dell laptop.

"A business plan," I say, smiling.

He grimaces. "A business plan? Ha! That's what they ask you to do before they fire you!"

Quite.

Welcome to the Bitter Barn!

Since Festivus is upon us, I think it is high time that we begin the traditional "airing of greivances" that comes along with this age-old, Seinfeldian holiday.

I'll start, okay?

I really, really believe, with my whole heart and soul and mind and being, that mass-emailed letters for "job opportunities" are the absolutest lamest method for contacting a prospective candidate, and they sort of make me hate the Internet. I am not some chump, Mass Emailed Letters for "Job Opportunities"! I am an actual, thinking, living, working person, who is frankly insulted by any form of communication that begins: "Dear Candidate". Asshole.

Yesterday, I did some light job-searching on Careerbuilder. I found an opportunity that looked somewhat appealing amidst all of the sewage that recruitment companies and scam artists post. And lo! The ad copy read: No online or emailed applications. We believe you are more than just your resume. Call our HR department directly, at...

Angels began an Hallelujah chorus in my mind's soundtrack. I called immediately. The conversation went like this:

"Dave": Hello! Are you calling about the ad online?

HV, smiling: Yes! I am interested in X opportunity!

"Dave": Wonderful! Let me just ask you some questions. Name? Email? Address? Background? Degree?

HV answers all that is asked, delighted at "Dave's" attentiveness.

"Dave": OK, we are a firm representing many Fortune 500 companies in the area. I am going to send you a packet to fill out and get back to us. We do background screening for these companies first, and then we'll set you up with a floppity-jillion interviews and you'll make $500,000 in your first 3 months. And the best part is, it only costs you $29!

HV, dejectedly: Wait... You want me to pay you $29? Isn't your fee typically provided by the client?

"Dave", condescendingly: Is $29 a problem for you?

HV, sarcastically: No, "Dave", I can afford it. I have just never heard of such a thing.

"Dave": Well, we have to pre-screen for our clients!

HV, resignedly: Well, you can send me the packet and I'll take a look.

"Dave": Fantastic. Now, would you like to pay by debit or credit card?

HV, angrily: Seriously, "Dave"? I don't know you from Adam, and you want me to give you my credit card information?

"Dave", smugly: Call us when you're ready. [Hangs up abruptly.]

Which brings me to my next grievance: I fucking hate "Dave".

And the "Economy".

And the potential threat of losing my livelihood.

To name just a few.

J came home yesterday afternoon to find his glum wife bemoaning her career future. And that husband of mine? Who is awesome? Talked me off the ledge. We came up with FIVE possible solutions! And we made budgets! And by the time I hightailed it to the Olive Garden to meet mom and Gina for dinner (yes, the frugality starts tomorrow), my future prospects seemed a hell of a lot better.

And I will leave "Dave" to "Karma".

And at this time, I would appreciate it if you too would hop into the Bitter Barn with me. What are some of your year-end grievances?

I'll Be Lovin' You Forever

So I wasn't sure how I felt about going to see the New Kids on the Block. Dude, I'm 28. And I had already suffered a particularly potent type of heartbreak in 1993. The Kids had recently been generating a ton of bad press (had they changed their name to NKOTB yet?), when my brother Mike unceremoniously mocked my unabiding love of Jordan, Joey, and the gang: "Melis - they're OVER. They're so gay!"

And you guys? I cried. I was thirteen, and my eyes filled with tears, and I probably screamed that he was a butthead, and I ran to my room and slammed the door.

And then, weeks later, I conceded defeat. I had to let them go, you know? I threw my full support behind Jason Priestly and Mark-Paul Gosselaar, and called it a day. NKOTB eventually broke up, and we all moved on.

Suddenly, it's 2008, and Grace is buying $91 tickets for a New Kids reunion show at the Wachovia Center. (Email to Grace: You know, that is a ridiculous amount to pay for those tickets. Email to HV: I know. But we will have fun!)

I didn't give the concert much thought until the date approached. I was looking forward to seeing Grace and the girls, and hopeful that the Kids would play "Funky, Funky Christmas", but that was about it. Before the show, we drank numerous beers and gorged on Chickie's and Pete's crab fries. Then we grabbed our seats, and the lights dimmed.

And... PANDEMONIUM ensued. I started screaming my face off with the rest of the sold-out crowd. My heart was pounding! My palms were sweating! And lo - the Kids appeared before our eyes, rising up from the center of the stage like angels, and looking damn fine approaching 40, thankyouverymuch.

My eyes filled! I bit my lip and wondered what in God's name had come over me?

And then I realized.

I owed this to her:

And her:

And her:

And - oh yeah - her:

That's right, folks: 1990 HomeValley. The little girl whose sole purpose in life was collecting New Kids paraphernalia, and loving on Jordan, Joe, and Donnie. The kid who attended her first NKOTB concert that year - her first concert ever - and probably felt just as teary and excited the first time those dudes appeared (ahem, 18 years younger) on the stage that night.

And believe you me, she and I had a blast together a few weeks ago at the Wachovia. Although, we never did hear "Funky, Funky Christmas".

I'll be lovin' you forever, indeed.

There but for the grace of God...

Sorry, but if you are looking for the funny, you won't find it here today. It's been a long week, y'all.

Each day, I remind myself that every moment is a gift. I am quelling my urge to procrastinate, and I am trying to celebrate life every second I am breathing. J and I had a wonderful date on Tuesday night, making homemade burritos, drinking wine, watching our shows, and laughing a lot. But when we crawled into bed that evening, I burst into tears. Grief washes over me like a wave some days, and I am prone to fits of crying.

Now, I am not grieving because I lost Donna, though I will miss her dearly. I am grieving for all that was lost to her friends and family. Everything they must continue without: a sister, a daughter, a friend. Her "life celebration" was heartbreaking and beautiful. The funeral home was filled with all things that were Donna: her Morrisey memorabilia; her pin collection; her stuffed animals; her roller skates; the books she loved. There were pictures and slide shows and, most poignantly, silent video of her living, moving, breathing, laughing. Her loved ones presented a gorgeous portrait of a life - of her life - that ended so abruptly. I was overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. As the minister eulogized: "I think we can all agree, folks, that 31 years? It's just not enough. Thirty-one years is NOT enough."

Amen to that, brother.

At the service, I spoke with another coworker.

"I was the last person to see her alive," he said, his eyes filling. "I drove her to get her car, which she was having cleaned. She was chatty on the ride there - same old Donna. I stayed to make sure everything was okay. When she got in the car, she rolled down her window and smiled at me. 'Smells much better in here!' she said. Then she drove off. You know, they found a Wawa receipt in the car. She must have stopped there, and then the accident happened. I dropped her off at 5:15, and they called the accident at 5:33."

I can't stop thinking about that fucking Wawa receipt, either. One minute you stop for a coffee, or a snack. The next - nothingness.

When I got home, I looked up her myspace page, presumably to further torture myself. Her last login was the day she died.

And these, Internet, are the thoughts that keep me awake at night now. The idea that you can be going along in your regular routine - checking myspace, picking up your car, stopping for a coffee... And then, that's it.

And I sit here, in the coffee house, staring at my monitor, and the post-it I've attached to it, per Allie's suggestion: Life. I think, this time, I will hold onto this resoluteness: to remember that each moment is a precious, precious gift. That no matter how bad it gets, we are all so lucky to be here still.

I hope you will too.

And tomorrow, by God, I will lighten this place up a bit. Talk about the New Kids concert, or something. That ought to get us smiling again, no?

Haunted

A coworker was killed in a car accident last night.

She was young and vibrant, not unlike myself.

We were not particularly close, but we were very friendly. She worked in our local office, so I saw her more frequently than most. A few months ago, we had a long conversation. I was in the office, showing her my wedding photos. She was complimentary ("You are still glowing!"), as she always was, and inquired coyly if my brother was single. That day, she peppered me with questions about my relationship with J.

"I hope you don't mind me asking you so much," she said, smiling. "Someday, we'll have drinks and I will tell you my story."

She was ebullient outwardly, but I always sensed there were dark issues she dealt with privately. It always seemed as if it were a struggle to be happy, and she put on a brilliant show. I wish I had known her better. I wish we had gone out for those drinks.

In times like these, when someone so young dies so suddenly, I am haunted by thoughts of their last days, weeks, months. I wonder, what would she have done differently, knowing she had mere months, weeks, days to live? I shudder at the thought of my own life being snatched away in an instant. So I drive slowly and carefully. Recommit myself to a life with purpose. Reach out to friends. Vow to be a better wife and daughter and sister. Stop screening calls.

Like life, these resolutions are fleeting. Next week, I'll be late for an appointment, speeding again. I won't answer my grandmother's call because I will be too busy. I'll snap at my husband. I wonder why it seems impossible to hold on to this feeling, this combination of sorrow mixed with grief, and also pure joy, because we are alive and we can hug our loved ones, and have another girls' dinner, take another vacation, watch another Adam Sandler movie.

Rest in peace, Donna. I hope, wherever you are, you are happy.

Melissa P. HomeValley, Reporter-At-Large

So, what exactly did my Facebook hiatus spawn?

Well, I did go to the gym on Friday. I did apply for several different jobs, now that my corporate fate is in peril. I did talk to my old colleague about that production job in New York, and you know what? She thinks I am actually qualified and says I will get an interview in the next two weeks. And, my friends, I did submit some writing samples to a local newspaper, and this week I have my very first assignment.

Apparently, life is what happens when you close your Internet browser and walk away from the Facebook.

Who knew?

I had the opportunity to travel to DC yesterday for a brief meeting, and afterwards, with an hour to kill, I meandered around the Northwest quadrant, marveling at the Capitol building. Staring at it, my heart swelled once again with hope for our country, for the world, and for myself.

It's been a very good week.

A Life With Purpose

This morning, as is typical when I work from my home office, I stumbled down the stairs incoherently and immediately turned on the television. I scrolled the DVR menu until I found what I was looking for: yesterday's Oprah.

Ah, O. Just what I need to start my day, to live my best life.

Yesterday's guest was one Mr. Will Smith, who is so lovable I just want to squeeze him. He spoke about how he had just turned 40, and that now, he does not want to do anything in his life without purpose.

Right! I said aloud to my television screen. I want to live my life that way too, Mr. Smith! I thought. And then I made a mental list of all the things I wanted to accomplish today, including: mailing our marriage license to the translator (ah, destination weddings), going to the gym, eating perfectly healthy, applying for a new job, writing a blog post, sending my resume to an old colleague who has a TV producer position available for me in New York (it's such a stretch, I just can't not send my CV on a wing and a prayer), etc.

I came upstairs shortly thereafter for a conference call. I booted up my computer and clicked on Internet Explorer.

When suddenly, I realized it.

Facebook.

Facebook is the enemy of all productivity. It is the devil's minion. It must be stopped!

I had been fervently rooting through Facebook pages for 30 minutes, when I froze with this devastating realization.

Holy crap on a cracker - I am addicted to Facebook. I have a problem.

And now I need to make it right. But how? How does one restrict utilization? How do I go about my daily life not knowing what you all are doing at this precise moment? Without seeing your pictures from the weddings and Halloween parties you have recently attended? Without your clever wall posts? How?!?

*Deep breath*

So, I am officially exiting Facebook for the remainder of this Friday. Baby steps. I don't want to overwhelm myself, or my constant craving for information about all of my FB friends.

Melissa P. HomeValley... what are you doing right now?

Over and out.

Letter to My Future Babies

Dear Beautiful, Kind, Open-Minded Babies: C, V, and A,

I hope this is not premature, but: you're welcome.

Love,

Mom

The Jerkstore Rang

Yesterday, I swore I wouldn't be dragged into it. But it happened. Again.

A business associate pulls out her cell phone at a luncheon in central Jersey, smirking. "Check this out," she says conspiratorially to me. She shows me her phone and I begin reading an email as she scrolls.

The email details a "plan" for Americans: from now on, all wages will be pooled together and split equally. This will allow for workers who are too lazy to work overtime to still be paid equally as well. The supervisor will give eloquent speeches in the breakroom, etc.

And suddenly my blood is boiling. I push the phone away, smile, and say merely: "Please."

She giggles. "[Our multi-millionaire business associate] sent that to me today. Hilarious, right?"

This woman sits next to me adorned in fur. She places her phone into a large leather Coach bag. She calls her assistant and asks, "Which car did my husband drive to work today? Was it the burgundy car?" When asked how many cars she actually has, she smugly replys, "Five." She's taking the family on a cruise to the Cayman Islands next month. I'd estimate her annual income is between 400,000 and 500,000. She must be worth millions.

"I already get taxed too much," she assures me.

Well fuck, for your sake, I hope that radical socialist doesn't get elected today. Spread the wealth? Is he insane?

The Curious Incident of the Squirrel in the Night

It started around 3 AM. A slight thumping noise coming from the roof, followed by falling debris, just outside our second floor bedroom window. I woke with a start.

J, who is known to bolt upright in bed when I wiggle my pinky finger in the night (huh? wha? what are you doing?) remained sound asleep beside me, snoring softly. My heart pounding, I tried to gently coax him awake. When that failed, I nudged him sharply.

"Did you hear that?" I ask. Of course he didn't. We listen together.

Suddenly - Thump. Thud.

"Probably a bird," he says sleepily. But I won't be appeased.

"Can you just check?"

J begrudgingly gets out of bed and stands by the window. He is very still for many minutes. "Did you fall asleep?" I whisper.

"Probably an animal burrowing into our neighbor's roof," he says disdainfully. He scurries up to the third floor to investigate further, and, seeing nothing, he gets dressed to head outside.

With a flashlight. At 3:15 AM. On Mischief Night, no less!

Thoroughly freaked, I head downstairs with him. He stands in the middle of the road with his flashlight for many minutes. When he finally comes back inside, he tells me he can't see anything.

We get back into bed.

"Maybe it was the wind," I suggest.

"No... There is no wind."

DUN DUN DUN!

We lay awake for a moment, when we hear the thudding again. Scratching. Rocks falling onto the second floor landing from the roof.

J jumps out of bed, fumbling in the dark for his jeans once again. "I'm going out there," he says courageously.

"Be careful!" I warn. And then my gallant husband steps out of our bedroom window, into the abyss, armed only with a flashlight. At 3:25 AM. On Mischief Night!

I struggle to keep the heavy window open, as J starts swatting at the roof. A downpour of leaves and rocks fall from above. "Looks like we got ourselves a squirrel's nest," he says, thankful to have solved the mystery. I shut the window so the debris doesn't come into the bedroom.

A moment later, J knocks urgently on the second bedroom window, away from the nest.

"We've got a raccoon," he whispers. "And he's right here!"

"J, get in, you'll get rabies!" I cry. He retreats back into the bedroom.

"Do we call the police?" I ask. Hello, 911, we've got a situation with a raccoon burrowing into our roof. Send back-up.

"No, but we'll need someone to come and fix the siding up there." J is a bit exasperated at this prospect.

"Well, at least now we know," I tell him, and then we booth marvel at that quiet little fucker - henceforth known as Eugene - who apparently has been subletting our roof for quite a while, given his elaborate bachelor nest.

We attempt to sleep, as I comment: "You are very brave, J."

Then, a few moments later, "J, we are those white trash neighbors."

"I was just thinking that," he mumbles.

Sorry, Eugene. You've been evicted.

Eugene.

Bad-ass raccoon killer.

Lordy Lordy

It's been a hectic couple of weeks for your pal HomeValley. I have been to San Francisco and Baltimore and Connecticut and Columbia, SC since we last met. I have vehemently defended Obama; I have listened to lots of satellite radio; I have edited my darling baby brother's college application essay (!); I have learned that my job is being eliminated. You know, just your run-of-the-mill couple of weeks, really.

OK, so let's not all freak about that last point. Yes, my current job is being eliminated, but there is another job on the horizon for me with my current company. Yes, I am eligible for severance; yes, I must interview for the new job. But come on! I've got the only two things I have ever needed in this life: charm and charisma. (Tell 'em, Allie.) I reside in a beautiful and peculiar glass half-full world most of the time, and all is well.

Also, please see August Rush. Guaranteed to lift your spirits, and make you as giddy as me.

More to come.

I'm Melissa P. HomeValley Ft. Lauderdale, and I Approve This Message.

Well, I am finally able to come back to the blogosphere: my friends, I have finished Breaking Dawn. And though I am crestfallen that I can no longer escape into a world of passion and intrigue and vampire covens, I must perservere. It's the final stretch of the 2008 presidential campaign, and Internet, I am completely busy running my mouth in mixed company about my support and admiration and respect for one Senator Barack Obama. Which any etiquette book will warn you is taboo. Still.

I can't be on the campaign trail for Senator Obama because I work too damn much. I've missed rallies and countless volunteer opportunities. I figure, the only thing I can do is publicly endorse Barack, everywhere I go. I wear pins; I download applications to my Facebook page; and I talk. With Republican coworkers. I am not winning many friends in my ultra-conservative workplace, I assure you.

I try to be fair; I attempt to listen to everyone's opinion. The other night, knee-deep in political conversation at a dive bar in Columbus, I asked Conservative Curt* what the crux of the matter is for Republicans?

He thought for a moment.

"Trust," he said firmly. "We need to trust the experience of our candidate."

"I respect that," I told CC. "But I think it is actually fear." And then I quickly shut my mouth by sipping my Miller Lite, and I pretended to become preoccupied with the dude performing a Pink Floyd cover on an acoustic guitar.

Later in the week, when I wasn't campaigning, I discovered that I am The Person That People Like to Tell Things To. (Official title.) Here are some things I learned from virtual strangers this week:

• Stan's** wife cheated on him last year with a friend. She wanted a quickie divorce, he granted it, and now she wants him back. She is also involving the children, and that ain't right.
• Chuck** just ended a 13-year relationship. He's lonely.
• Randy** was on his way to a family reunion in New Hampshire. He's retired now, though he rarely leaves his home state of Missouri. He dropped out of high school when he was 15 to join the army. He fought proudly in World War II and has done quite well for himself. All of his children went to college.
• HomeValley** is exhausted from frequent travel, graduate school, and general domesticity. She is currently in Philadelphia, though she traveled to and from Jamaica, Queens, this morning. Tomorrow she heads to Baltimore with a familiar-looking fellow she thinks she may have married recently; Thursday San Francisco by way of Denver; Sunday evening Philadelphia by way of Los Angeles; Tuesday Columbia by way of Charlotte, North Carolina. She is also at work on her autobiography The Person That People Like to Tell Things To.

* Name has been changed to protect the Republican.

** Names have been changed to protect the chatty.

How Lucky We Are

Ugh, I am so boring these days.

All I do is work, and travel for work, and study for my Managerial Economics class, and sing Meiko songs in my head perpetually (see: entry title), and read Stephenie Meyer books. Good Lord, they are so addictive and delicious and brilliant; I can't stop obsessing over the characters, and that makes for really boring entries. (Because do y'all really want to hear me wax poetic about Edward Cullen for pages and pages?) (Um, if you do, just say the word. We'll go to town.)

Hey! I took my darling sisters to Manhattan to see Wicked a few weeks ago. That was fun! I would describe it here but I have lost the ability to be descriptive, apparently. I will say that the more time I spend with Cat and Meg, the more time I want to spend with them. I actually miss them terribly most of the time. Cat is fourteen now and is brooding and angsty; she is blissfully sarcastic and lovely and intelligent and enigmatic. Meg is ten and adorable, with green-framed glasses that adorn her tiny freckled face. She loves monkeys and playing school in equal measure, and has reached a difficult crossroads: should she decorate her bedroom as a jungle, or as a classroom? She also has a "bacon dance" which she performs when a certain Wendy's commercial plays. When she tells stories, she painstakingly recounts every detail of her tale. She has a remarkably dry sense of humor, and smiles incessantly.

I really love those kids.

And now I must run to a business dinner, one that will be no different than a host of other business dinners, as I miss key moments and memories with my husband, siblings, and dearest friends.

But I've got Meiko on my iPod, and Breaking Dawn.

Grateful.

An RA friend sent this to our group this morning. We're still connected, and always will be, palpably on this day. Wishing them, and all of you, much love this morning.

Life has left her footprints on my forehead.
But I have become a child again this morning.
The smile, seen through leaves and flowers,
is back to smooth away the wrinkles,
as the rains wipe away footprints on the beach.
Again a cycle of birth and death begins.

I walk on thorns, but firmly, as among flowers.
I keep my head high.
Rhymes bloom among the sounds of bombs and mortars.
The tears I shed yesterday have become rain.
I feel calm hearing its sound on the thatched roof.
Childhood, my birth land, is calling me,
and the rains melt my despair.

I am still here alive, able to smile quietly.
O sweet fruit brought forth by the tree of suffering!
Carrying the dead body of my brother,
I go across the rice field in the darkness.
Earth will keep you tight within her arms, my dear,
so that tomorrow you will be reborn as flowers,
those flowers smiling quietly in the morning field.
This moment you weep no more, my dear.
We have gone through too deep a night.

This morning,
I kneel down on the grass,
when I notice your presence.
Flowers that carry the marvelous smile of ineffability
speak to me in silence.

The message,
the message of love
and understanding,
has indeed come to us.

by Thich Nhat Hanh, 1964

One Last Refrain

I tried to craft an eloquent post about what Rent has meant to me over the last 11 years; unfortunately J is watching Resident Evil 3 in the darkened living room at top volume and shouting at me to return, completely breaking my concentration.

Sigh.

To sum up: I'll miss you, Rent. I'll miss escaping to the Nederlander on a weekday and scoring rush tickets. I'll miss sitting in the front row of the theater - watching the familiar characters fumble through life and love and relationships and AIDS and budding careers - and reflecting on my own life, my own shortcomings, my failures... and still feeling so damn hopeful about it all.

And for that, my heartfelt thanks.

TGIF

From: J
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:54 PM
To: HomeValley
Subject:


Dear Wife,

I love you. I am going to come home to see you soon.

Regards,

Husband.


From: HomeValley
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:57 PM
To: J
Subject: RE:

Dear Husband,

I love you too. Also, I am hungry. Can we get Panera?

Fondly,

Wife.


From: J
Sent: Friday, September 05, 2008 3:59 PM
To: HomeValley
Subject: RE:

Dear Wife,

I am also hungry! See how much we have in common!

Love always,

Husband.

Pitbulls Wearing Lipstick

So... much... to... write... Head... close... to... exploding...



Lord, where are we this week, Internet? Governor Sarah Palin has become an overnight media sensation, despite negative press surrounding her seventeen year-old daughter's pregnancy! (I saw today that Palin supports abstinence-only education in schools, and my head actually exploded just now with the irony.)



Obama has taken the high road regarding the young Palin girl, claiming that children are "off-limits", further endearing me to him and his progressive, change-bringing ways.



But political discussions must be put on hold until another day - friends, we have a 90210-remake to dissect.



I had completely lost track of time on Tuesday evening, having fallen head over heels in love with Edward Cullen in New Moon. (Mrs. Meyer, please accept my heartfelt apologize for this post. These books are ridiculous, in a completely incredible, wish-I-was-seventeen-again-and- dating-a-vampire way. You are my hero.)



Anyway, my phone began buzzing at 8:10 and Allie promptly brought me back to reality. Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez?!? My heart swelled. And then I turned on the CW to meet "Silver" and my heart exploded with joy. (I am very explosive this week apparently.)



And then... well, meh.



Silver is of course my favorite. She's adorable, she's related to David, and instead of trying to be an R&B star crooning "You are so precious to me," she is a bad ass blogger with actual video feed! She makes HV look downright pedestrian, y'all.



And then there was everyone else. Black Brandon (or "Dixon") is a far cry from our beloved Walsh, the one who acted as moral compass for the West Beverly group, sans that one time he had too much to drink and crashed Mondale. But he totally learned his lesson.



Not Brenda (or "Annie") is quite adorable and giggly, and all the boys love her Midwestern ways. The richest kid in school is not quite Poor Man's Dylan, as he has a private jet and sings in the plays. A far cry from our dark knight of the 90s who lived in a penthouse and had that pesky drinking problem.

The Hot Walshes were, er, hot. And that's about all they've got going for them at this point. I miss Cindy, who missed Minnesota and almost had an affair that one time but stopped herself because she was of the highest moral caliber. Sigh.

And so they gave us illicit blow jobs before school, child actresses with drug problems, and super sweet sixteen galas. And through it all, HV said: yawn.

I perked up whenever the lovely Jennie Garth was onscreen, which was not quite often enough. And who is the father of her child? It must be Dylan, no?

Then suddenly: enter Brenda.

What was with Brenda? Did she look a bit odd to you all? The entire time she was on screen I kept recalling that episode in which Dylan was forced to choose between her and Kelly, and we got a glimpse into his future with each woman... He eventually chose Kelly. Smart man.

So, the jury is out. I'm not sure if I can stomach much more of the show without Tori Spelling. And who has ever written that sentence before?

American Idle: The Sunscreen Corollary

American Idol; American Idle. See what I did there?

I should start from the beginning.

Do you remember that Baz Lurhmann song from the late 90s? It was a commencement speech he put to music, and it opened with the line: "Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99: wear sunscreen." He went on to espouse all the things you "need" to do in life, like live in New York once (check), live in California once (someday), and most importantly: do one thing every day that scares you.

If I may nerd out for just a brief interlude, that last line resounds in my head at least once per day, typically when I am doing something frightening, like flying US Air, or reaching under the sink for dishwasher detergent. (There was once a mouse under there, y'all. I was traumatized.)

Most days I ponder that sage advice, and admittedly I feel a small sense of accomplishment when I face down my fears, however inconsequential, and come out unscathed, primed to fight another day. It follows then, that when presented with seemingly insurmountable tasks, I head towards the challenge, steeling myself for whatever I might face. I give you: The Suncreen Corollary. The single driving force in your blog-mistress's world, as, well - many things scare me on a daily basis. Yet, thanks to my quaint theory, I always force myself to move. To get on with it. To give my fear the stink-eye and be done with it. Because I believe, thanks to The Suncreen Corollary, that somehow, facing down fear is making me stronger. More formidable.

To sum up: fear is my bitch, really.

You can be absolutely certain then, that I wouldn't have bothered to waste 14 hours of my precious life on an American Idol longshot, if the very idea of it didn't scare the bejesus out of me.

And so, Tina and I went, guns blazing, into the infinite abyss that is the American Idol audition process.

Internet, I beg you, if you ever deign to try-out, please, PRAY GOD, do not sing any of the following:

1. I Have Nothing by Whitney Houston. If I heard one more diva warble "Dooonnnn'tttt. Maaakkkkeee. Meeeeee. CLOOOOOOOOSSSEEEEE ONE MORE DOOR!" I would have kidnapped dainty little Seacrest and held him for ransom. My ears are still bleeding, for the love of Pete.
2. Anything by Alicia Keys, but particularly No One. Dudes, I can't even stand to hear Alicia shreik "NO ONE NO ONE NO ONNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEE".
3. The Dreamgirls soundtrack. You can't imagine how many chicks were alone at a crossroads or telling me they weren't going.

The deal is, producers line up at 12 tables across the floor of the arena, and they see people in sections. If you are auditioning, you wait until your section is called (everyone was assigned a seat at registration). This gives you ample time (oh, 12 hours) to check out your competition. It's terribly interesting, and also incredibly boring, if this is possible. Auditioners approach the tables in groups of four, and each sing a cappella for 30 - 60 seconds.

The truth is, the producers know what they want. If you're crazy (hello puppet lady), well, we'll see you in the next round. If you are insanely talented, you are by no means guaranteed a spot. It depends on your look, your vibe, your charisma. Many times during the day the crowd angrily booed producers for cutting legitimate singers. But what can you do? It's a television show. It's a casting call, so you better be damn irresitible, lest you be cut.

Which brings me to my audition, at 5 PM. As I stood on the floor, my heart thudded loudly in my chest, and my palms started to sweat. Breathe, I told myself. Steel yourself.

And that's precisely what I did. I smiled at the young blonde producer and I began to sing. I chose "Take Me Or Leave Me" from Rent, because I work it out in the shower. My voice sounded strong and clear in my ears, and when I was done, I was proud of the performance I'd given.

Once our foursome finished, the kind-looking talent scout motioned for us to approach the table.

"You all look beautiful, and you all have great voices," she began in a clipped English accent. "You and you (HV and Tina) have great voices, but I think your performances were a bit too theatrical, and that's really not what we're looking for this season on the show."

Too theatrical?!? Moi? Old HV? That's shocking.

And with that, she cut us loose, and we went off with the rest of the "non-winners".

I mainly felt relieved to be heading home, and pleased that I'd conquered another one of my fears. And the feedback wasn't bad; I could live with "too theatrical".

The next morning, though, I awoke feeling vaguely disappointed. It was my last shot at AI, and it didn't work out. It's not that I thought I was going to be the next Fantasia Barrino. It's just... well, sometimes it's disheartening when you have to let a dream (however improbable) die. But isn't that what it's all about? Letting go of some of the old fantasies, and making room for some of the newer, more updated ones? I am sure there is totally a reality television show out there for me, like one about an adorable blonde girl who loves Queens and waxes poetic about life and 90s music and American Idol auditions?

On to the next thing.

Oh, and...

I don't get Twilight. There, I put it out there. Why all the fuss?

Exhaustified.

Your blog-mistress is utterly drained. It seems that perhaps I do have a problem, in that I cannot stop making plans, or generating ideas, or undertaking ambitious recycling campaigns, or auditioning for American Idol , or traveling, or being generally awesome all day long. It takes its toll on a gal. Honestly.

So I will tell you now that after this week, I am going to start taking naps, perhaps.

What's that? You would like to hear about American Idol? Lo, I believe contractually I cannot yet spill the beans that I am the next American Idol, a bewitching hybrid of Kelly Clarkson and Daughtry and Fantasia, all rolled into a big bundle of mind-blowing talent, dawg. At least that is what Paula told me. What's that? You are not buying my story? Meh. You will see it when it airs, and be dazzled.

Or, actually, registration was yesterday, and the audition is tomorrow. I am really just accompanying the uber-talented Tiny Tina (who is my cousin, in case you wanted to know, because I just spent 13 hours trying to link to the post about her, and I couldn't find it and holy shit I am too tired for this enough), singing a little ditty myself, then stalking Seacrest to lift him off the ground in a giant bear hug. And then I will go home, and 15 years from now I will still be telling my kids that I auditioned for the show once, before I was too old, and that I was robbed! Robbed! And then they will roll their eyes and sigh and tell me for the love of God to get over it already.

Survivor Woman

This week in things HomeValley has survived:

• Turbulence on a flight to South Carolina. Likely the worst I have experienced in terms of longevity. My stomach ached from fear, so I put my head in my hands and breathed. Luckily, my seatmate, a kindly older man, took pity on me, assuring me that it was only rough air and that of course we'd be fine. He was a pilot, he said, and the plane was designed to withstand a lot more. Words I tell myself all the time whilst flying, but nice to hear from an expert nonetheless.
• Career soul-searching. A good opportunity came up for a tiny bit more money, but I ultimately decided I am very happy where I am, and that J and I will stick to "the plan", thankyouverymuch. I made the right decision; just waiting for the fallout. I suppose I'll survive that too.
• Running into J's "ex-girlfriend" (term used loosely) on our street on Friday night. I had just gotten out of the shower, pulled my hair back, and thrown on sweats. Completely au naturel, J's ex, "Shelly", casually mentioned that she had just moved in to that house, three doors down from ours. I am not sure who should feel more awkward, the newlyweds, or the ex that just moved next to the newlyweds? Regardless, after the initial meeting, I ran into Shelly three additional times. Only one of those times was I wearing workout clothes, sweating profusely from my bike ride. Oh, also, I was sporting those ginormous black sunglasses that blind senior citizens wear (what? they protect my baby blues!). So, obviously, point HomeValley.

Must start my day of meetings. Also, I hate the Today Show.

The Night Before: A Glass Case of Emotion

I keep trying to write an eloquent post about the night before our wedding, but I am incapable. I start prattling on about nothing and fumbling with metaphors, and then I get annoyed with myself and shut Blogger in a huff, resigned to come back later.

But it never works. I am now resigned to put it out there, rambling and all, for public consumption. Because I just can't keep it to myself anymore.

So, what did it feel like the night before? Well, it was as if a massive tsunami of emotion struck us down, only more intense. I can't describe it. One moment we were having a perfectly normal rehearsal dinner; the next, we were puddles.

Turns out? Getting married is a big fucking deal.

J tried to toast our closest friends and family, but couldn't finish. I tried to rescue him, but failed miserably as the lump in my throat nearly choked me. I am never so emotional in public. It startled me. It also frightened my mother, who thankfully rescued us both by saying a few eloquent words about families being united. J and I drank our margaritas, clutching each other tightly.

Thwarted by rehearsal dinner toasts, the happy couple poses for a quick post-tears pic.

Much later, I made it back to the honeymoon suite, alone. J had left a small journal (made in Indonesia) on our bed, as well as a small gift box. In the journal, he wrote a long letter about our lives together, stressing that the best was yet to come. In the box, he placed a lovely necklace that was made in South Africa. Both presents were meant to symbolize the places we will visit together. It was perfect.

I washed my face and got ready for bed. I lay there, alone, unbelieving. It is so strange when something you have envisioned all your life comes to fruition. It is so odd to join your life with another person's. It is wonderful and exhilirating and frightening and bizarre. I held onto the journal, and drifted off to sleep.

I woke the next morning at 5. I watched a spectacularly bad movie on Showtime starring Ryan Reynolds. I felt vaguely nauseated. The lump in my throat hadn't dissipated at all throughout the night. I felt out of control. I wondered how I would get through the day without sobbing.

Grace and I had a massage scheduled at 10; my mother and Koos joined us as well. The four of us were led to our separate rooms throughout a serene, quiet garden, and soon, my troubles began melting away. My tension evaporated, and by the time we met up again in the locker room over paper cups of champagne, I felt like me again. I felt excited, back in control.

I was ready to marry J.