Monday, March 17, 2008

This Blog Will Make You Skinny.

So, er, did anyone else DVR I Can Make You Thin on TLC?

I'm the only one then?

Obviously, my obsession with my physique intensifies, but honestly; I only aspire to be in the greatest shape of my life by July. Really, what's the harm?

So the other night when the show debuted, I hit the record button, figuring: Meh. This guy claims he can make me thin. Prove it.

(A brief disclaimer: I am not obese, nor even really particularly overweight. Things have just shifted, is all. I have put on about 10 pounds since I graduated college, and I am not particularly attached to those pounds, so they are free to leave. Also, I need to tone up. I am a bit, shall we say, squishy? I also need to eat healthier, because I love my heart, y'all. The end.)

So Paul McKenna is an English bloke who claims he can make us all tiny little things. It all comes down to 4 simple "golden" rules:
  1. When you feel hungry, eat.
  2. Eat what you want, not what you think you should eat.
  3. Eat consciously.
  4. When you are full, STOP.

The cynic in me wants to repudiate these commandments; but the truth is, I am liking that this chap told me to eat a burrito. (Because I desperately, desperately want one.)

McKenna is really about changing your attitude about food; i.e., don't deprive yourself, ever. Don't feel guilty, EVER. BUT, do stop when you are full. Also, make eating meditation. Don't watch TV or read during a meal. Chew each bite 20 times. Put down your fork and knife between each bite.

(Man, if you guys could only see J and I attack giant bowls of pasta loaded with parmesan with The Simpsons on Sunday nights. It's often a race to the finish line. For shame.)

So you know what? I am trying it. I am going to try to eat what I want when I want it, but savor every morsel and eat more slowly, paying careful attention to my belly, who hates me when I stuff her needlessly. I will report back.

In other news, I informed J yesterday over a bloody mary that I was definitely NOT drinking during the week anymore. He laughed - loudly - and then bet me that I couldn't do it. It's on.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Still Hemmi From The Block

Friends!

I am still alive, and am really just writing to say that I will actually be writing actual prose next week, when things have calmed down considerably for me. Lots of stuff going on, but I think - though not completely sure just yet - that J and I now know where we will be living in a month (spoiler alert: right here), and what jobs we will have, and what graduate schools we will attend. For a hot second there, everything was a mess (in a delightful way) and we were writing out budgets and pros and cons lists and fixing closets and throwing out lots of junk and freaking out because we just got the most glorious granite counter tops. Were we ready to part from the granite so soon?

(And in the midst of all this, whilst still traveling and getting stuck in Syracuse last Friday night, I picked up a copy of Jodi Picoult's latest novel, Nineteen Minutes. And then I could. Not. Put. It. Down. Please someone: tell me you have read this book so we can all nerd up in this very forum and get down to the virtual book club I have secretly longed for! Pretty please?)

(And I also learned that Rent is closing on Broadway. As a former Renthead, this news did not sit well, and I have been hatching plans to get back to the Nederlander ever since.)

In closing: I'm back, baby. With lots of stories to tell and a renewed commitment to you, gentle readers.

Until Monday.

Friday, February 29, 2008

Just Fine.

Feeling low?

Case of the mean reds?

I have a cure-all: And it is this: Mary J. Blige, "Just Fine".

See I like what I see when I'm lookin' at me when I'm walkin' past the mirror
Ain't worried bout you and what you gonna do I'm a lady so I must stay classy

It will be impossible for you not hear this song, start bopping your head in your seat, then get the hell up out of your desk chair and dance like a maniac. Seriously. Try it. I dare you.

(Praise Jesus I work from home. No one here to judge.)

Moving on.

Last night the ladies and I met for dinner to celebrate Ol's 28th birthday, with one very special addition to the crew - our old elementary school friend BP, who recently tracked me down on Linked In and got back in touch. (Technology good!)

So BP waltzed in the room, looking gorgeous as ever, and ordered a Dirty. Ketel One. Martini. And then I started shouting at her that OMG that is my drink that is just unbelievable! Thank God you tracked me down because it is quite obvious we are soulmates! BFF! (And also: the service was incredibly slow, and before she even had her first martini in hand, she ordered a second. And it was awesome.)

Yes, it was a very great night indeed.

Oh, it is noteworthy that Koos, being one of the most hilarious women on the planet, signs any card she ever gives you merely: "Love, Koos". This has been a subject of fierce debate for years, as I always demand she write me something meaningful. (One Christmas she presented me with a card that recounted her entire life story, beginning with her birth.)

It was with great fanfare last night that we noticed she had written Ol a birthday note! Which read:

"Have a great day, and a great year. Love, Koos."

K - you are growing. And I love you.

Have a great day, everyone.

And hey - also a great year.

(I really mean that, y'all.)

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

DOND, as we call it in the biz...

Alright, so if you happened to catch Deal or No Deal (henceforth DOND) last Wednesday night, you should know that J and I were not even remotely in that audience. Stupid channel guide listing! I see DOND is a little Idol-shy, eh??

Our show was actually on this past Monday night, and was, well, anti-climactic. We were in the front row, facing the models, which just might be the worst seat in the house as far as camera-time goes. There was one glorious moment in which my face appeared on screen... And, that was about it. J got no airtime, but twice you could see the tops of our heads as they panned over the crowd into commercials! So there you go.

The experience of it all was still brilliant, as PK is a DOND model and gave me the grand tour of her Culver City studio, which, coincidentally, is where The Wizard of Oz was filmed. It's a rather large studio and set, and all of the models were lovely and gracious, as was Mr. Mandel. (We descended upon Howie in his green room in between tapings. Top-notch, that one.) And also, the craft services? Did not disappoint. J and I were severely jet-lagged, running on only adrenaline, Howie's love, and gummy bears. Lord, the candy!

The ladies hang out in a large room behind the main stage, where they each have a director's chair with their respective numbers on it. On this particular night, they also had a tarot card reader and a masseuse backstage. PK insisted I get my cards read, but there were too many models waiting in line. She also pointed out that a massage seemed nice but it was difficult, as they aren't permitted to lie face down (make-up) or with their heads on a table (hair). I wouldn't want to piss off their hair and make-up people either. They are all business!

More on Cali (and my life in general) to come. I am in Manhattan this eve, holed up in my Times Square hotel, waiting for Vanessa to arrive for cocktails. Talk soon.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Set your DVRs: the HV and J Television Debut!

When J, N, and I were finally escorted into the Deal or No Deal arena two weeks ago, I jokingly told our guide: "Get us on camera, man."

He didn't disappoint. We were seated in the front row, sandwiched in between the contestants and their "supporters", facing the purty models. For a good portion of the show, we had a camera up our noses. And at one point during a break, Howie said to the camera operator: "This next segment, shoot these three. The whole time." Aw, Howie. I told you we were BFF!

It appears that Wednesday evening we will make our national television debut. Our contestants were a charming California couple by way of Tennessee. And I totally know what happens! And I am not telling you anything. You must watch. Look for the cute blonde with the overly enthusiastic facial expressions clapping maniacally. What up!

Two Things That Are Awesome

Yes, I am still working. It is 8:07 PM in Cranberry Township, PA. Yes, I have been up since 5:15 AM, and on the road since 6:45 AM. What of it? I am drinking of glass of pinot noir and working, so that is 50% awesome.

But here are two really awesome things:

On Saturday night as we were getting ready for our evening, I mentioned to J that I intended to start tipping the hotel cleaning ladies and/or gentlemen.

"But you're only there for one night at a time," sayeth J.

"It doesn't matter," I sayeth. "It could be a different person each day. The point is, I have never tipped these people. And I think I should."

So this morning I shelled out three dollars, and laid it carefully on my pillow. It's less than I pay for a stupid decaf skinny grande hazelnut latte at Starbucks, y'all. (And screw you, Skinny: you are no White Chocolate Mocha with whole milk and whip and caffeine!)

Anyway.

When I arrived back at the hotel this evening, there was a note by the bed:

Dear Guest.

Thank you so much for the tip! If there is anything I can get you please let me know. Have a blessed day!

Your housekeeper

:) Irma

To which I reply here:

Dear Irma.

I love you.

Your friend

HV

And... Irma single-handedly ensures that I tip my housekeeper at every hotel I visit for all of eternity. (Sorry J!)

More awesome:

I caught up with my mom last night, who attended our cousin's wedding last Saturday (her first cousin's son, which makes him my "third" cousin? Something "removed"? I don't know.). As it turns out, my beloved cousin Lauren introduced the happy couple, the bride being her BFF and all, so she was a member of the bridal party. (My lord, this simple story just got really complicated.)

So someone on that side of the family really wanted to come to my wedding. In fact, this someone went so far as to assume he/she was coming, with the rest of his/her family, all eight of them for JC's sake! Alas, it was not to be.

So let's just say this someone sauntered up to Dave, Lauren's man, during the course of the festivities on Saturday night.

"So Dave, why do you think I wasn't invited to Melissa's wedding?" Someone asks, a bit obnoxiously, no?

"Hmm. Well, was Melissa invited to your son's [fancy] wedding [taking place here this evening]?"

"No."

"Well. I guess that might be why."

Not entirely why. But Dave? Awesome.

Friday, February 15, 2008

Thursday, February 14, 2008

HV Attends Grammys, Ends Writers' Strike

You're welcome.

But seriously, how about how much was happening in Los Angeles when J and I popped out there for a long weekend with friends N and PK?

We had an amazing, amazing time. So brilliant that I spent a lot of energy wondering what the hell I have been doing all my life? Why put up with snow and cold and ice when lo, this mecca exists on the Pacific Ocean?

Sure, there is traffic. And smog. But the Los Angeles that we experienced was remarkably less glamorous then we had always assumed, and actually, um, down to earth. And, wow, like, super-friendly. And self-deprecating. And absolutely aesthetically gorgeous, from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills to Malibu to Santa Monica to Manhattan Beach to the Hollywood Hills, where we sat just below the HOLLYWOOD sign, alternately staring up at it and down at Lake Hollywood.

Gah! I must tell you about it... But I can't tell you about it yet. I am still waiting on a picture. I need to show you the photo first, and then I will recount down to the minute all we saw and did, and then you will all be checking Expedia for flights, because, lord, you should see this.

And you should also meet Flavor Flav, just once in your life. Speaking from experience, you won't be disappointed.

I promise, as soon as I tell you about, my gushing will cease and I will once again be the cynical New Yorker-at-heart that you know and love. Stand by.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Oh. Cali?

J and I are in Los Angeles for a minibreak, and lord, it has been too long since HV has visited this side of the country! Earlier today we completed a rigorous hike through the gorgeous Hollywood Hills (stopping to take in the massive "Hollywood" sign), and I mused that of all the places I have traveled in my life, LA feels the most foreign. In a totally good way.

Much more on this trip later. I may have made good on a few New Years resolutions, y'all.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Ruminations

Hell is... Philadelphia traffic court.

The highlights:
  • Waiting in an unending line outside in the rain and the cold. When a frightened-looking young man approached a police officer and asked what he needed to do, the cop told him to move to the back of the line. As he made his way, another man came out of nowhere, perhaps a court employee, and shouted, "Yeah, move to the back of the line! What the fuck do you think this is?" Giddy with power, these traffic court overlords.

  • When I finally made it through security, past a handwritten sign that read "No food, no drinks, and no weapons allowed inside court" I was shuffled into one of five courtrooms. And then I waited. And waited. Finally an officer arrived and began grabbing files and calling out names, at which point he asked defendants how they wished to plead or offered a plea bargain, which, bless his heart. (No points for HV!) Still, once he barked at a tiny Asian woman: "I don't care how they do it in Singapore!" Oh, Phila "order in English" delphia. Brotherly love, indeed.

  • At the culmination of an amazing morning, the judge appeared. He had only this to say to the moving violators: "Let me tell you that when you have a warrant now, they will come and get you out of your house in your PJs! It ain't sweet here no more!" Um, thank you, your honor.

  • As God as my witness, I will never hit the gas at a yellow light again. You win, Philadelphia Traffic Court. You win.

Friday, February 01, 2008

28.

This morning the alarm went off and played me a very special "Happy Fucking Birthday" tune, courtesy of Dave Matthews:

Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Can you make it shallow?
So that I can feel the rain



Yup. That just about sums up 28, no?


Man, where have the years gone? I have scoured my old diaries this morning to find something birthday-related, but alas, I was not a very consistent journal-keeper and I pretty much gave you everything I had last year.


So, how about pictures from glorious birthdays past?




Take a look at my ninth birthday party y'all, some sort of amazing Pepsi product placement ad. I am somewhat hidden on the left there, but my perm? Nobody puts my perm in the corner. She is truimphant in all of her fluffy glory.

Across the table from me is an adorable Allie, whose skirt was awesome. She also loves Pepsi. Mmm!

Behold also one of my brother Mike's Christmas present, a gigantic pinball machine that my mother thought would be a good idea, despite the fact that it only fit in the kitchen. I resented that damn game for stealing my thunder at my birthday party. This was about me! And my perm! And Pepsi Cola!



And just nine years later, I turned 18. This was my year! I graduated high school. I moved to Brooklyn. I registered as a Democrat. I hung out at Clark Street bar on Henry Avenue, throwing back kamikaze shots for most of freshman year of college.

This was my party in our new home, sans pinball machine. The perm is gone as I sit with cousin Ricky on my lap, and the sneakers are passable. Remember overalls? Yes, I had multiple pairs. I once wore denim overalls to a high school "mixer" with an ivory sweater and combat boots. V. grunge. You can catch D, Koos, and Grace in this picture as well, and I am sure they will be so pleased.


And then three years after I turned eighteen: 21. See the triumphant smile? The slutty red shirt? The drinks?? Is there anything quite like the feeling of confidently showing your actual ID for the first time, knowing you can't possibly be turned away, knowing you don't have to pay a sleazy bouncer at Maui on Delaware Avenue $50 bucks to get into penny drink night? Are you with me?

To be 21 in Manhattan! At least up until September.

Then the years fly by, and I am suddenly 28. I am tempted to snap a photo of myself this morning and post, but I'd frighten you. I'm still in my fleece pajamas, hair pulled into a sloppy bun, wearing my glasses. I haven't brushed my teeth. My coffee is cold. It's raining. I am suddenly tempted to climb back into bed and sleep the anniversary of my birth away.

But you know, this is the year I get married to J, the man who surprised me with a giant bouquet of exotic flowers last night, and is whisking me off to Los Angeles on Thursday. We'll visit Punta Cana in July, surrounded by all of our closest friends and family, and say our vows barefoot on the beach. This is the year we (possibly) visit Africa. It's the year I stop screening so many calls, make an attempt to get my Master's, and quit watching Sex and the City on TBS.

This will be a good year.

Even if I have to start using night cream.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Confessional

So I never watch Dancing with the Stars, but you'd really have to avoid television, magazines, radio, and the WWW for months on end to tune out the ubiquitous media coverage of the damn show.

The incessant buzz often surrounds the miraculous weight loss of the contestants. Obviously, if you do nothing else but physical activity for 40 plus hours per week, you will drop some LBs, eh? And, I don't know, have loads of fun in the process?

It is in this spirit that I find myself finally at home, downloading the Hairspray soundtrack, and dancing Footloose-style about the house. For, um, an hour only a few minutes. And folks? Fantastic.

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

Last night, after several drinks, a group of my Southern coworkers and I found ourselves discussing the general (and completely stereotypical) differences between Southern belles and Yankee women.

Ladies, here is one man's take on said differences:

"Well first of all, Southern girls wear much less make-up," my friend drawls.

"Not so! Not even a bit," I retort.

"Second, Southern girls are simpler. They wear jeans and tee-shirts and flip-flops to the club."

Shudder.

"What about the men in the South?" I ask. "What're they like?" I take another sip of wine.

"Nice dressers," he smiles. "Preppy. And laid back."

I nod my assent. "Y'all are laid back," I remark. I pick up my wine glass. "Y'know, I don't think I could have ever dated a Southern man," I say after a few moments.

"Why not?" he asks, as a few more polite Southern gentlemen join the conversation.

You know what not to say in this situation, specifically when conversing with a company vice president?

"I don't know." Beat. "I guess I'm just too intellectual."

Let's just say, it's a good thing our Southern brothers are so good-humored.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Where in the world is HomeValley?

Lo, she is in Columbus, Ohio. And Pittsburgh, PA. And Verona, NY.

Home tomorrow. Home tomorrow.

Most nights I wake in the night and have absolutely no idea where I am. I rise early, try to cram in a workout, shower and dress, wait until the last possible moment to iron my suit, and head to the continental breakfast. During the days, I alternate between sitting in the meeting compulsively looking at my Treo and performing presenting. Typically I am back on the road by lunch, heading to the next location for a partial meeting and dinner. I sneak out early, around nine PM, call J, and fall into bed exhausted. Then the cycle begins again.

One more week, and things will calm down.

In the meantime, Grace is going to murder me as I have not had a moment to discuss my bridal shower details with her. Sitting in this Verona meeting, I am attempting to put together the guest list and my instructions, which I just emailed to her:

1. No bingo.
2. No candy bars that have any ingredients for "love" or "happiness".
3. Games must not be tedious, but awesome.
4. Alcohol must be involved. Preferably that delicious punch stuff. Or Mimosas. And bloody marys.
5. Shower Power Hour?
6. Interesting door prizes. Let's crank it up a notch here. (Cheap, but not standard fare.)
7. Am I a bridezilla?
8. I LOVE YOU.
9. You are the woman for this job.

Yes. Yes, it will be awesome.

Friday, January 18, 2008

For the love of the burrito.

Friends! How are things? What is new?

Fine. I am actually on my way out the door AGAIN, but had to post because I love you. And burritos. So, so much. Though last night as we climbed into bed, J commented:

"Whoa. Look at the arm."

"What? Fat?"

"No," he said. "Muscular."

Riiigghtt.

And then he said, very sweetly: "We're really going to have to get you to that gym."

My man? He is right. I started our whole fitness regimen back in late November, and I haven't been quite disciplined over the last several weeks. It's difficult when the bar is always open and it's always someone else's tab. (I know! Cry me a river right?)

But dudes, I need to be in a BIKINI in seven short months. In my current shape, I can't have my closest friends and family snapping photos of me in Punta Cana and submitting them to the blogosphere! Then you would all turn hypercritical and point out my cellulite and think of catchy comments like "Damn! HV is big as a valley!" Then I would have to go all Tyra in a post, shouting at you to "KISS MY FAT ASS!"

Then we are agreed.

No more burritos. And probably no more bacon. Or too much cheese. Or chocolate. And much, much less alcohol.

Get ready for a very delightful HomeValley, kids!

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Matthew Sighting, Courtesy of Allie

Matt, yesterday, on his way to Crate and Barrel…Hmmm…wedding gift perhaps?

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

I miss you guys too.

So, I have been working nonstop (14 hours a day) and that's really no excuse, but I'll be back, lovelies. I will update on Friday or may I never eat a burrito again.

Hugs and Kisses,

HV

Friday, January 11, 2008

Parlez Vous Francais?

Back in town, after a whirlwind week in Dallas! I'll tell you, we had a pretty exciting night at Texas Stadium. I couldn't quite believe that 400 of us were ushered out through the giant Cowboys helmet (cheerleaders adorning both sides), then provided an open bar right there on the field, a few ex-Cowboys, Rowdy, the mascot, and footballs. Many, many footballs. We kicked field goals, caught balls in the end zone, and finally started a small touch game which was more fun than I've had in a long, long time, save every day with J. And I left unscathed! Some of my coworkers? Not so lucky. Separated shoulders, broken bones.

I still maintain that alcohol plus footballs equals AWESOME.

Do you want to know what else happened this week? Yesterday our plane from Dallas was extremely packed. (For some reason, Dallas to Philly is now a "regional" flight, which equates to a tiny jet with just four seats acrossed. Cramped.) A woman seated across the aisle from me had a large bag that would not fit into any overhead compartment. She also spoke no English. The flight attendant tried speaking louder to get her to understand, which of course did not do the trick. The woman was Spanish-speaking, but inquired of the flight attendant, "French?"

"Does anybody speak French?" She shouted. Feeling empathetic, I stepped up.

"Un peu," I said to the woman. ("A bit.")

"Ask her if she is going anywhere else after Philadelphia! We need to check her bag!" Flight Attendant barked at me.

Please understand, readers, that I took four years of French in high school. I rocked it. I loved the language, and I continued my studies in college, where I read French texts and went to French restaurants. No, I was never a natural, never fluent, but conversational. Passable.

All of the passengers in the immediate vicinity were looking at me expectantly. I began.

"Vous..."

I could feel my face burning, but I only sat there dumbly. I was paralyzed by stupidity.

"Vous etes..."

After what felt like an eternity, Flight Attendant finally gave up on me and shouted: "Does any one speak Spanish?!?"

The lesson? No, no I suppose I don't speak French. Not even un peu.

(For the record, it's Allez-vous n'importe où après philadelphie?)

God, I hate myself.

Monday, January 07, 2008

The Stars at Night are Big and Bright

Dallas-bound, coming to you live from the Philadelphia airport, where it's a million degrees Celsius and the pinot noir is dreadfully overpriced. I am on my way to a conference, so I am not sure how much I will be able to chat with you this week. In case we don't speak, let me tell you the story of how I nearly killed J yesterday. And not intentionally!

It happened during an innocent shower, one in which J covered himself in soap (eyes shut tight to avoid bubbles in eyes). In order to rinse, J needed me to move out of the way, which I did most unsuccessfully. I slipped, just a bit, and knocked into him.

The rest happened as if in slow motion. J (eyes shut tightly as he is covered in soap), wobbled once to the right. Then, he lurched slightly to the left. Then he completely lost his footing, and fell backwards out of the tub, onto the floor, at which point he landed in a seated position, and then twirled around once for good measure.

I screamed.

J, disoriented: "Whoa. Babe."

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Are you alright? I am so sorry! J, please, are you okay?"

"You tried to kill me."

With this accusation, I exhale. And then I start laughing unroariously, because J is sprawled on the floor, naked as a jaybird, covered in vanilla sugar body wash.

These are the days, folks.

Friday, January 04, 2008

Resolve.


23. Stop DVRing Sex and the City on TBS.

And...
Done.

Sorry girls, but your edited for TV antics are no longer clogging up my glorious DVR!

In other resolution updates, I have successful reduced phone screening in the last several days, though this will be a life-long battle. I have also started studying for the GMATs (er, reading the GMAT book). I have been going to the gym (Body Works class today), though I most certainly have not ceased drinking. Can't win 'em all, kids.

Have a lovely weekend. And also, do just one favor for your old pal, HomeValley: navigate away from the Britney/gossip sites, and read something about a potential presidential nominee. I realize, loves, that I'm far from a political expert (just give me time), but I implore you: only we have the power to change our disturbing Britney-obsessed culture, one click at a time.

Oh! That reminds me. I have unwittingly developed a mantra to help me avoid all celeb gossip, inspired by this:

Harvey Levin is rich because you are stupid.

Try it!

Thursday, January 03, 2008

It's A Totally Happening Life

Saddle up, kids! I am about to tell you a very heartfelt and uplifting tale.

Behold, a Very Special 90210 Christmas ep! (Pretend it is still the holiday season, mmmkay?)

Okay, so we open with two motherf-ing stars, y'all. Yes, that's right: Aaron Spelling and creative team sought to destroy Christmas in 1992, based on this craptastic take on It's a Wonderful Life.

The stars/angels are our awful, awful narrators. One meek little star/angel implores her cruel star/angel boss to take her case, for pete's sake! It is Christmas in Beverly Hills, and the gang is in big trouble!

You see, Kelly and Brenda and Dylan are involved in some warped love triangle at this point. (So far this year Bren's broken up with Dylan; had a fling with "Reek"; dumped him because he loved taxation laws and Jerry Lee Lewis; stumbled upon Dylan and Kel out on a date; and agreed to be friends with both of them until Dylan makes his "choice". Eek!)

So everyone is helping Donna with some sort of "toys for tots" program, and Silver is filming the gift-wrapping (because it wouldn't be an actual episode without David desperately trying to do something creative and annoying the hell out of us). The story gradually begins to unfold: Dylan sluts about making out with both Kelly and Brenda! But Brenda catches K and D feeling each other up on Dylan's couch and overacts her way out of their lives and out of the toys for tot program. (For shame, Bren!)

Then, Andrea gets into Yale! Hooray! But oh no, her Republican boyfriend just dumped her. Asexual Andrea feigns heartbreak, then invites Brandon over to help her babysit. Brandon has just been dumped by Nikki, who is moving back to San Francisco. I am sure Brandon is mostly relieved that he won't have to go to dance clubs anymore, but he doesn't mention it and simply pretends to be upset that Nikki's left him high and dry.

Babysitting. Andrea and Brandon watch It's a Wonderful Life together and then share the world's most passionless kiss, until MJ and Lisa Marie Presley upstage them at the 1994 MTV Video Music Awards. And then Andrea breaks away because she is asexual accuses him of thinking of Nikki! Then he accuses her of thinking of her ex-Republican beau that no one remembers! Then they quit toys for tots too, because they simply can't be around each other, lest their completely nonsexual energy get really out of hand.

Suddenly, Donna has no volunteers, so of course appeals to Chuck Norris Mrs. Teasley, who forces them all to attend. They get their asses on that bus to deliver those toys, and quick.

Everyone is just miserable on the bus, and they all start bickering about their petty problems.

But wait! Meek Star/Angel tells us that the bus is barrelling towards a drunken trucker in a tractor trailer, and all of the kids are going to DIE unless Cruel Star/Angel boss intervenes!

(That thud you just heard was Jimmy Stewart rolling over in his grave.)

Then, something incredible happens... As the bus and the tractor trailer collide, they, um, go through each other. Like ghosts. A Festivus Miracle! The kids are still alive (bummer) and then they forget about their petty problems for a moment to distribute toys to the kids.

Was it awesome? Not this time, folks. Not even a little bit.







If Assholes Could Fly

Anyone care to take the over/under on number of times coworkers jokingly asked me to leave today's meeting? Anyone?

Six.

Number of times I blushed and smiled and chortled and rolled with it, all the time gritting my teeth and sarcastically thinking, "Oh, that's rich!"

8939 (I obsessed just a bit after the fact.)

Number of times I imagined that in a few short years, I will somehow catapult myself via ingenius innovation into corporate stardom and acquire gobs of money, and began this Vanity Fair article in my head: Well, years ago a more senior business associate kicked me out of a meeting. I didn't take it lying down. I used the humilation to fuel my ambition, and look at me now! I own him, And you, contributing reporter. Fetch me my martini!

Gah! Only twice.

Number of times I cruelly mocked J for douche-y blue tooth device? Number of times I pleaded with him not to walk around all damn day with that flashing light contraption hanging from his ear, anticipating his next very important mobile call?

A gajillion.

Number of blue tooths purchased by HomeValley last week?

One.

Number of times I sashayed about Connecticut today, douche-y blue tooth dangling from my delicate earlobe?

Two. (It's just so damn convenient!)

I swear, I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize myself anymore.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

An Inauspicious Start to the New Year

Alternate title: A Really Fucking Demoralizing Start To The New Year.
Or: HomeValley Is Warrior That Will Persevere!
Or Even: Fuck Everyone.

A tale best told in third person.

So, HomeValley's day begins with a slight anxiety attack. Slight, that is, lasting all night resulting in cold sweat and rapid heart beat and waking every hour or so with a start squinting to read the alarm and oh my Lord is it fucking five AM yet?!?!

Obviously, need to work more diligently on becoming ZenMaster.

*Breathes deeply*

So HomeValley treks to 30th Street Station bound for New Haven, Connecticut. Remembers suddenly that knowledge is POWER, y'all, and so eschews tabloids (as has for last six months or so) and selects The New York Times.

HV luuuurrrrrves international news, which today unfortunately consists of murdered American embassy worker in Sudan; continued unrest in Kenya which recently resulted in burning of women and children huddled in church for safety; plus one Saudi blogger detained in Riyadh for "questioning".

Still, HV tries to maintain positive 2008 outlook. Sighs loudly, quells familiar urge to travel to the Middle East and make a difference with charming disposition, then shakes head in attempt to release negative thoughts. How lucky I am, she thinks. Iranian women can be jailed for wearing long boots over pants, for fuck's sake.

Then, HV notices something amiss at station. The Acela is running fifty minutes behind schedule, which means she will miss Christmas present to self in form of Swedish massage at Connecticut spa before meeting, twenty-four hour cancellation policy, blah dee blah spoiled, and out some money blah blah blee.

Train finally arrives, and HV catches up on mounds of work, continues reading The Times (countdown to the Iowa caucuses!), resolves to make scheduled appointment so help her GOD.

Amazingly, makes it to spa. Rips off clothes, envelopes self in soft, white robe, saunters into relaxation room. Considers good fortune, sips chamomile tea, designs own relaxation room in mind for spare third floor bedroom (to do: buy Enya CD, soft lighting, aromatherapy candles).

Massage. Otherworldly. Life good.

Afterwards, returns to women's locker room ready to be deep-fried (that is, covered in oil). Doesn't mind. Pays discounted tab and checks into room. Must shower and dress again today (all before noon), but life is beautiful. Dresses quickly and scurries to afternoon meeting.

Enter freshly scrubbed, ZenMaster HomeValley. Meeting already in progress. (HV not on agenda until much later.)

HV is unceremoniously asked to leave meeting. Face turns crimson, retreats back to room. Quickly dials most trusted coworker for emergency guidance. Still on vacation. Blast!

(Here HV should explain actual circumstances, save the melodrama. Was guest at meeting and team was discussing something team leader believed HV should not be privy too. Yet, with ego the size of Yao Ming, HV was ever so slightly humiliated, as no such event has ever occurred in entire career.)

Sent to room, essentially, HomeValley reaches out to Grace for a consult. Grace urges HV to remain steadfast and not be deterred. HV concurs. After all, it is 2008! Does no one get that?

Returns to meeting when called (well, stalls for many, many minutes, as HV is not your bitch!); provides information in meeting, gets mocked good-naturedly by coworkers who find her dismissal both unbelievable and comical.

Meeting adjourned. Martini. Miller Lite. Hibachi.

[Here is the point in the story in which HV has woken up at 2:52 AM and has wisely decided to censor herself, so as to save career in likely event that in year 2008, blog receives critical acclaim, mass readership, inevitable book deal. HV is sure you understand. She'll discuss it with you offline.]

[Suffice it to say, HV was offended by something, which she transcribed here in her typical eloquent and clever prose.]

[Ultimately, she is fine and has retained general awesomeness and ZenMaster disposition.]

[2008, y'all. ]

Monday, December 31, 2007

2008: The Year of HomeValley

  1. Become more clear-headed.
  2. Perhaps drink less alcohol.
  3. Also, consider a mantra.
  4. One Thing At A Time.
  5. Because honestly, we can't go on with our head so - cluttered.
  6. Meet Howie Mandel.
  7. Provide Internet photographic evidence of said meeting.
  8. Take the GMATs.
  9. Take them again and really rock them.
  10. Apply to graduate school.
  11. Actually go this time around. (Don't ask.)
  12. Be amazing future wife. Think special presents and thoughtful gestures, amongst, ahem, other things.
  13. Visit a California winery.
  14. Develop exquisite physique for July nuptials.
  15. Avoid burritos.
  16. Watch less television.
  17. Finish Anna Karenina.
  18. Even though Lisa Turtle gave away the ending trying to impress that snobbish intellectual she had a crush in that one episode.
  19. Reduce call-screening by 50%.
  20. Call Grandmom more.
  21. Give more compliments.
  22. But make sure they are sincere.
  23. Stop DVRing Sex and the City on TBS.
  24. Stop worrying so much.
  25. Consider another mantra for this.
  26. More. Yoga.
  27. Get published.
  28. To this end, definitely drink less and cut out bad TV.
  29. Post more.
  30. Become a friend of the blogosphere. Delurk.
  31. Floss.
  32. Organize office.
  33. Maintain organized workspace.
  34. Send "thank you" cards.
  35. Visit Africa.
  36. See the pyramids in Egypt.
  37. Go on a safari.
  38. Quell road rage.
  39. Get promoted.
  40. Become a better networker.
  41. Volunteer at least three days this year.
  42. Become a student of theology.
  43. Pick a religion that works.
  44. Stop offending Jesus.
  45. Become spiritual person.
  46. Quit complaining.
  47. Gossip less.
  48. Finally get belly-button ring removed, because honestly. You got that thing at 18 on South Street. Time to let go.
  49. Develop solid wedding song playlist.
  50. Avoid most wedding cliches.
  51. Share your success in these quests with the Internet.
  52. And also those damn Istanbul pictures already.

Friday, December 21, 2007

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Tonight is our annual Girls' Christmas Dinner. I believe this is the 11th year and counting, because, fuck, we are old.

The players have been tweaked slightly over the years, as some of us drifted a bit through the college years. For the last half a decade or so, it's been Homevalley, Grace, Koos, Allie, D, and Ol.

So each holiday season, one of us dutifully offers to host the festivities (this year D is up). There is much food and wine and beer and hard alcohol and gifts, because we are spoiled. The gifts are typically not too pricey (two years ago I picked up "I Love New York" tees for everyone - which, dudes: why haven't you worn those???) but alas, I was horribly tee-shirt shamed when Koos doled out this jem:

Uncle Jesse does Thailand. (And subsequently our wedding invitation. What up!)




You can't see it, but that tee reads "Have Mercy!" Brilliant.

Last year we spent our evening at Allie's, where we ate and drank everything in sight, exchanged gifts, then wisely decided that we should most definitely go out to the local "dance" club, where we danced and danced and drank some more, until ever-rambunctious Grace began thrusting me about the floor and pushing me onto the stage with the band. Narrowly escaping injury, we headed back to Allie's where we ate whatever was left in the apartment, because Christmas comes but once a year.

The year prior, Ol hosted in my beloved Queens, where we both found ourselves living at the time. We followed pretty much the same regimen, only we visited a Bayside bar, where my patented Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club dance was born. Then Koos and I made a desperate attempt to thwart the rest of the girls by calling it an early night, as we secretly wanted to eat all of the chocolate cake and watch What About Bob, inexplicably. (Our mission failed, and we shared the damn dessert.)

Who knows what surprises this year will bring? D is making fondue, so we're all charged with bringing meats and appetizers and alcohol. I have spent a large portion of the day emailing with Grace about what the hell I should bring for an app, to which she insisted "Caprese Kebobs". When I suggested I just make regular old Caprese salad, she threatened:

so help me Jesus it better be on a stick!

Merry Christmas, Ladies.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Jean.

I bought a dress.

(Or, more accurately: thank you, Mama!)

I had The Dress picked out after our New York shopping spree, but hemmed and hawed and stalled because I didn't actually want to make a decision. That would be so... final.

Last week I pushed my reservations aside and told my mom I wanted the damn dress already. She suggested we visit one more bridal shop.

And unbelievably, there was The Dress. Not perfect, as it is in desperate need of some sequin removal (Why? Every damn dress with the sparkles!) and some button changing, but so help me God, I could envision the final product. And it was good.

Of course I can't show it to you until after July, but let me give you some idea of what we're dealing with. Here is what I wanted:





I am slightly obsessed with late Carolyn Bessette Kennedy's style, as my tastes lend more towards simple, elegant, and classic. (Also, my late grandma Mildred was similarly obsessed. She had ripped this photo from a magazine and hung it on her bedroom wall and frequently exclaimed, "Melissa! You look like just like the Kennedy wife!" Quite.)


Unfortunately, I am not as slender, nor as tall, as the statuesque Carolyn. So the dress I selected? Shares several elements with this stunning Narciso Rodriguez, but suits my feminine 40-inch hips. (I blame the booty, as my waist is small and my curves are kickin'. J is very much on board.)


It also has a decidedly old Hollywood feel, with rich, curve-hugging fabric. My mother remarked that it evoked Jean Harlow, which is fitting as I used to tell people she chose my middle name (Jean) based on the platinum haired "blonde bombshell"; until one day she overheard me recounting this story and interrupted with: "What the hell, Melissa? I named you after Jean Haggerty! She was a girl I really admired in high school."


Totally sticking with my version, by the way.

(Carolyn's middle name? Also Jeanne. Coincidence?)

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Lament

Blah blah blah work is so hectic blah.

Jotting this down at 10:22 PM as J snores in bed... Almost finished with my responsible adult holiday duties, i.e. Christmas gifts, wrapping, and cards. Blah blah blah holiday chaos blah.

So many things to chat with you about, yet so little time. J and I have taken off all of Christmas week, so that should give me loads of time to tell you about:
  1. Istanbul. Seriously, I have amazing pictures. Why haven't I posted them? Oh, I'll post them. Next week. At the very least I will tell you The Tale of Turkish Scott Baio, and That Night at the Cozy Pub.
  2. Thailand and Cambodia for that matter. Because you deserve to know.
  3. The imminent return to Queens, tentatively titled Uncontrollable Sobbing in Our Favorite Borough, Part Deux.
  4. Wedding dress!
  5. I swore I had more topics.
  6. But I can't think of them now.
  7. Nonetheless, these blog posts on various topics are my holiday gift to you, Internet.

Whatchoo talkin' bout, Homer?

Whatchoo talkin' bout, everyone.

(Need sleep. Immediately.)

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

WWJD?

So last night I wrote and wrote and in the end, I appreciated what I had to say about God and my religious beliefs, but still felt a bit uneasy about the blog entry.

I attributed the nagging feeling to a bit of self-doubt, perhaps an "over-share", but I soldiered on and hit publish anyway. Then I watched The Office on TBS and finally fell asleep around 11:30 PM.

I was off and dreaming. I found myself in my childhood bedroom, sitting at my old wooden desk typing on my laptop, eagerly joining some sort of online writing program run by Oprah. (God, I am obsessed). Suddenly, a woman I didn't recognize entered my room and announced:

"Jesus is here to see you, Miss."

Shit, I think.

Enter Jesus, with shoulder-length blonde hair, clad in white and burgundy robes. He's looking well, strong and handsome. He hurries into my old bedroom and I can see he is not pleased with me. He's quite exasperated, in fact.

I don't hang around to find out what JC is about to tell me. I wake myself with a start, heart pounding. I turn on the light and expect to find him at the foot of the bed, though mercifully he has gone.

Frightened, I breathe deeply and realize: I just blew up Jesus's spot.

You see what you didn't read in yesterday's post about religion was a deeply personal story about my mother, who has always asserted that God, in his infinite wisdom, will do whatever He can to you until you get your ass back to The Church. It was a beautiful tale of how that worked out for my mom, one that as I typed I wasn't sure I should share with the Internet, at least not just yet.

After pissing off Jesus in my dream, I tossed and turned until 4 AM, when I decided to boot up my computer and delete my mother's story from the post. The entry still flowed and I felt calmer, and immediately drifted off to sleep.

JC or only my subconscious, I did the right thing. Blogging is a dangerous sport, y'all.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

This post is about God.

Watching Good Morning America this morning, I repeated a silent command to my brain: under no circumstances, I said sternly, are you to remember his name, this deranged motherfucker who shot up a missionary in Arvada, Colorado, then traveled to Colorado Springs to kill teenaged sisters at a church.


I also angrily demanded of said brain: Why? Why must they exploit him and award him with infamy? Please, please don't say his name. I won't listen.


Later, when my brain and I were introduced to Jeanne Assam, the security guard who shot and killed the deranged motherfucker (as he will henceforth be known), I willed myself to remember her name. (I wish I had succeeded. I just looked it up on MSNBC.) I watched her speak plainly about the events and claim, "God guided me and protected me."


And I thought, then why didn't God protect the murdered four? Why didn't He safeguard their families against that interminable pain? And why didn't He intervene in deranged motherfucker's case? Why didn't He guide and protect him?


We have a funny relationship, Yahweh and me. (As in, why did I edit that last paragraph to ensure I had capitalized all of the pronouns referring to Him?)


Do I still believe?


That is the crux of the matter, isn't it?


I attended Catholic school for thirteen years, though I haven't attended mass in ages. Catholicism and I don't mesh on many levels (abortion rights, homosexuality, birth control, attitudes towards spiritual leaders' pedophiliac tendencies, etc.). So I don't practice, and I study other, more liberal, inclusive religions, and I imagine that one day J and I might seriously become Buddhists. I live by the golden rule; I strive to be good and do good and I am eternally thankful for all that I have in this life.


Usually, I believe that is enough. I believe in Heaven and not hell. I am deeply skeptical of deeply religious people most of the time, though I attended an amazing benefit for poor Egyptian children given by close Christian friends in DC recently, and I cried most of the night during their earnest prayers. I was sublimely happy among them, sniffling and writing checks to help poor Christian babies living in garbage slums near Cairo.


My cynicism quickly resurfaced when I learned that Christians were in the minority in Egypt, a predominantly Muslim country. The moment I sensed that these religious sects were enemies in Africa, I was reminded why I eschewed organized religion in the first place. That.


That posturing, that positioning. That self-righteous attitude that nearly boasts, we're better than you. We know we have it right. And if you ain't with us, well then honey, may God have mercy on your heathen soul.


Or, I don't know, calling a teddy bear Muhammed, and doing hard time?


That.


There is a beautiful monologue in a terribly underrated film, Keeping the Faith. In it, Ed Norton plays a Catholic priest, whose best friend is a rabbi played by Ben Stiller. I've always adored the movie, as the main characters struggle to make religion mainstream in present-day Manhattan. Mostly I've always been captivated by the Ed Norton homily, in which he discusses faith:


And it's very important to understand the difference between religion and faith. Because faith is not about having the right answers. Faith is a feeling. Faith is a hunch, really. It's a hunch that there is something bigger connecting it all... connecting us all together. And that feeling, that hunch, is God.


(Also beautiful, and a bit embarrassing, as perhaps I have concocted my own belief system via a comedy that didn't even do very well at the box office. But I'll take divinity where I can get.)


I want to believe. I want to pray, and thank God, for it all. I don't want to be God's fair-weather friend. I don't want to only speak to Him when I desperately need Him, when I am drowning. I want a strong relationship with Him. I want community. Sometimes, I sing Christian hymns to myself while driving, and my eyes well and I think, I really will get to mass this week.


I want the answers. I don't want to judge others; I don't want to judge other religions, other gods. I want to know. I want to know what is right and be free from doubt. If in fact, Judgment Day comes, I really don't want to be standing there with egg on my face with the other Catholics, say, if Jesus only really digs Baptists or Methodists. I don't want to angrily question God's motives; I don't want to be pissed at Him each night as I watch the six o'clock news. I want to know the plan! I want to know if all of the pain and suffering and joy has a purpose; I don't just want to blindly believe that it does, because what do I base that on?


So that's faith, Edward Norton? It's not about religion, or answers; it's a feeling, it's a hunch.


That is the crux of the matter, isn't it?

Awesomeness in Our Favorite Zip


New feature!


I have been completely obsessed with Beverly Hills, 90210 as of late. Thanks to DVR, I can record all of the episodes that air on Soap Net, all 74849 a week. J is most certainly not pleased. He just doesn't get it. Because, man, at one point it was so, so good...


Take, for instance, 1992, the summer before senior year at the Beverly Hills Beach Club. The kids from West Beverly spend most of their days entering volleyball tournaments and tanning, except Andrea (who plays camp counselor and befriends an adorable deaf child), and Brenda and Donna (who are holy hell in a French "immersion" program in Paris which is AWESOME, though I can't tell if these scenes are actually filmed in France. But Donna almost becomes a world-renowned fashion model and Brenda starts smoking and affects an incredibly poor French accent to impress "Reek", a handsome Dean Cain!)


*Takes deep breath. All too glorious.*


So one day new gal Nikki hippies her way from San Fran to the Bev Beach Club, and spots shirtless Steve and his Curly Mullet (which really should have received its own billing, because WOW!) in the sand. She says hello, then becomes distracted and abruptly asks something like, "Where's that great sound coming from?"


She needn't look far. As behold! There is squeaky-voiced, bejeweled David Silver in Mel and Jackie's cabana, ernestly playing his keyboard and crooning:


You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?
You are so precious to me
Am I so precious to you?


Nikki starts grooving to Silver's beats, naturally, as the show's producers will spend a lot of years trying to convince us that David is a talented musician/dancer, before they finally pack it in and just give him the Peach Pit After Dark already, he's terrible. Nonetheless, he and Nikki make out (for shame! He is with Donna.) and Steve and the Curly Mullet decide to manage ole Squeaky-Voice, because the Curly Mullet has contacts in the biz, his mom is Samantha f-ing Sanders from The Hartley House, damnit!


And it was awesome.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Against All Odds

So my IT guy swears it is not possible; but lo! The disconcerting details of what just transpired:

I received a new Treo 700 in the mail today, which was subsequently "synced" with my Outlook: emails, contacts, calendar, and tasks, as you do.

I occasionally (read: always) use this mobile for personal calling. Very few of my personal contact numbers (if any) are stored in Outlook.

But they are all stored in my new Treo. And then some!

"Not possible," says IT Kyle. "The only contacts that would be in your phone are those from Outlook."

"But I swear to you; some of these people were never in my Outlook..."

I dated most of them before I had this job, I think.

*Shivers*

Impossibly, not only have my business contacts been loaded into the new 700; most of my ex-boyfriends have been too.

Universe, what exactly are you trying to tell me?

It's beyond freaky. It's like that urban legend, the one that inevitably ends with: "You couldn't have met my daughter on the bus today... She's been dead for ten years..."

*Shudders*

J offered only this: Don't call them.


Thursday, December 06, 2007

Is It My Turn?

My dear friends, you are in dire need of an update! I’m once again strapped for time (sipping decaf coffee at Max and Erma’s in the Columbus airport), but I’ve got a few moments to update you, list-style. Pumped?

1. First things first: here in Central Ohio, there is an FM radio station that plays only television theme songs. TV theme songs, y’all. It was quite possibly one of the strangest things ever; yet also: the most awesome. Notably, I am the sort of girl who turns up the volume and sings along to Laverne and Shirley. I am also the sort of devoted blogger (hee!) who jots down notes on some of the more interesting songs played, say, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

When the evil Shredder attacks!
These turtle dudes don’t cut’em no slack!


Hands down, the highlight of my day.

(Though I was temporarily crushed when I did not hear any Family Ties, a ditty I was at one time seriously campaigning to use for our first dance at the W.)

2. I recently forced J to sit through a DVRed “My Night at the Grammys”, a summation of the top twenty Grammy performances ever, as voted by ignorant viewers who obviously are insane as number one (or 2 – 20, for that matter) was not Michael Jackson performing “Billie Jean” and positively killing it with the moonwalk. Seriously?

Oh, but one performance that rightfully did make the countdown was Ricky Martin’s “La Copa de la Vida”, in which he single-handedly ushered in the Latin music revolution of the late 90s, before he fell off the scene once again in a barrage of “is he or isn’t he” gay rumors. (Oh, Ricky, I love you either way, honey.)

Watching Martin shake his bon-bon instantly transported me to second semester of freshman year, the coldest February in New York City history (at least that’s what it felt like to us). Vanessa and I remained holed up in our Brooklyn Heights dorm, likely scarfing down pasta or delicious ham and cheese sandwiches from the bodega across the street, watching Ricky explode onto the scene. And we instantaneously adored him and we totally watched TRL in search of him and the phrase “livin’ la vida loca” entered the lion’s share of our conversations. It was a magical time, nineteen and naïve in our glorious city. Back in the present day, a pang of heartsickness hit me suddenly, and I knew what I had to do.

I opened iTunes immediately and downloaded many, many Ricky Martin songs. I also discovered that iTunes shopping under duress (or nostalgia) is dangerous, because I also bought P.M. Dawn (what up?) and Boyz II Men’s greatest hits, because at that moment I could not go another second, dear God, without hearing “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday”. (Because it is, y’all. It really is.)

3. Shit, I’ve got to catch a plane. To be continued.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Comedy Gold

Inspired by the Slapsgiving episode of How I Met Your Mother and the fact that I can't stop reading blogs right now even as J is having conversations with me in which I just nod politely even though Cops is on and mmm the wine; ladies and gents, an original song by J:

Who is this person?

You're talking to?

You might as well just sit here and sing songs

Because no one's listening to you!

Just sit here and drink your fucking wine!

Nobody's listening to you.

Who is this person?

You're singing songs to?

You might as well drink your fucking wine and shut up

No one's listening to you!

Who is this food?

I heard so much about?

It's obviously not here and even if it was

I couldn't eat it. (Shout out to the wedding diet. Woot!)

Happy Thanksgiving (complete with histrionics)!

On Thursday morning, J booted up his laptop and urged me to read a review of the Punta Cana resort we'll be visiting in July for the W. I acquiesced, so long as he brought me a cup of decaf hazelnut already (yes, I'm off the caffeine again. More on that later.)

It was an amazingly thorough review. The couple had just gotten married there in October, and the groom provided every detail of the entire affair, all rainbows and sunshine and la la la most perfect day ever!

Then I read this gem:

You will meet with the photographer approx. two hours before the ceremony.

And then I freaked out. Ever so slightly.

"Oh no!" I whined. "No, no, no! J! This is awful!"

The horror, the trauma: wedding photos taken two hours before the ceremony? With family? And friends? And J?!?

I know we are fairly unconventional, but Christ. This is my moment; this is J's moment. Our moment. It's supposed to be beautiful and romantic and memorable. It's that second when J sees me from afar looking stunning and angelic and virginal (shut up), walking down the aisle to meet him and pledge my undying devotion to him. His eyes are supposed to well up with tears, y'all. Tears!

And so with all of my melodramatic histrionics here, you can imagine that ole HV was not too keen about having The. Moment. in the hotel lobby, before the ceremony. It's so unnatural, and mechanical, for the sake of the photos.

J assured me that we would could do it differently, and then I sniffed and wiped at my eyes and sat in the kitchen and sighed wearily.

"Happy Thanksgiving, babe," J said.

Beat.

"You know, I'm really glad you and me hooked up."

And then I laughed, hard, and agreed with him.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Thrills of Life on the Open Road

I once again find myself on an Amtrak train bound for Philadelphia, eager to put the week behind me (Columbia, SC from Sunday to Monday; then Worcester, MA, Mystic, CT, to Westbrook, to New Haven). I am still smarting from my stay at the Mystic Marriott. You see, all I longed for yesterday was a simple pedicure, as the dogs are long overdue to be beautified. I meandered down to the Red Door Spa, and requested the "Express" pedicure, priced at $50.

"You know it's just a polish change. Is that okay?" Says the perfectly-coiffed receptionist.

"$50 for a polish change?" I ask.

She nods assent.

"No," I say softly, horrified. "NO! That is most certainly not okay!"

Exit HV, huffily.

So - Acela. In line for concessions (Because the hot dogs! They are still delicious!), when the man in front of me hands his money to the cashier and asks, "Did you recognize that famous actor you just waited on?"

Good night! My ears perk up.

"He seemed familiar," Oblivious Cashier admits.

I clear my throat. Friends, I can't not ask. The intrigue! Which actor - nay - famous actor has joined the commuter masses this afternoon? "Uh, who was this actor?" I inquire casually. I am nonchalant, of course.

"Mark Ruffalo."

If this were a sitcom, I would spit out a beverage theatrically at this moment. "Mark Ruffalo? Is on this train?"

"Yes," he says.

"Uh, which car?" I ask, only half kidding.

The man chuckles and tells me he does not know.

I return to my seat, carefully examining the faces of everyone I pass. I notice an attractive head of brown hair four rows back, but I shake it off and concentrate on my delicious hot dog.

Oh, but when we stop in New York and passengers begin shuffling, I turn back.

And I behold the glory that is Ruffalo (yes, that was his wavy brunette mop I spotted). He is clad in jeans and a black long sleeved tee-shirt; and ladies, he doesn't disappoint. He is fairly gorgeous, yet the fact that he is on this commuter train is perhaps most attractive. Ruffalo! A man for the people! He rose at Penn Station, retrieved one large travel back-pack from the overhead, and just like that, he walked out of my life. Fare thee well, Ruffalo. Fare thee well.

So that was my day, y'all. Tonight J and I will have drinks with friends; tomorrow I will rise at six AM to travel to Manhattan and search for a wedding dress. And possibly Mark.

(Oh, and um, this wedding dress shopping? I drew up an itinerary. Yes, yes, I did. And I called it "Wedding Gown Shopping with HV: Not For the Faint of Heart." Haha! Am crazy. Will let you know how I make out.)

Monday, November 05, 2007

Part Deux: Thank God I have had a recent tetanus shot.

Seriously, seemingl- innocent can of creamed coconut?

Newly bandaged, was just seriously startled by beeping microwave that holds Lean Cuisine dinner. Did not expect beeping.

Lord.

So... Miracle Whip?

Not mayo. As it turns out.

And I was so excited to cook a meal for Grace; one that I knew how to cook.

Why, Acme, would you place Miracle Whip right next to the mayo, so as to confuse me???

Drunk now, but so?

I know that mayo should have no vinegar; that Far-Mor Stina's Curry Chicken recipe calls for MAYO! NOT MiracleWhip! What are you, Miracle Whip? You have vinegar and smell so suspicious. You are not a friend. You FOE!!

Was on phone with Koos when I discovered my grave misstep. "J!" I called, as Koos burped her adorable new baby, Four (for blog purposes) on her lap (Child is adorable and amazing. Can't explain. He is just better than your average kid.)

(God. Pinot Grigio!)

"J - I messed up? Where is pizza menu? J? How do I call Santucci Brothers?"

J: Um, how do you call Santucci Brothers? (Shakes head slowly; wonders why he proposed exactly?)

HV: I mean, like, do we have a menu?

(PINOT!)

Seriously? Probably should have eaten dinner. Would not be so drunk if could bring self to eat vinegar chicken a la curry and cream of chicken soup.

(mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm)

Gah!

Must wATCH Mionday night foooball....

Seriously? Miracle Whip??? Why?

Luckily, salvaged delicious Thai dessert of fried bananas, toasted coconut, and coconut cream sauce. Am glorious cook. Betches.

(PINOT!!!)

(Shall erase this in AM.)

Monday, October 29, 2007

The Power of Christ Compels the Wedding


You guys?


I love today.


It's Monday. It's Monday coming back from a magical European/Asian vacation. It's Monday coming back from said magical vacation in which I woke up at 4 AM to catch a flight to Boston and waited 18 years for my baggage and was late to my meeting.


But oh, how I do not care.


I am exuberant! I am giddy with joy!


You know what I think? I think I have just gone crazy, but like, in a totally awesome way.


Liken it to alcohol-tolerance. There is but so much alcohol you can consume and consume until inevitably your tolerance (and your liver) just crap out and leave you drunk from one tiny dirty martini these days. Am I right? Well, like alcohol-tolerance, wedding-related stress can only induce panic attacks during Knocked Up for so long. Soon, friends, the debilitating stress is too much for you to shoulder; and you must surrender to it, in all of it's unneccesary and ridiculous glory.


Wedding, I conceded long ago. Now, I will just sit back, prop up my feet, read this new O Magazine, and let you run wild. Go. Do what you must; I will just be over here, drinking pina coladas and ignoring you.


I was going to bare my soul to you, Internet. I was going to lament all of the dirty details of the last travel agent-related debacle that occurred while J and I were smoking hookahs in Turkey. I have been so vague in describing it; I thought you had a right to know. I was going to illustrate all the banal events in excruciating detail for you to peruse right here. But then, when you start blogging like that, the wedding has already won, right?


There is so much ridiculousness to this, y'all. It's, um, retarded. I vowed never to get sucked into it, but the Wedding, she is ferocious and she scoffs at the smug recently-engaged. You don't care about the flowers? Bitch, I will make you care about those fucking flowers! typically in the form of an obnoxious aunt or a boastful newlywed.


And so I have shed tears over package prices, and grossly ignorant travel agents; I have lain awake nights tossing and turning, willing my family and friends not to resent me for my wedding of choice, certain that they will, forever. I have agonized over invitations, and addressing envelopes; I have gotten so sick with frustration over fucking envelopes that my eyes have welled up and I have tossed pens aside, shouting, "I can't do it! It looks terrible! I hate these invitations!" I have poured over the wedding etiquette book, wondering what was alright to do and say and write, because I have never done this before. I have told people no, you cannot invite your first cousins because this is a small affair with conviction; then I have gone to J and agonized over that small decision: perhaps we should invite them? They are my third cousins, twice removed after all?


And for what?


For who? (For who? FOR WHAT? Thank you, Ricky Watters.)


Today I woke up, and I felt lighter. I think my glorious friends laid the foundation for this serenity on Saturday night by encouraging me not to feel guilty. You're not forcing anyone to come, said Di, matter-of-factly.


People have said it to me before; but this time it clicked.


It was in this spirit that I emailed Vanessa today:


And I talked to my aunt when I got home and she told me how mad my uncle was about [the prices going up] and how he went off on her and he wasn't going... And then I thought, then, dude - don't go. Be happy with your decision either way. I'll be fine. J will be fine. Van - how about my mom saying something about the PLANE crashing and killing us all in one fell swoop?!?! Like I don't have enough to worry about; now I lay awake wondering if I have just set into motion events that will kill ALL of my friends and family???


Honestly, is it any wonder I am crazy?


No more! I love my family; I love my friends. J too. We would love for you all to join us if you have the means. If you do not, we understand. That's that. No more guilt trips; no more people added to the guest list. No. More. Drama. (Thanks, Mary J.)


J and I fell in love; and then we got engaged. And then we had a destination wedding, where hopefully everyone remains alive.


No more drama. Only exuberance! This is a good thing; this is a wedding for me, a vacation for you. Christ, there is a swim-up bar! This is a no-brainer.


The end.


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Merhaba!

Merhaba (hello), mah people.

As I write, Istanbul muslims are being called to prayer on a loud speaker that echoes throughout the city. Is amazing place. I cannot wait to tell you all about it; sitting in Sultanahmet Park between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, arguably two of the most beautiful structures in the world; Efes beers with new friends at the Cozy Bar and Pub; smoking water pipes with Turkish Scott Baio; visiting the harem at Topkapi Palace... Istanbul is truly other-worldly! (Though the comforts of home exist on late-night NBC, where I totally caught How I Met Your Mother the other night in English!)

We leave tomorrow. Tragic. Until then: gule gule!

Monday, October 15, 2007

Dunder Mifflinity

First things first: Andy Bernard is my new boyfriend.



Secondly, hello! Welcome back to Manayunk is the New Queens is the New Manhattan or whatever, where this charming little blogger has been in 7833890 cities in 3 days, or something. I can't keep track anymore. Last week I was in Charleston, South Carolina, but kept thinking I was in Charlotte, North Carolina.



Today, a homecoming: Back in 'Cuse. Where everybody knows McNabb's name. (Shout out, Real JC!)



Tomorrow Oswego, New York. Thursday, the WORLD. Or, more specifically, Istanbul.



You may have noticed Turkey in the news last week. Briefly, Congress is trying to pass a resolution to declare the Ottoman Turks' killing of the Armenians during World War I a genocide; in fact, they want to declare the killings the first official genocide of the twentieth century. The Turks, as you can imagine, are charmed; or rather, protesting. They have argued that the death toll is over-inflated, and they have warned the United States not to pass this resolution. J and I aren't sure what this means for us, or any American travelers in the country for that matter. We are monitoring the situation closely (along with the U.S. Government Travel Site); and plan on laying very low, and possibly playing Canadian, as you do. Ultimately, we still plan to have an amazing adventure! And I will totally blog from Turkey, my people. Recognize.

We're also hoping that our "W" invitations will go out this week. Pray God.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

DC: The Ultimate Photo Essay

* Please note: the following was started some time ago, and not finished properly, due to extreme time constraints by author. She is deeply sorry she keeps using her insane schedule as an excuse for not blogging. Unacceptable! Must change. Read on.


Oh, hello there. Welcome to DC, land of fucking quadrants. When you are intimately familiar with the New York City grid system, quadrants will blow your goddamn mind. But try to stay positive, like me. Here I am playing the role of happy-go-lucky woman whose head is not about to explode. Nope.





J, I told you, he said 7th and F! The Spy Museum is on 7th and F! I don't see any Spy Museum. God, I am hungry. And I have to pee. (Nefarious "SW" on sign overhears, and cackles. Another frustrated tourist! All in a day's work.)





Look, J! The Capitol Building. It's a magical place where bills become laws. Remember *sings* I'm just a bill, sitting up on Capitol Hill? Oh, right. *Rolls eyes* I can't believe you never saw School House Rock, J. Honestly.





Now take a picture of me, holding the Washington Monument like a sword, k? Oh man, J, this is clever. I bet no one has tried this before! Awesome.





Here we are trying to redeem ourselves, after the incredible photo a French man took of us once:



Wow, this is quite an abrupt ending to this less than stellar post! Rosie the Riveter, take us home:

Premature Ugg-Wearing, And Other Things

As luck would have it, my Providence meeting was canceled for today! So I flew in last night from TF Green, having traded my favorite Guess pumps (newly re-heeled and re-soled, thank you, as I destroy shoes) for my favorite sheepskin Uggs. You see, I erroneously assumed it would be cool in New England. It's fall, goddamnit! Not so. Also, it was 80 degrees in Philadelphia. Bastards. When will the air be crisp and cold, so that I can wear my glorious comfortable shoes every day? When?

Other things.

Last night I sat next to the chattiest man evah on my Southwest flight. By the time we landed (one-hour flight, y'all), I'd learned all about his boat in New England; his work at the Franklin Mint; his current job; his current girlfriend; that time his ex moved all of her things out of their Indiana home one day with her brother, and he took off to Club Med in Punta Cana the next day and played Caesar in an improv skit (and when they asked him what Caesar wanted, he proclaimed: "VIRGINS!"); and then some dude there told him that now he could have any woman he wanted; but then he didn't; he only had one. Then there was the time he saw his ex at a wedding a few years later, where she ignored him; then he convinced the best-looking woman in the room to dance with him, to make his ex jealous; then they spent one night together and he sent her flowers the next day, but they never spoke again.

"So how old are you?" He asked between these charming anecdotes.

"Twenty-seven," I replied, burying my nose in Vanity Fair, the universal travelers' sign for polite conversation over, man: I've got never-before-seen pics of the Kennedys by Richard Avedon to pour over.

"Man, I could use a 27 year-old."

I shift uncomfortably.

"But not you! Obviously, because you're engaged. I could have a daughter your age! I just turned 50."

I sensed a sadness in his voice when he said the words. For a moment, I felt pity.

"So," I began, "No children then?"

"Nah. Never been married. That's why I need a woman of child-bearing age."

(I really couldn't make this stuff up, these revelatory travel tales.)

"Then your girlfriend is older?" I ask.

"Yeah. Older than me, actually. 51. In L.A. right now. But she works a lot. Man, I told her: you keep working your ass off like that. I'm just gonna play."

I may be projecting, or reading too much Faludi these days, but his words are joyless. I imagine he is very lonely.

"But who's going to marry me?" He asks.

"Someone will marry you!" I assure him.

"Of child-bearing age?" He asks me. I say nothing for a moment. Then, "You could adopt."

He shakes his head dismissively, then picks his small blue tote off the floor. "Scallops," he smiles. "Caught'em myself. I can't wait to get home and eat these."

Then I pretend to be incredibly interested in his live scallops, as he pries open a shell to show off his treasure.

When we land, the conversation ends as it always ends on planes: the take care, good luck.

"Well, nice talking to you. Take care."

"You too. Good luck with everything."

I'm not sure it's relevant, but this is one of those enlightening experiences that wakes me up for a brief moment; that teaches me what it is to be human. We're all searching. The tide is always changing. We long to connect. And sometimes, the best thing we can do is put aside the Graydon Carter editorial for a second, and look at the scallops. Because it is kind.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Another Monday, Another Airport

Afternoon at the Philadelphia Airport. I have been so busy lately with travel, I haven't even had time to upload my super cool pictures from DC! Man, when it rains, it pours. Have been in Washington; Arlington, Virginia; Danvers, Peabody, Salem, and Newton, Massachusetts; Randolph, New Jersey; Manhattan; and Hoboken in last eight days. Now heading to Providence, Rhode Island; New London, Connecticut; and Worcester, Mass.

God - I am bored reading that. My apologies for this lame post.

Upcoming post spoiler alert:

Which happy-go-lucky bride-to-be found out her Dominican resort was changing ownership, name, and going though multi-million dollar renovations in the next few months?

Friday, September 21, 2007

Claire, Elise, and Maggie Malone Seaver

So I am reading an absolutely fascinating book right now. J lovingly calls it a man-hating treatise and keeps urging me to put it down, but I can't. I am typically a poor nonfiction reader; I have tried to read Blink more times than I can count, but within a few chapters I lose interest and revert to a good old-fashioned fiction story.

This is not the case here, y'all. This piece is truly riveting.

Now, men, I know the title (Backlash: The Undeclared War on American Women) is a bit, er, inflammatory? As it should be. I assure you this book is a well-reasoned, well-researched account of a palpable backlash against women's progress throughout United States history. Faludi wrote it in 1991, so most of it details (incredible detail) the attacks (however seemingly benign) against women in the 1980s.

She begins by describing the backlash in the media. She recalls the alarming marriage "study" (beware, college-educated women: your chances of marriage after 30 are so very, very grim) and it's proliferation in popular news magazines (Newsweek seems to be one of the most ubiquitous offenders), newspapers, talk shows, and self-help books. The overwhelming message in the 1980s: marry, and marry quick, lest your eggs dry up and you be left with no mans. I am oversimplifying here, but that's the gist.

An entire chapter centers around the backlash on television, which is certainly one of the most intriguing sections for this pop culture junkie. But before I began reading, I thought about 80s TV; more specifically, 80s moms.

Now, I grew up watching Mary Tyler Moore on Nick at Nite with my own mother. Mary was a single career woman in the 70s, and seemed quite happy at that, thankyouverymuch. To that end, in my own home, I was always, always told that I, HomeValley P. Keaton, could be whatever I goddamn pleased. The world was full of endless possibilities; all I needed to do was choose my path. Success was mine for the taking (though my mother preferred I become a scientist and cure cancer, at least she encouraged me to think BIG).

Let's examine, then, the 80s television woman. In the shows I viewed, most of these women were working moms. There was Elise Keaton, whom Faludi admits has a career, but says you'd be hard-pressed to name it. To which I reply - not so! Elise was an architect, and a liberal, liberated woman at that. (The entire premise of the show was the philosophical difference between left-wing parents and an extremely conservative son, no?)

Then there is the lovely Clair Huxtable, an attorney. Faludi asserts that you never saw Clair at work (I concur, though I am sure I have not seen every episode); and that the only time her law degree was used was upon settling family disputes in the living room (to that I giggled, and then reluctantly agreed). At least Clair is gainfully employed, however, and is also an equal, a force, in the happy Huxtable home.

Then there's Growing Pains Maggie Malone Seaver, who's maiden name I know (Jesus Christ, I watched too much TV). Maggie was a television news reporter, another reputable career. From what I recall, she was a strong, successful woman who was balancing it all: work and family.

As Faludi illustrates, single women in the 1980s were repeatedly maligned on television: they were shown as unhappy, weak, neurotic, and often desperately seeking a husband and/or baby. Most of her examples stem from thirtysomething, a show that I never would have tuned into at eight years old, and thus know very little about. (My mind races at these depictions however, and I ask you: how many single women do you know who are unhappy about their plight? How many long for relationships to the point of extreme unhappiness, sometimes even depression, in spite of successful careers or otherwise fulfilling lives? Why is that?)

She also depicts the "dead mom" phenomenon on popular 80s sitcoms. Gah! Does she have a point? One need look no further than Full House, but note also The Hogan Family (Valerie's Family first, remember?) and Blossom, where Mayim's mom was not dead but may as well have been, because she was a selfish musician on tour or something, right? Whoa!

What is the crux here? Though I have not yet finished the book, and though my perspective is likely skewed at this point as I am no longer a single woman, the heart of the matter for me is the ubiquitous question: can women have it all?

My answer: still a resounding yes. But in speaking with the women I know, there is little agreement here.

This week, I emailed a dear friend/wife/mother of two/career woman/graduate student, and I marveled at her ability and shared my belief, that yes, you can do it all and that she is living proof. (This from a very optimistic blogger who has no children yet.)

"I agree," she responded. "We are having our evaluations here at work, seven being the highest. I overheard a woman say to her husband, 'Well, I'd rather be a seven at home and a four at work, right?' Wrong, I thought. What's the point of being here if I can't do it all?"

I have heard women say that they'd never quit work; I have heard women say of course they will quit work. I have heard women say that you need to stay home until your kids go to school. The implication always, if you can afford to stay home, then you should. (My inner voice always hears, you selfish whore. You do not love your babies!)

This is a sensitive topic, and I try to approach it delicately. But my heart starts hammering in my chest when I think about having kids (which I want with all of my being) and making an impact in this world through a successful career (which I want with all of my being). I know some of you will judge me when I tell you I am putting my child in daycare. I know I will feel guilty about putting my child in daycare. And through reading this book, I think I am starting to understand why.

And I'm not so sure I like what I see.

How about a related story, kids?

Yesterday I attended an industry conference, where the key note speaker was an ex Bill Clinton advisor turned political correspondent. I believe he has a column in the New York Post.

"Let me start off by saying," he smarmed, "that I believe Hillary Clinton will win the next presidential election."

Pause for emphasis.

"Let me also say, that I believe she will be a horrible, horrible president."

Laughter.

As his agenda-pushing diatribe continued, I began to see this not as an attack on Hillary politically, but an attack on her personally.

"Hilary's got a list of enemies 500 people long. They're not in alphabetical order: they start with 'M'."

He also asserted that because Hillary was a woman, all of the single women in all of America would vote for her. All of us. I couldn't tell if he really believed this, or if he was merely spewing some sort of reverse psychology: You're so simple, you'll vote for Hill. Show us you're smart, lady! Do not vote for Hillary in '08!

He did assure us that Bill Clinton had a an overwhelming need for affirmation; he just wants to be loved. Hillary, he said, does not need our affirmation; she thinks very highly of herself already. "In fact, Hilary thinks she is the last good person on earth." If you don't agree with Hillary, she thinks you are "evil". I had no idea this former first lady and New York senator was such a simpleton!

She also will NOT pull out of Iraq, so don't you vote for her thinking she will. "She won't want to appear weak."

He ended his self-important tirade with this anecdote: when gay protestors crashed a Bill birthday celebration at Rockefeller Center years ago, Hill smelled a conspiracy.

"It's the Republicans! They planted them there! Right up front! The press will pick up on it, and that's all anyone will hear about! I want background checks and social security numbers on everyone next time!"

Our presenter nodded soothingly to calm our hot-headed, emotional imminent commander-in-chief. Then he went to see Bill.

"Was Hillary talking all of that shit to you about background checks?" Bill asked. "Yeah, we're not going to do any of that." Then the boys had a good chuckle and patted themselves on the back. Crazy Hillary!

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

God Hates Indonesia.

Just checking in to say a quick "hello" before leaving Cherry Hill to have dinner with the J Family. I have so much to say; but alas, so little time. Coming soon:
  • We had a "family" engagement party two weekends ago. You should hear about it.
  • My hair. Super blonde. Technically, I've gone back to my natural color. From when I was 4. You should see pictures of it.
  • Hmm... My fall reading? You should hear my thoughts on this book. Because it is my blog, and I reserve the right to go political on your asses.
  • Vera Wang for Kohl's. (Why thank you, Ms. Wang, for the overpriced, bedazzled potato sacks you have unleashed upon the po' masses.)

Until tomorrow, my friends.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

It's HomeValley, Bitch

Officially joining Team Britney today, as last night I lay awake obsessing over the cruelty of people. It is unfathomable to me that Britney's been attacked for being fat. I am frequently appalled by the savagery our society has the propensity to exhibit; the delight we take in the mighty's fall.

Get well soon, Brit. *Hugs.*

In case you were wondering about me, Brit-Brit's VMA performance and its aftermath weren't the only things I was obsessing about late yesterday.

J wrote me a beautiful letter and taped it to the bathroom mirror today, on this sixth anniversary. The gist was about moving forward, living a good life, and giving back. Once again, I feel overwhelmed by all that I have. How lucky I am.

So thanks to you all. Thanks for calling or emailing me today. I am fine. I am better than fine. I am thriving. And I am so very grateful for you all, my friends and family and blog readers, for helping me get here.

I hope this post finds you happy and well, and living the good life.

*Hugs.*