Highlights

"And if one more car passes on the highway, I am going to jump out and start running."

-J, obviously tiring of quality grandparent time.

Thankfully, we head back to Philadelphia tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. My grandfather is not such a good listener, and seemingly only enjoys giving information. ("You see, that used to be a bustling shopping center, but now all the stores have closed. There used to be a Best Buy. And a Michael's. But they've all closed now.")

J, grits teeth in backseat of car.

They also duped us into believing that they wanted to see our pictures from Greece; in reality, it was a ploy to show us photos from their last Caribbean cruise.

J, cowering in upstairs bedroom.

Oh, and since Grandma was sick with a cold last week, she opted not to cook Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, she made reservations at The Academy Hotel for brunch.

Except, The Academy Hotel was actually the Best Western, Academy Hotel, and it wasn't so much a fancy brunch as it was a table set up in the lobby of the hotel. Next to the swimming pool. Somehow, a tattoed fat man cannon-balling into the water doesn't fill one's heart with warm holiday sentiments.

In Grandma's defense, she hadn't realized what the ambience in the place would be. We chalked it up to an unorthodox Thanksgiving meal, and I took advantage of the complimentary champagne.

Next, we crashed a neighbor's celebration. We'd been invited for dessert but were a bit early.

J, mortified on neighbor's deck.

The house actually belonged to my grandparents' neighbor's father, The Colonel. The Colonel fought in World War II and lost most of his hearing flying fighter jets. The Colonel is a close-talker. Also, The Colonel believes that "those goddamn Muslims won't be happy until they raise their green flag above the White House."

"Oh my God," whispers J, smiling politely as The Colonel drones on. "Our whole life has become listening to old people! It's like, all we do now!"

Quite.

Rocky Mountain High

At thirteen, I was scrawny. Though quite obviously an adorable child, I wore braces, and occasionally, "headgear." I enjoyed dancing, reenacting entire "Fire Marshall Bill" skits, and musical theater.

In fact, Koos and I were at that time so enchanted with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, that in 1993, in order to "thank" my grandparents for a fantastic two-week vacation in lovely Colorado Springs, Colorado, we performed an elaborate scene from the musical. We rewrote a song from the show to describe all of the amazing things we'd done and seen on our trip. And we choreographed it. And um, we rehearsed. Tirelessly, each night. And then, we shamelessly allowed our final farewell performance to be videotaped.

Surely you know where I am going with this? Because that tape? Was screened for J last night.

I think I am still in a relationship this morning, but J is fast asleep, breathing audibly. (We have much trouble breathing at 6500 feet above sea level, so we have become notorious "mouth-breathers.") Perhaps when he wakes, we'll "have to talk."

My throat aches (no doubt from all the mouth-breathing), and I am writing this crouched on the bathroom floor. If my grandparents sense I am awake and alert, I will at once be inundated with information. Do other grandparents do this? J said yesterday, "At some point, they are going to have to stop telling us facts about things." That sums it up nicely.

My grandparents are wonderful, warm, hilarious people, if a little, shall we say, accommodating? They are also extremely religious, which I never saw as an issue. "They never preach," I assured J last week.

Of course, last night, as we dined on delicious red wine chicken (a Far-Mor specialty), Far-Far asked J which religion was he?

Shit, I think.

J explains calmly that he is not associated with any particular sect.

Far-Far explains that we are all born with a void in our hearts, and until we accept Jesus in our lives, we will attempt to fill that void with drugs, alcohol, sex, or workaholism.

I smile brightly at J and ask him to pass the broccoli. Emphatically.

And bless J's heart, he continues smiling politely but doesn't add to the discussion. I continue drinking (void?), and soon we manage to quell the Jesus talk and escape to the living room to watch Hitch.

Other highlights of the trip thus far: Riding the Pike's Peak Cog Railway to the summit of Pike's Peak, elevation 14,110 feet; and Far-Mor praying elaborately before lunch, asking Jesus to bless our meal and also HomeValley's "husband-to-be." ("It just slipped out," she said.)

Did I tell you that I got into 30th Street Station in Philadelphia at midnight on Monday evening, and out of sheer exhaustion and frustration, I jumped in an old lady's cab when she hesitated? And also, she had a cane? Granted, there was another cab directly behind her, but still. The karmic retribution is imminent.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Woe.

Things I am sick of this week:

1. Chase credit cards.
2. My post office.
3. Finance charges.
4. Noise.
5. Drilling.
6. My “lovely” cube in Chelsea.
7. Ceilings leaking toilet water.
8. Relocating cubicles.
9. Drilling.
10. Sitting next to the office fax machine.
11. People who don’t know how to fax.
12. People who ask me to help them fax.
13. Death.
14. People with hacking coughs on the N train.
15. Blog spam.
16. Conference calls.
17. Global warming.
18. Chipotle.

Things that made this week slightly more bearable:

1. J.
2. Borat, and the Real JC.
3. Buttery movie popcorn.
4. A talk with my fabulous Far-Mor Stina.
5. When Far-Mor said, during chat, “You and me: we will always be friends!”
6. Imminent trip to Colorado.
7. Daydreams of serene silence I will experience on Cheyenne Mountain.
8. The closet door installed in the office.
9. Cleaning out my hope chest.
10. Rediscovering a copy of Bridget Jones on VHS in my hope chest.
11. Acela hot dogs.
12. Vladimir Nabokov.
13. Aidan Shaw.
14. The Philadelphia Eagles.
15. The paper Gingerbread Man sent to me by sister Meghan. My mission is to show that Man around the city, then write a journal entry! And I’ll be damned if I don’t get that thing to the top of the Empire State Building!
16. J.
17. Chipotle. (How I love and hate you, simultaneously!)
    
    

It has been a trying few days for HomeValley, but things are improving. On Tuesday evening, J and I will be Denver-bound on a Frontier Airlines flight (yeah, I have never heard of that airline either) from Philadelphia. I have ambitious plans to post each day of our trip to detail our journey; but I may just climb a mountain, where I will sit for six straight days, contemplating life and enjoying the blissful, ubiquitous quiet, until a mountain lion inevitably attacks and devours me.

Just that kinda week, y’all.

Seven Things This Week

1. J was in a wedding on Saturday, and I went as his super-cute date who knew only one other reception attendee. The evening turned out to be surprisingly wonderful: by the end of the evening I had danced to Michael Jackson with the bride's dad; been told by a very drunk older gentleman that I looked like that blonde woman he'd just seen in that movie! (Gwyneth Paltrow); and, seen a drunken reveller's breast flop out of her unfortunate black tube dress during "Don't Stop Believin'."

2. The following day, J and I had a lengthy discussion about NippleGate 2, as he was pleased that he had predicted the snafu the moment he noticed the boxum woman flailing about on the dance floor. J recalled that it came out like a pancake, as it was quite large. "I'd never have that problem," I said wistfully as we were painting the office a lovely sage green. "Aw, babe, you're perfect!" Beat. "But it's nice to see big ones once in a while."

3. Am exhausted. Have been in Philadelphia, White Plains NY, Queens, Waterbury CT, New Haven CT, Queens, and Providence. In that order. I write to you from the trusty Acela Express, since a department budget crunch has grounded me (mostly) for the remainder of the year. This is fine by me; I avoid airport security lines that culminate in me stuffing my $20 lip gloss in a plastic baggie and/or throwing liquids over three ounces in the trash that I neglected to check - but also the hot dogs here, they are unspeakably yummy.

4. My O Magazine obsession? It's getting worse. Not only do I pour over every single word in the publication whilst dog-earring pages of interest; no, now: I highlight whole passages. I worship you Suze Orman and your sound financial advice! Send help.




5. I created a budget in Excel. J is so proud. I should tell you, I am desperately trying to pay off my student loans, so I opted to get super-organized. I must say, I am pretty impressed with my budgetary development skills. I add sums in columns like it's my job, and I have also listed all of my "entertainment" expenses, dollar by frivolously-spent dollar. I love my budget so much that I can't stop looking at it, and thinking up more features to add. I have taken to writing notes to myself next to entertainment expenses, like "Starbucks Grande Light Caramel Frappucino - 4.65: That's too much $ for a drink. Stop buying these." Then I laugh at myself and my funny notes. And then I realize that I am very, very sad. With all of money meticulously accounted for.
6. I skipped Lost last night because I was too tired to stay awake until ten. J's mom taped it, so we're okay. Don't tell me anything!

7. I keep singing "Tryin to get to yoooouuuu and that booty" in my damn head. Constantly. What is this song?? Also of note: I tried bison. Delicious!

Workin' for the weekend in NYC. More to come.

86574 Weddings and a Sandwich

You know, I can’t remember meeting J. He can’t remember meeting me either. I like that. It makes it seem like we’ve always known each other.

How do I tell this story? It starts with a sandwich, many years ago.

J was a “friend” of an ex-boyfriend. I use “friend” loosely, as I’m not sure they ever really liked each other. They ran in the same circle. They went to the same college. They pledged the same fraternity.

I’d say that’s about where the similarities end.

I’ll avoid characterizations of the ex. We were introduced by Grace. After about a month of dating, Grace and I found ourselves in the car, driving somewhere.

“I want out. I don’t think I’m that into him,” I say. I’d woken up that morning with my mind made up. I was moving back to New York for senior year in a few weeks; I didn’t have time for dating. Certainly not for dating boys I was only minimally interested in. I explain this to Grace.

“Well, if you really don’t like him, then end it,” She says. “But if you’re just doing it because you’re leaving, why not stick it out and see what happens?”

I think about this. Grace is seeing the ex’s roommate. It is nice to be spending so much time with her lately…

“We’ll see,” I say.

I don’t make a decision yet. I move back to school.

And then, well: September 11, 2001.

I often wonder how my life would have been different, had it never happened. The reality is, the day changes me. It shifts my foundation. I am still me, just different. For a long time, I am weak. I am clingy. I am sad. I am angry. I am paranoid.

The personal ad writes itself, no?

Somewhere in all this darkness, I must meet J. J is very cute. He’s also very sweet, and kind. We get along immediately. And though I don’t look at him romantically in those early days, I always prefer him to be around. I enjoy talking to him. He feels like a kindred spirit.

One day, I get to the ex’s house (which later becomes J’s house when the ex moves out). I am dressed in a denim skirt and the red and purple top I adore from Urban Outfitters, as we’re all headed to the Manayunk bars for the evening.

When J sees me, he says hello, then adds, “Wow, Melissa, you should be a model.”

He probably doesn’t remember saying it, but I swear: I’ll never forget the compliment.

Another time, J pulls up to the house and realizes he’s forgotten something at his apartment, a few minutes away.

“Do you want to see my place?” He asks me. I immediately acquiesce. We talk amiably the whole time. His home is cozy and clean. I pour over his old high school football photo album. Eventually (reluctantly?), we head back.

After I’ve graduated school and moved back to Pennsylvania, I visit J’s house (now the Manayunk home) again to meet the ex. I’ve spent the weekend in New York, and am in a wonderful mood, and also bloody starving.

When I arrive, I find that everyone's already ordered lunch, and they've just finished. Of course, the ex wouldn’t have called me or ordered me anything. Though admittedly, this is one of the lesser offenses he’s ever committed.

But then there is J. He must see my face fall as I am once again a casualty of the ex’s patented selfishness.

“You want me to make you a sandwich, Melis?” He asks. I nod gratefully. He pulls me into the kitchen with him and chats with me while he fixes me ham and cheese with mustard, on toast. I don’t eat plain white bread because I’m weird. J doesn’t judge.

I find out later that afternoon that the ex has lied to me yet again. This time, he’d told me he’d had a guys’ night out the weekend prior. I learn that there was no boys’ night; he’d actually gone to a party that he didn’t want me to attend.

Any guesses why he wouldn’t want me around?

My blood boiling, I take off for home. I tell myself this is it; that I need to break it off and get him out of my life for good!

But you know I don’t. Am still weak. It’s not an excuse; it’s just that I haven’t found my way out of this mess yet.

I choose instead to wait for him to do it. He breaks up with me for the 278783 time a few weeks later.

Then, after he has his weekend off, he asks to get back together, because who else can he take to the David Gray concert next week?

Charming.

The reason I mention the show at all is because J is there. I get to call him to meet us in the venue. He is dating a nice girl, whom he likes very much as a person but is never really into. I think she is nice too. We have a beer with them before the concert, then part ways.

But it’s always good to see him.

Months later, we’re in Maine for a mutual friend’s wedding. We’re sitting on the couch in the home the couples’ rented, and J’s strumming his guitar. I tell him that my absolute favorite song ever is “More Than Words” by Extreme (shut up).

“If you could play that, I’d marry you in a minute,” I tell him.

Of course he knows how to play it. Naturally.

We dance together at the reception. We probably think little of it. We’re friends. We enjoy each other’s company.

Months after that, we attend another wedding. I’m stuffing my face with snacks at cocktail hour and chatting with a few friends, when J’s roommate’s girlfriend, P offers, “I think J loves Melissa.” I giggle. “No,” she says again to the table, “I think J really loves Melissa.”

I have no idea what we were talking about before her comment, but I blush and feel deeply flattered. She may not remember saying it; but again, it’s one of those moments I’ll never forget.

Time passes. Any time we find ourselves at a party together, I inevitably gravitate towards J. I want to hear all about who he’s dating, what he’s been up to lately. We have lots of conversations, and I always appreciate the way he looks me in the eye when he’s discussing his latest bad date or his vast appreciation for The Twins from the Coors Light commercial.

And because I am so fond of him, and because I find him so freaking adorable and sweet and wonderful, I decide that it’s a good idea to set him up with my lovely roommate, Vanessa.

The short version of that story? Yeah, not so much.

Nothing much happens with that, except perhaps future, painfully awkward conversations and general unease and discomfort.

Anyway.

What happens shortly thereafter? Well, I finally (finally!) get wise and make changes. I get out of that bad relationship once and for all, and I move back to New York. I feel Fantastic. Better than that; I feel Invincible. Am single, charming woman left alone in the city to my own devices! It’s a wickedly exciting time.

And soon, I am heading to another wedding. This time P and J’s old roommate are tying the knot. The wedding’s in Princeton (which is a helluva long way from Queens, y’all), and I make myself pretty and primp and hop in the Hyundai (shut up) to get to the reception on time. I’m apprehensive because the ex is going to be present, and since I am driving I need to avoid cocktails; but I am terribly excited to see Grace, and all of the old crew.

And, well, of course: J.

He’s in the wedding, and he looks very handsome. In the ceremony program, there’s a short, hilarious bio about him. It describes him as a bachelor who enjoys long walks and cuddling by the fire; as a homeowner who is studying for his pilot’s license.

Damn, I think suddenly, huddling awkwardly in the back of the room with Grace’s mother. I should be with J.

Am a bit startled by the thought. At dinner, J comes over to my table and kisses me (chastely on the cheek, mind you) hello. We smile and talk for a brief moment, and then he is gone again.

Most of my evening is spent avoiding the ex at all costs. Grace drags me out to the dance floor at some point, where I find J nearby. I grab his hand for a dance.

He immediately snaps it back and looks at me as if I am mad.

“Whoa,” he says seriously. “We can’t dance together.”

I chuckle. “And why not?”

“Your ex is here. It’s just... Against the rules. The code.” (We all know that this “code” speak becomes obsolete soon enough. Still, the rejection stings.)

“Fine,” I say, and get the hell off the dance floor as my drunken ex starts jabbering in the background, settling down on a chair for a lap dance from one of the burliest guys in the wedding party (Yes, you read that sentence correctly).

I tell Grace’s mother what J’s just told me. “If it’s possible, I feel even more awkward now,” I say.

An hour later I make to leave. I say my goodbyes and rush to the exit, pleased to have made it out of the party virtually unscathed.

And who should be standing there, at the door?

“You taking off?” He asks.

“Yup. It was good seeing you,” I say honestly.

“You too.”

“Well, when you’re in the city, you should give me a call,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. And we say goodbye.

And uh, in case you’re wondering, he never calls. I continue dating in the city, and only occasionally let my mind drift back to J.

One idle Friday morning in July 2005, I email him to say hello.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Sometimes I look back on those days and can’t quite believe how surprising life is. Sometimes I ask J if he thinks we’d still be together today if we’d started dating 5 years ago, around the time we first met. We swap stories from our shared history, and wonder if maybe we always knew on some level? I’ll wonder aloud what was I thinking back then? Why did I stay in a bad relationship for so long?

But then J assures me that everything worked out the way it was supposed to. That every thing that happened in the past led us to where we are today. And today - today is pretty fucking great.

A few months ago, we were at the 7479 wedding together; only this time, J was all mine.

And I finally got my dance. Better late than never.

Lost, You Have Betrayed Me

God.

Fucking Lost.

How could they?

Mr. Eko?

I'll say this: I've alluded to the fact that from 1998 - 2002, I was slightly obsessed with Felicity, on the WB. Felicity moved to New York when I did; started college when I did; had relationship troubles when I did. The show was always wrapped up spectacularly by episode's close, when Sally, Felicity's pen pal/mentor, would offer the viewing audience sage life advice. I took a lot of that wisdom to heart. Week after week, the show had me thinking, reflecting. It moved me. In making some of the biggest decision's of my life, I've often remembered a "Sally" quote, things like: "The hardest part of moving forward, is never looking back." That's good stuff.

J.J. Abrams created Felicity. I lurrrrvvveee him. I didn't start watching Lost until the second season (relax, I watched the first season on DVD), but I figured I may as well dive in: the show was wildly popular; J loved it; and well, J.J. I luuurrrvvvee him.

But now I remember that something happened in Felicity's third season. J.J., if I recall correctly, wasn't so involved anymore. Suddenly, the show diverged from a thoughtful, entertaining, heart-string tugging hour of television, to a melodramatic, soap opera-esque piece of crap. I still watched every week. I still loved it. But when heroin-addicted Brits move in with Felicity, accompanied by their heroin-addicted beaus, and then Crazy Heroin Stalker Man comes to Felicity's Christmas party packing heat, and proceeds to shoot partygoers? I couldn't relate. Where was J.J. at that writer's meeting?

I have a sneaking suspicion that J.J. created a brilliant, inventive, mind-boggling show in Lost, and then has slowly drifted away from creative control.

Because - Eko??!!

And now, from the pantheon of the Super-Lamest Arguments in History:

9:54. HomeValley, on phone with J: Oh, God! No... It's Eko. Eko will die tonight.

9:54 - 9:59: ABSOLUTE SILENCE.

10:00: HV. Some tears. Anger. Rage. Shuts TV off immediately. Fuck the previews!

HV: I can't believe this show! This sucks! First, they make me cry, and second, how can Eko be dead, while Charlie and Claire live to see another show? This show sucks! Where is J.J.?

J: Well, I still like the show, so maybe you should stop saying these things.

HV: You are telling me you're not upset that they killed Mr. Eko?

J: It's their show.

HV: [Frustration!] Ugh. I am going to bed, J.

J: [Frustration!] OK.

Seriously, Lost, what are you doing to me? You're the one TV show I watch (Friends aside), and now you have managed to kill Eko, AND cause me relationship strife in one fell swoop.

You're dead to me.

Until Wednesday.

P.S. I am debating whether to hit "publish," as this post makes my priorities seem dangerously out of whack. Will do something good for humankind this week, in effort to concentrate on real world events and ameliorate actual human suffering.

P.P.S. EKO?!?!

Sex Panther, by Odeon

In a valiant effort to increase my productivity (and also to not feel guilty about heading out at 5 PM today. There are shoes to buy, people!), I dragged myself out of bed at 5:25 this morning. I was out the door by 6:30. (Would have been earlier, except I was briefly distracted by Singles on HBO. Damn, Campbell Scott was deliciously cute and nerdy. Remember the grunge scene? Seattle? The triumphant rise of the coffee house? I miss you, 1994.)

So what to do with yourself when you get to your lovely cube in Chelsea at 7 AM, armed with a tall iced coffee, prepared to attack the day?

Well, you rationalize that since you are in so early, you have time to compose dorkified emails to your friends re: Lost, entitled: Who will bite it on tonight’s episode? (My money is on Jin. He lifts right out.)

You of course then have time to skim your favorite blogs, and subsequently drift into a blog-induced reverie, dreaming about the day when your own website traffic will soar! (Yes, I absolutely keep tabs on the traffic.) The day when literary agents and publishing houses will be fighting for the rights to your first work of superb fiction! Hooray, National Book Award!

Right. Back to “work.” It’s time for your daily news briefing, so you take a moment to read www.msnbc.com...

Instantaneous email to Allie re: Reese and Ryan splitting up. The trauma! (Really, we’re still smarting from the Nick and Jessica split.)

Allie says: Who is this alleged “costar,” and what does she have that Reese doesn’t?!? If Freddie and Sarah split, I may need therapy.

It’s amazing what you can get accomplished before 8 AM, Internet.

Next up: The Curious Incident of the Gum in my Hair After Falling Asleep in the Cab, or Why I Should Give Up Drinking for Good.

Effing HomeValleys

I’m not sure what it is about my father’s side of the family, but with the exception of my grandparents, we’re all born with some bizarre uncommunicative gene. It afflicts each of us on different levels. I consider myself on the slightly less harmful side of the spectrum; sure, I am a notorious phone screener. And I am not the best at timely return calls. And, OK, I might not give you a much-deserved thank you card until years after my college graduation. But rest assured: that card is coming. And won’t it be a delightful surprise when you receive it? Won’t we all have a laugh?

I’m trying. I’m trying to be a better person, trying to be a better communicator. I am trying to say what I feel and mean what I say and just get my goddamn point across once in awhile, in a calm and collected manner. I’m trying to be an adult. I’m trying to lay down ground rules for navigating my life: what’s acceptable behavior (to me), and what’s not.

Other HomeValleys are far more nefarious offenders. Some will forget to call you on your birthday (even if someone had a hand in your creation). Some will decide that you probably wouldn’t be interested in attending a roller skating party, and will not invite you to that party, even when you want nothing more (and have uncharacteristically expressed this desire) than to play a hand in your little sisters’ upbringing. (And, WTF? Have you ever met me? I’d totally be down for some skating family fun.) Some will plan trips across country with you, and will then have to back out of the trip; unfortunately, you’ll be the last to know.

Some will have falling outs, and not speak to each other for years. Some still won’t speak much. Some will give up on their children when they’ve made grave mistakes. Or perhaps they had already given up years ago? How would any of us know?

We never speak to each other. We’ve got a bad gene.

Now, the best I can do is to express myself. Let them know where I stand; then let go of hurt feelings. Perhaps amend my expectations of them. What is the definition of insanity again?

My solace is to do better; to make sure I don’t pass on the mutation to the next generation of HomeValleys, damn ridiculously good-looking babies they’ll be.

I feel better already, Internet. Enjoy your Monday. Maybe call your parents.

Besides, there are more important topics at hand: Did you hear that I drank beers this weekend??

The sobriety, she is ended. More on that later.

Untitled

Hello, Internet!

I greet you from Syracuse, New York, city of perpetual night, rain, snow, sleet, and general misery; or, the city where everyone knows Donovan McNabb's name. Take your pick. Though I have been a super-busy kick-ass career woman this week, I thought I'd sneak a blog to inform you that I, Melissa P. HomeValley, remained bone dry this past weekend, and wow, I feel great.


Sober HomeValley orders Shirley Temples at restaurant bars. Sober HomeValley subsequently orders club sodas with a twist of lime. SHV pretends to clean the bar with napkins as friend Dee's two year-old son looks on, perpelexed. (SHV also sings the clean-up song.) SHV laughs unroariously. A lot. (Apparently, sobriety can sometimes cause extreme giddiness.) SHV sleeps like a log throughout the night, and wakes up refreshed, smiling benevolently like an angel in the mornings. (If an angel is characterized by minimal morning grunting and no F words.)

The bottom line: this sober chick is damn nice and pleasant. What can I say? Sobriety suits me.

P.S. I miss beer.

Everybody's Workin' For The Weekend

Still sober!

It’s been five days, and I haven’t had a sip of alcohol. Not even when old friend Nikki came for a sleepover on Wednesday night, fresh from an awful break-up. I offered the requisite glass of wine as soon as she walked through the door, but she declined, saying matter-of-factly that she didn’t want to self-medicate.

(And well, yeah. She’s awe-inspiring. She’s so damn strong and beautiful and hopeful through the hell she’s going through, and she has the presence of mind to turn down mugs full of sparkly weird pink cider. She’s going to be just fine, that one.)

Nor did I falter when I arrived at J’s parent’s house for dinner last night, after logging time in the dreaded Port Authority Bus Terminal. I’d made the two-hour trek from the city to Hellertown, PA, and reluctantly stopped J’s Dad mid-pour.

“Not tonight,” I say mildly.

Mr. J stares quizzically, clearly baffled at this strange turn of events (The man once commented, “Wow, you sure can drink for such a small girl!”)

J, in an astounding and loving declaration of solidarity, adds, “Yeah, we’re not drinking tonight.”

Mr. and Mrs. J look on, confused.

“Well, I had this bad experience last weekend, and I decided to see if I could stop drinking any alcohol for a month,” I explain. (That’s the ticket, HomeValley, tell your boyfriend’s parents about Vomit Fest ‘06. And also, can I call you Mom and Dad?)

“Well,” Mrs. J says, “How about you just don’t drink so much?”

Right.

But really, Internet, how long can my sobriety last, when J made next weekend plans with the Real JC? When the three of us get together in Manhattan, there is a certain formula by which we operate:

Funny-Smelling Dive + Juke Box + $7 Pitchers + No Toilet Paper in Bathroom for HomeValley + Late Night Snack Food in Close Vicinity = Blissfully Happy Drunken Trio

Who am I to disrupt an equation that has proved successful time and time again?

More Reasons Your Grandparents Will Love Me

Am actually a senior citizen, I'm discovering.

Last Friday night, you could catch J and me sound asleep at 11 PM. I was likely dreaming that Matthew Fox was my boyfriend, as that seems to be a recurring theme these days (probably because J is so reminiscent of Dr. Jack.) (Without all the crying.)

Anyway, when the Manayunk bars close at 2 AM, all hell breaks loose on J's street. Car alarms sound, wasted girls cackle, drunk dudes yell and toss each other into parked cars. Assholes rev engines and likely kill pedestrians. I don't know what the fuck goes on. It's loud. VERY LOUD.

And this makes me cranky.

"Damnit! What is their problem? Don't they know people are trying to sleep around here?"

J, amused: "Like you were never loud coming out of a bar, babe."

Me, indignant: "Not like this! Please!" Lie.

J, nearly asleep again: "Riiiigggghhhht..."

Me, upstanding citizen: "I just feel bad for your neighbors. They have a baby, for God's sake!"

J, snoring.

Me, wide awake, fumbling in darkness for laptop. Sweet, sweet Friends DVDs.

This morning, you could catch me doing 45 in the righthand lane of I-95S on the drive home from Boston. It was still very, very dark! And raining! And I am practically blind at night, what with the oncoming headlights and all.

Sigh. I got so tired of road ragers flashing their high beams at me that I had to pull over into a rest area. There, I scarfed down an Egg McMuffin from McDonald's. And do you know who is at McDonald's at 6 AM?

Senior citizens. And truckers. And HomeValley.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must prepare for a night with the girls, Blanche and Rose. Care to take the over/under on what time I indulge in a glass of vino?

Love Always,

Dorothy Zbornak

54 Truths (Disclaimer: This idea is not original.)

1. HomeValley is my last name.
2. In English.
3. Translated from Swedish.
4. Yes, I am part Viking.
5. And half-Italian.
6. My Swedish father moved to the States in 1964.
7. He was ten.
8. He learned to speak English by watching Saturday morning cartoons.
9. Remember cartoons, before the Cartoon Network?
10. Good times.
11. Dad no longer speaks Swedish.
12. That's a shame.
13. Especially since, as a result, all I can say is "Wilkomen!"
14. But I do call my grandparents "Far-Far" and "Far-Mor."
15. But I started doing that last year.
16. My first name is actually Melissa.
17. I've always liked that name, despite its rampant popularity during the 1980s.
18. I was born on February 1, 1980.
19. I weighed nearly ten pounds.
20. I barely fit in the incubator.
21. People pointed at me and remarked"That little boy baby looks like a linebacker!"
22. My late grandma Bea overheard and snapped, "That is my grand-daughter, thank you."
23. She was hilarious and died when I was eight.
24. She had an aneurysm in front of a slot machine.
25. I like to think that's how she wanted to go.
26. Soon after my birth, My uncle Rick coined the nickname "Melissa Monster."
27. When you meet him, he'll tell you this.
28. He'll also tell you that I was an incredible baby.
29. This is because at nine months old, I sat in a playpen next to him and watched an entire World Series game without making a peep.
30. I have one "full" brother, one half-brother, one step-brother, and two half-sisters.
31. A lot of them call me "Sis."
32. It's awesome.
33. My "full" brother is just 14 months younger than me.
34. Growing up, people thought we were twins.
35. We started a band together in '88.
36. We loved heavy metal.
37. The only song we played was Joan Jett's "I love rock and roll."
38. And by played I mean I sang, and he banged on the washer with chopsticks.
39. Incredibly, we never had a paying gig.
40. The band did launch my short-lived singing career.
41. I sang at church, then in chorus, then in school musicals.
42. I once sang with Kenny Rogers.
43. The Gambler.
44. Well, me and twenty other girls from our high school chorus.
45. Still.
46. I have one tattoo.
47. I got it because Allie was getting one, and it seemed like a good idea.
48. It's a butterfly.
49. I have just learned, via an episode of Parental Control, that it's often called a "Tramp Stamp."
50. Parental Control is a brilliant show.
51. My high school yearbook quote was "Tis a far better thing doing stuff for other people."
52. Someone saw Clueless one too many times.
53. This is my brain off alcohol.
54. Oh man.

Shameless Plug

My gorgeous, super-talented cousin Tina Marie Connell is blowing minds all over the Lehigh Valley, y'all. She's moments away from exploding onto the scene in a Kelly Clarkson blaze of glory.

http://www.mcall.com/features/arts/all-rev_godspelloct16,0,7031104.story?coll=all-artsideas-hed

One day you will see HomeValley on VH1's Driven, talking all, "We knew Tina was going to be a star because she was totally harmonizing as a baby!" But really, she was.

We love her.

Alcohol, My Fair-Weather Friend

The alarm blared obnoxiously at approximately 4:54 AM this morning. An early train to Boston forced me from my warm bed, and I began fumbling around the dark apartment, willing myself to remember my phone charger and laptop cord. Groggy and still dead tired, I slowly and painstakingly prepared for my trip. I was out the door by 5:40. On the N train, I realized I WAS STILL HUNGOVER.

The hangover had certainly dissipated overnight, but I still felt a bit fuzzy and vaguely nauseated. My brain stubbornly refused to focus. I was rereading whole paragraphs of articles in my O magazine, when I came across a piece posing the question, “Are Girls the New Guys? The bars, the buddies, the all night partying…What’s going on out there?”

The hell?

Soon, sentences began to sound uncomfortably familiar; some twenty-something Carrie Bradshaw-wannabes prancing about the city in fancy shoes, sipping cosmopolitans with “the girls” on weeknights?

I was completely wary of the sensationalism of the piece; surely the author can’t speak to an “epidemic” by visiting three bars in Manhattan one weekend. (But oh shit, I was just throwing back dirty martinis at Joshua Tree on Friday night!)

Yet the article induced some of the patented HomeValley introspection. My head still dully aching, I thought about how often and how much I imbibed. Each time I consume more than three drinks per occasion, I am binge-drinking. Binge-drinking at least once per week. And I wonder why I can’t do simple math in my head anymore?

I concluded that I am murdering brain cells at an alarming rate, and that my current alcohol-hazy mind will not propel me into super-blogdom, or even a good MBA program for that matter. How can one aspire to world domination living in this perpetual fog?

Internet, behold my experiment and be incredulous. It went like this:

Composed email to J with fantastic brainstorm:

“For the next month, I am not drinking any more during the week, and on the weekends I’ll limit myself to a max of 3 drinks.” (You see what I did there? Look at me all not binging.)

Clicked send. What a monumental sacrifice! I mean, I intended to deny myself a few glasses of pinot noir after a long day of travels on weeknights, damnit!

Sigh.

Composed second email:

“Forget it. From this moment forward, I will not drink ANY alcohol. For one ENTIRE month, I will be clean and sober. I know you are thinking that I won’t be able to do it. So am I. And that is exactly why it needs to be done.”

Day One has nearly passed without incident, although when I told Koos the plan this afternoon, I remembered that I have a wedding to attend in two weeks. I nearly allowed myself a reprieve, then shook it off and felt pleased to be J’s designated driver.

So this is my challenge. I will remain steadfast and sober and hopefully even sharper and more quick-witted. (I know what you’re thinking, like I can get ANY cleverer.) (More clever?) (Cleverer?)

It is going to be a long 30 days.

Vomitorium

Greetings, gentle readers, from hell.

It is inevitable; once a year, alcohol will suddenly become my nemesis. Last May, tequila turned it's back on me during Vanessa's birthday happy hour. This year, it was two glasses of wine, one green tea martini, one flute of champagne, and 8 Miller Lites. And they were certainly unkind.

My ability to write coherent sentences has evaporated (I'm willing to bet that is partly due to a Flavor of Love marathon that I am still inexplicably watching), so I'll spare you the details of the weekend until I've recovered. I never made it to the Guggenheim. But my GOD, the bar-hopping.

The Defense Rests

Well, fuck.

Admittedly, yesterday's anonymous comment poster sent me into a brief frenzy of self-reflection. Could it be? Have I become a woman who has lost her independence; a woman who's world revolves solely around her man? As soon as I'd read the comment, my face flushed scarlet; I wondered who was this poster (who is obviously someone I know) and OH MY GOD, do they actually have a valid point?!?

And then I took a deep breath. And then I said to myself: hell fucking no.

I believe what I was trying to say was that I still do relish my independence, and my quality friend time away from the bf; nonetheless, I kinda wish that I could spend a night or two away from him, and then come home to him. For all intents and purposes, I live alone. It would be nice to have him around more, is all. And I don't (and won't) feel bad about feeling that way.

But still, the comment struck a nerve.

I have loved being on my own. I rock out on my own. I dance around the apartment. I eat junk food. I watch Sex and The City reruns. I sing in the shower for an hour. I read books and books and then Oprah magazine and then more books. I attend networking events that frighten me. I meet friends for drinks. I am addicted to A Baby Story on TLC. I travel. I stay alone in hotel rooms. I chat up strangers. I attend writing workshops. I combat my fear of flying, mostly alone. I work two days per week in a cubicle, alone.

I don't want to lose myself in a relationship, and I don't believe that is what I've done. I am learning how to compromise, which is difficult for me. It's also necessary. I want to be in this relationship, because it is really, really good. I am learning it is not always about me. I am learning how to be more selfless, because I am in this relationship with a man who personifies selflessness; who always puts my needs before his own.

It is really, really good. So good it needs to be italicized for the world to see.

It's a delicate balance, reconciling my independence with this partnership. Sometimes I do a fine job; other times I act like an asshole. Ask J.

I rest my case. Now, the HomeValley Uber-Weekend of Independence shall commence. On tonight's agenda, chick-flicks, diner food, and a few bottles of Pinot Noir with old college roommate, Nikki. Take that Internet naysayers!

At least Lost is on tonight.

J and I spent a long, fabulous weekend together in Philadelphia. We did wondrous things we never do, like renting two movies on a Friday night and eating greasy Chinese food and eschewing alcohol for one blissfully sober evening. We also went out to dinner at a fancy steakhouse (something we've never done), and my God, the drywalling (and the sawing!). And I am so thankful for the fantastic fantasticness of it all, because we now must face the dreaded, the abhorred, the abysmal:

Nine-Day Separation.

Um, okay, so it is totally not the worst thing in the world. In fact, it's true what they say about absence and hearts and fondness and all that. It's just, well, sucky. It sucks. It's completely healthy and awesome to spend time with the boys and time with the gals, and to be apart and have separate interests; it becomes difficult when you spend zero time together between those nights and separate interests, y'know? When your contact consists of calling each other during the Lost commercial breaks, wondering when they will just kill Kate already and put us all out of our misery?

Alas, bachelor parties must be attended to. And fabulous girls' weekends in the most fabulous borough of all. And this is good. I've suddenly realized that this may be my last weekend alone in Astoria before the Great Relocation of 07. Now is the time to visit the Bohemian Beer Garden and pound Hoegaarden with gusto; to run around the Astoria Park track until my legs buckle. To visit the Guggenheim. To buy shoes. To feast on Tasti D-Lite.

Get ready, Allie. And Internet. I foresee a drunk posting in our future.

Blogtastic

Yesterday a portion of my vast readership (read: The Real JC) threatened to begin reading other blogs if I didn't update soon. In truth, I've started many, many posts, only to become immediately and utterly bored with the topic at hand. Unfortunately, this does not make for good blog reading. Yet fear not, loyal readers, I'm back and prepared to bring you up to speed.

What HomeValley Has Been Up To Lately:

• Witnessing the horrifying inner workings of the United States justice system. And no, I won't elaborate.
• Attending a weekend wedding in Atlanta, in which J served as groomsman. I served as Atlanta neophyte, traveling with J's friends to aquariums, Olympic parks, and CNN Headquarters food courts. Oh, also: I drank. A lot.
• Acquiring more reasons to hate flying. Sometimes, on your way home from Atlanta, people will start seizing on planes and flight attendants will run around like frightened children screaming, "Is there a doctor on board?!?!" HomeValley will sigh, look at her watch, and continue reading her Phillipa Gregory book. (Don't worry, Seizure Chick was fine in minutes.)
• Crying during Monday Night Football, two consecutive weeks in a row. Incredulously, men mock us for our tendency to watch Steel Magnolias repeatedly; in reality, the NFL and ESPN are completely emotionally manipulative. The Saints game in the Katrina aftermath? The Eagles making young, sickly Charlie Pena "Coach for a Day," thereby realizing all of his dreams and allowing him to meet all of his idols? In one breath J was chastising me for buying into these emotionally-charged vignettes; in the next, he was shushing me until the end of the segment. "Okay," he conceded. "That one got to me a little."
• Drywalling. J and I have been converting a bedroom in his house to an office, and I am, if I may be so bold, a bonafide Construction Diva, asking J to get me my own tool belt, as the tape measure looked a bit silly attached to the waistband of my sweats. And really, I measured things! And used a miter saw! And didn't cut off any appendages! It was all terribly exciting for us.
• Watching Little People, Big World, and feeling my heart break each time young Zach - an "LP" with an average-sized twin brother - is onscreen. Why is the tinkly piano of sadness always playing anytime the kid is speaking?
• Feeling sorry for Terrell Owens. I know this makes me a huge asshole. I also know T.O. is a huge asshole. I just don't think it was very nice to chant "O.D." during yesterday's game.
• Meeting one of J's wonderful work colleagues, and finding I have everything in common with... her sixteen year old daughter. We are both obsessed with musical theater and Friends. And extremely cool and sophisticated.
• Questioning Catholicism. Catalina called on Friday night to ask me to be her confirmation sponsor. In the Catholic faith, this is quote an honor. The problem is, I don't feel very Catholic anymore. I haven't been to church in years, though I contend that I am still an excellent spiritual sensei. I consulted my very wise 15 year old brother on this one. "Ry," I asked him yesterday, "you'd want me as your spiritual guide right?" (Bear in mind, this little angel once wrote an essay on why I was the person he admired most, because I was funny and we made jokes together and I went to all of his football and basketball games.)

"Nope." He replied dryly (and very quickly at that).

"Ry! Come on! Who better to have as your spiritual mentor?"

"Why do you think I didn't ask you? You don't go to church. You're not there with me in the trenches every week."

Right.

So thank you all for your patience as I ponder questions of faith and complete construction projects. More tomorrow from Providence, Rhode Island!

Break Out the Sippy Cup

Memo from high-level assistant this morning to all company employees:

Please be careful with your drinks and your laptop. They definitely do not mix. We have had a couple of incidents of drinks being spilt on laptops which is a repair cost. So, please, please, please keep your drink away from your laptop or use a cup with a lid.

I get the distinct impression that the "Employee of the Month" title lingers just beyond my grasp.

Rest assured, my Toughbook is hardy like a prop plane and made it through surgery like a champion; she is now resting comfortably at the Computer Fix-It Place.

The Kindness of Strangers

So earlier I am dashing around like a madwoman, trying to get to Penn Station as early as possible to get to Philly to see J as early as possible. (My Verizon wireless card for my laptop allows me to work remotely, even from NJ Transit trains.) (Also, should point out that I am using my "loaner" laptop, and it is as big as a house.)

I digress. I am lugging my heavy suitcase and ginormous computer to the N train, then transfering to the 3 train, and finally I am before the NJ Transit ticket machine. I punch in the proper codes, insert my debit card, and am at once interrupted by a peculiar man. He looks like an Hasidic Jew at first glance (telltale hair and beard); yet upon closer inspection, he is quite harried and carrying a trash bag. He's approaching everyone imploring them to help him.

"How do I get to Morristown, New Jersey??" He questions the woman to my left. She ignores him. I quickly scan the machine and locate Morristown.

"How do I get to Morristown, New Jersey??" He asks me loudly.

"It's code 558," I reply calmly. "See? Just follow the prompts and type code 558."

"Morristown?? Can you do it for me? I can't do it!" He barks.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But I'm in a rush."

I scurry away, listening to him command another traveler: "You do it for me!" Instantly, I regret not taking a moment to help the frazzled man. In truth, I had a few minutes.

In Hudson News, I'm elated to find a copy of the Philippa Gregory book I've been meaning to buy. I grab it, along with some Sweettarts, and head to my Trenton-bound train.

Fuck, I think suddenly.

I forgot to get my ticket from the machine.

I managed to pay for my ticket, tuck my debit card back in my wallet, but with the slight distraction, I forgot to grab my bloody ticket.

Idiot! I berate myself. The universe mocks me. Ha! Should have taken the time to help that poor man, she singsongs.

I race back to the ticket booths, but the line is now far too long. I quickly visit a nearby ATM and resign myself to the five dollar surcharge for buying the damn ticket aboard the train.

Then I am sitting on the train, sweat beading on my brow, when a benign conductor stops before me.

"Where to?" He asks kindly.

"Trenton," I whisper, smiling wanly. I move to hand him my twenty.

And then, that beautiful conductor places a ticket on my seat and continues on, ignoring the cash in my hand.

The obvious moral here is that sometimes when you're an asshole, and neglect to grab your train ticket after you've purchased it, you will run into a nice conductor who can read your mind, and has mercy on your deflated, scatter-brained soul.

I love New York. Hell, I even love Jersey today.