Oh, and...

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

The moral of the story?

I'm awesome.

When People Stop Being Polite...

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

And then, I was brought promptly back to reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always here for you.

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

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

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

Humble and grateful. I'm just sayin'.

Ballin', but Greasy.

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

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

Ballin’.

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

Lo, I am not that girl.

For shame!

Sexy greasy!

Does not do Grease justice.

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

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

HomeValley's Helpful Hints!

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

This has been a HomeValley Helpful Hint!

Doin' It Badly.

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


Aye, it has.


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

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

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


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


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


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

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

I've got PMS.

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

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

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


Today I growled at J like David after Dentist.


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

Wow. I am an amazing writer.

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

Procrastination Station

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

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

It was certainly a valiant try, though.

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

DUDE, Why don't I delete emails EVER?

That's all.

Slight Movement, and Stacking Trays

Siiiigggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

There. That's better.

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

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

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

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

And here I froze. Because I have this thing.

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

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

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

There.

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

There.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coincidence?

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, and then my heart burst.

I am optimistic.

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

Inertia

Everything I do, everything I say is disingenuous.

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

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

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

It’s all true.

But I can’t write it.

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

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

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

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

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

I never finished the fucking book.

GOD!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, hitting the publish button.

Here goes.

I call this post: Time Crunch

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

Friends, we are off to Egypt and Jordan!

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

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

DAY 1

February 18, 2009

Evening ( overnight) flight to London.

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

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

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

"Ya filthy animal!" - Grace

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

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

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

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

HV and Renaldo* own this city! WHAT UP?

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

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

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

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

PIG FAT.

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

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

Dear Diary,

Renaldo spilled his wine on me. Very upset.

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

Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 3 - The Penultimate

Bacon! HP sauce = delicious

Post cards from Prince William

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

Gorgeous - dichotomy - plain and "Victorian bling"

Crypt - Duke of Wellington and Flo Nightingale

Away to Shakespeare's Globe - Romeo and Juliet

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

Away to London Eye - regroup

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

Evensong at Westminster Abbey - incredibly emotional service

Off to Harrod's from WA Station

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

TOYS!

Champagne bar! Brilliant

And London Eye at night.

Lovely dinner (despite rude hostess) at Light Bar

Back to N's flat - time to party

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

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

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

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

In bed by 5 AM

Heathrow by 10:30.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

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

Cheers mates!

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Blimey!

Back from London!

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


There were also many, many haikus.


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

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

Am a lucky, lucky lady.

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

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

Unpublished.

Where are the bags from?

Westminster Abbey, uh huh!

Watch! Watch! (

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

London Calling: A Haiku.

Lord, I am so drunk.

England! You served me pig fat.

I am so naive.

Oh Bloody Hell!

OY - it's been a while, huh?

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

Now, what has your blogmistress been up to lately?

Loads.

*Laughs at inside joke.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

I now pronounce you Chuck and LARRRRRRRRRRRRY!!!

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

"The Orientals cheat, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Joy to the World!)

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

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

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

Happy 2009! I am a rock star!

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

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

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


Become more clear-headed. - Sure.

Perhaps drink less alcohol. - Next.

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

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

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

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

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

Take the GMATs. - I'm a loser.

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

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

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

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

Visit a California winery. - Check! Three down!

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

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

Watch less television. - F you, resolution list.

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

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

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

Call Grandmom more. - I'm a jerk.

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

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

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

Stop worrying so much. - Sort of.

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

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

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

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

Post more. - I'm an asshole.

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

Floss. - Nope.

Organize office. - We did it!

Maintain organized workspace. - Good luck with this.

Send "thank you" cards. - Did it!

Visit Africa. - March 2009.

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

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

Quell road rage. - Ehhh.

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

These are stupid:

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

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

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

Avoid most wedding cliches. - Yep.

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

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

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

Happy New Year, y'all.

Imminent.

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

"A business plan," I say, smiling.

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

Quite.

Welcome to the Bitter Barn!

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

I'll start, okay?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the "Economy".

And the potential threat of losing my livelihood.

To name just a few.

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

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

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