Plague.

Gah!

J is sick. And not your normal, run-of-the-mill sick. Fever, cough, aches, pains, sore throat, phlegm, etc... It's obviously the plague. He's been out of work since Tuesday; luckily I have been working from home this week and have been able to act as nurse. Though I fear he is not getting much better; at least he has not gotten any worse. He barely wants to eat; and I have offered to watch Ravenous - a strange movie that he lurves - about a zillion times, and he just shakes his head sadly and stares at me with those lovely, glassy eyes. Sometimes he moans a little. The poor, poor dear.

This morning I ushered him to our doctor's office, fearing pneumomia. Alas, it is but an ordinary plague that will last at least another four days. I asked Doc if I was in the clear, to which she replied merrily: "No, you'll get sick later."

So. Awesome.

I am warding off the bug by reveling in my stupidity; also known as "studying" for the GMATs. I use the term "studying" loosely, as I have been reading the book and totally acing the "how-to" problems. Then I attempt to take a practice test, and my brain melts and I bang my head against the table and curse stupid geometry and Ms. Marano because I didn't understand in the tenth grade and I still don't fucking get it. I jot down all of the formulas I can remember and then I cry softly at the dining room table, and shout at my sick friend, "What is the formula for area of a rectangle?!?" And duh. If you don't know the area of a rectangle, you have no business going to graduate school.

Meh.

Also - ladies? No advice on my wedding gown? Is this your way of telling me I am fucked? Or are you just tired of my infrequent posting and trying to make a statement?

I love you all. May you never see the horrors of this plague.

In Need of Your Guidance, Ladies

I want to take a quick break from the political implications of my last post to go all shallow on your asses and ask the ladies out there a very important question:

How far in advance of your wedding date did your wedding gown arrive?

This morning I called the bridal shop for the second time. Remember, my mama and I ordered that damn gown in mid-December. A gown that, while lovely, needed to be sufficiently aesthetically-altered to make it appropriately HomeValley-esque. (i.e., No fucking sparkles.)

Today??

Today I learned that my gown is not going to be shipped to the bridal shop until the FOURTH of MAY.

Apparently the manufacturer is cutting the silly train and removing the sparkles, which was not the way I understood it. I was told that the shop-owner handled all of the alterations on-site. Why the lies? Why the lack of communication?

My wedding date, for all intents and purposes, is July 8th, as that is when we are high-tailing it out of the country. I'd like it if my dress made it onto the plane with me.

Bear in mind, I travel for a living. This makes my situation that much more difficult.

Is this normal? Am I cutting it to close? Is less than two months sufficient? I need your guidance, wise women of the Internet.

Thank you.

That Time In Istanbul

The truth is, I love thinking about Istanbul.

Just this morning, whilst I was power-walking about the hills of Manayunk, I let my mind drift back to Sultanahmet. Often I imagine what it would be like to live there, temporarily. I ponder the logistics of the move (would we stay in Sultanahmet, the heart of the old city? Or should we perhaps move to suburban Uskudar, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus?). I picture my family coming to visit, and ushering them through Aya Sofya, watching their eyes widen at the sheer magnitude of the site: the gorgeous, massive ancient structure.

Aya Sofya

My yoga instructor always urges the class to visit our "happy places" at the beginning of each "practice". Oftentimes, I find myself sitting, with J, in Sultanahmet Park, in between Aya and the Blue Mosque. Sitting and staring at the two buildings; at the perfectly manicured lawns; at the people walking by. I can't remember a time when I felt more at peace.

J and I at the park. The Blue Mosque is in the background.

Of course, the great irony is that when J and I ventured to Turkey last October, the country had just invaded Iraq. The Armenians were pressuring the U.S. government to pass a resolution claiming the Turks' killing of Armenians during World War I was the first genocide of the twentieth century. Our wedding travel agent, Nicole, had raised the prices for our up-to-this-point-set-in-stone packages. Our accommodations were less than stellar, and the moment we stepped out of our hotel to explore the country on that first afternoon, a military jet whirled just above our heads, nearly deafening us.



"Hmm," J said, clasping my hand in his. "That was a little unsettling."



And yet.

The city we experienced was so warm, so inviting. We trekked throughout the streets each day, from the Blue Mosque (where we were given an expensive lesson in Islam), to the Galata Bridge (where the stench of fish nearly killed us), to the gorgeous harem at Topkapi Palace, to the Grand Bazaar, arguably the world's oldest mall, where we admired carpet after carpet, and purchased 8995 pashminas and gorgeous Ottoman-style tiles, for good measure.

Learning to worship inside the Blue Mosque.

Inside the Grand Bazaar.

The cuisine was excellent; and we sampled different dishes each night. Part Greek, part Middle Eastern fare; the Turkish pizza was my absolute favorite. And after each delicious meal, we'd sip warm apple tea and marvel at our good fortune.



Most evenings, we'd find ourselves at the Cozy Pub, watching rugby with Englishmen or smoking a hookah with new friends Mehmet and Ahmet.


And then there was this one time.


We'd spent most of the afternoon walking the streets, shopping at the Grand Bazaar and sampling Turkish delight candies at the Spice Bazaar. As the sun was setting, we meandered through Sultanahmet Park, then found ourselves once again on the main strip in the old city, at the Cozy Pub. Ahmet worked the door, enthusiastically encouraging passers-by to come in and have a drink or a snack. Mehmet ran a small gift shop behind the pub, but was typically hanging out at the bar, chatting up the ladies. We called him Turkish Scott Baio, as he looked and acted like Mr. 45 and Single.


On this particular night, we sat at a small table outside, talking with Ahmet and Mehmet. An Australian jewelry and bag designer named Julie soon came into our circle, as did English couple Nick and Amanda. Amanda was a school teacher; Nick wrote books about mountain biking.


So we ate and we drank. For hours and hours. At one point, Mehmet and I ran to his shop to prepare a hookah, which we filled with apple "tobacco" and brought back to the rest of our group.


Man, did I have a love affair with that hookah. If you are ever in Istanbul (Or even Le Souk, in Manhattan) , please, please sample the apple tobacco.

Mehmet and me, and my beloved hookah.

The night wore on, and soon it was time to retreat back to Hotel Mina. Julie was staying on the same street, so we walked her back to her place and crept back to our room, turning on the television to take advantage of the late-night English programming.

It wasn't until the next morning, while I was in our miniature shower, that J noticed something was missing.


The Bag.



The Bag is where we keep our Valuable Stuff. It is a virtual man purse that never leaves J's side when we are out of the country. He protects the bag like a child. And as if we had lost our first-born, J was nearly hyperventilating.



"Stay calm," I tell him, as I dress quickly. "It's got to be at Cozy, and they are good people. They'll have it for us."


I suppose I only half believe this myself, but I am intent on keeping J calm. We dart out of the hotel and run to Cozy, a two-minute jog.


The bar is empty, but Amir, last night's waiter, is straightening up.


"Amir!" I shout. "Please: where is our Bag?"


I describe the bag to Amir, but he only stares at me blankly. I run to our outside table, desperate for The Bag to be there.



It is not.



"You must have it, Amir," I say. I describe the bag in detail and tell him it is full of Valuable Stuff.

Another staffer overhears this conversation, and opens a safe behind the bar.

"Is this it?" He asks, holding The Bag.


"Yes!" J and I cry. I hug Amir. J checks The Bag. Not a single item is out of place.



"Thank you thank you thank you," we repeat, as we skip outside. We both exhale.



"Turks," I say. "I knew they'd come through. They're good people."

Indeed.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

This.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Matthew Sighting, Courtesy of Allie

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

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

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.