Remember.

On this day, every year, my glorious best friends check in with me. They tell me they are thinking about me, and that they love me. And I love them, so so much. I am not sure I say it enough. Like I told Grace just this morning: I LOVE YOU. IN ALL CAPS. That much, y'all. That much.

And I love you, Internet, and I love you, life. I love my life. I love my husband, and my friends, and my family, and Oprah, and the Black-Eyed Peas, and Oprah's 24th season kick-off, because it made me cry this morning, guys, in that way I do during curtain calls on Broadway. My heart swells and my eyes fill and I am just so happy for us all.

And really, I can't ask for anything more than that.

I've written about it here and here and here and here and here.

But it's not about me today. (Really? the Internet asks, rolling its collective eyes at the drama queen.)

Not about me. It's about all of those who lost their lives; it's about what that day taught us collectively as a nation. It's about how we are still learning. (Because this morning someone posted on their Facebook status that they were so sad, and pissed! They want to kill all Arabs!)

Facebook friend? I think you totally missed the point.

Last night I told J that I'd like to stop in Shanksville on the way home from Penn State in a few weeks. He wasn't too receptive, but I think he'll come around. You go to honor. Those doomed passengers on Flight 93 - those heroes - deserve to be honored and commemorated. So we'll go, and I'll cry, and I'll thank them. We need to make that pilgrimage.

That day - and the post-traumatic stress aftermath - taught me so much. It taught me that despite all of the horror surrounding us, people are good. We're resilient. We're malleable.

I cherish every day, every moment. And when I don't? When I get all petulant and bratty and call J screaming that I am lost in Pittsburgh, holy shit you must help me this is the worst day of my life?

Then, eventually, I am brought back to reality. A reality in which I am lucky, and so so blessed.

I can't believe how far I've come in 8 years. I said as much to Grace this morning, adding "Though I'd like to get rid of my stupid fear of flying, I suppose that's just a scar I wear to keep me humble."

That's the first time I have ever thought of it that way. A scar. It is one that I am proud to bear.

So I hope everyone is great today. I hope we all take the time to remember, but also to be thankful. For whatever reason, we are all still here. And that's reason enough to celebrate.

You Big Dummy

Last night, J and I didn't sleep.

Well, we did okay until about 3:30, when a spaceship landed in front of our house, crushing whole cars and blaring sirens, warning the Earthlings of imminent doom. (Or maybe it was a really loud truck? Like it matters?)

For the life of me, I couldn't fall back to sleep; so at 5 AM, I crept downstairs and put on a Friends DVD (spoiler alert: Rachel has a baby and names her Emma). Predictably, I went unconscious at 5:50, ten minutes before I had to wake up. I heard J in the shower at 6, and so I struggled to the bathroom to lament our ill fortune. "I feel awwwwhhhhhhhfffulllll," I moaned. "This is just terrible! How can we pooossssiiibblllyyy function?!?"

coughdramaqueencough

Function we did, though, and on the drive home from Harrisburg, sipping a sugar-free grande cappuccino, I felt positively productive. Work had gone exceptionally well, and I was cheerfully listening to Good to Great on CD, making mental notes of all the ways I will take the business world by storm, when -

fuuuuuuccccccccccckkkkkkk.

I realized with a start - as you do - that I had forgotten my laptop. In stupid Harrisburg. And tomorrow AM, I am airbound for Pittsburgh. Stupid alien spaceship, ruining my precious beauty sleep!

Plans were rearranged, and now your dummy Blogmistress must drive to Pitt tomorrow AM, stopping in the State Capitol to pick up my cruddy Dell. Boo.

In other news, J and I went to Grandpop's for a family bbq on Sunday. I wanted to write a witty, Sedaris-esque post about it, but lo: it is 6:08 and I have to run 3.5 miles and study for 2 hours if I am ever going to TAKE THE MOTHERHUMPING GMATS ALREADY, God. So here are the Cliff Notes:

• Have you ever pulled up to your childhood home, basking in that feeling of nostalgia and calm, only to happen upon your nextdoor neighbor snapping pictures of your stepfather - arms raised in triumph, pants around ankles, clad in an American flag speedo, wearing a boat captain's hat? No? So that's just me then.
• Has your mother ever invited the town miscreants (aka old high school friends) to a family picnic, and by way of defending her decision, she exclaims, "Well, he called me and asked if he could come! What was I supposed to say? Then he called me back and told me he was bipolar and self-medicates with alcohol! What would you have done?" Um, anyone?
• Has your cousin's new make-up artist boyfriend, upon being asked if you could pull off red hair with your complexion, replied: "Sure, as long as you don't get tan. You've got fair Norweigen skin. And nice-colored lips." Beat. "You're going to have to do something about this though." *draws air circles around your chin, with its expertly-covered batch of fresh hormone pimples*?

Until we meet again, you big dummies.

On Money, and Hair.

Okay, so for starters, my hair? She is fine.

Not like, daaammnnn, that hair is bangin'! Your hair is fiiinnee, girl!

Like, thin. Breakable. Brittle. Fine. So fine I am often irrationally angry at my mother. You're Italian, I scream inwardly. Your hair should be thick and lustrous!

Then I remind myself that I am already a wildly successful general interest blogger, so come on already. You can't have it all, miss.

(Though I would murder for Keri Russell's hair.)

Today I went for a trim with the greatest hair stylist evah. I love her, and the fact that she never makes me feel that my hair is unworthy. After she has artfully sheared my paltry mane, my hair looks strong. Healthy. And shiny! And for just one day - until tomorrow, when it all goes to shit - I think: Fine hair is in. Fine hair is beautiful. You wish you had hair so thin.

That said, today I implored Annette, desperate, an addict in need of a fix. I need hair products! I cried. Please, just a little something for the volume.

"Well the Pureology products are really great. They're expensive, but everybody loves them."

Expensive? Ha. There is no price too great for good hair. *shakes head solemnly*

No price.

(I am reminded of the time I was trying to cut corners at my opthamalogist's office. Well, is there a less expensive contact, maybe? To which he replied: Melissa, you don't want to go cheap with your eyes. Touche, doc. Touche.)

And so, I grabbed the Purelogy products off the shelf, along with a protective styling product guaranteed to give me VOLUME, slapped it all on the counter, and paid, though not before making another appointment for next week. That's when I get the color, babies. You know you have been watching too much America's Next Top Model when you start getting all experimental. (I'm bored, I told my benevolent stylist. Let's shake things up a bit.)

I walked out of there with my head held high, gloriously wispy strands of blonde hair glowing in the afternoon sun.

Then J called, and told me he was going to buy Photoshop. He wanted to make sure I was okay with that.

"Oh yeah? Well, I just spent $54 on shampoo and conditioner, and I hope you're okay with that!" (Which of course actually meant: I dare you to challenge this purchase, dude. Try me.)

He only gave a little sigh, and remarked, "This software will be cheaper than your haircut."

But as we all know, there is no price too great for good hair, y'all.

No price.

Still a Feminist After All These Years!

Yesterday was Grace's birthday - happy birthday, Grace! - and this morning she and DP are seriously hung over. As they should be, bless their hearts.

DP is working long hours today, so he asked your Blogmistress for a story.

Creative beeyotch that I am, I searched my archives. I went all Ted Mosby on his ass and sent him this.

Then this.

Then, I accidentally reread this.

*head explodes*

I hadn't even remembered... when suddenly I had a flashback: sitting on the stool in the kitchen, crumbling over the butcher block.

And then I read the comments section, and I was completely inspired. I had promised to revisit this issue, and I will. I just have to go to a quiet place to gather my thoughts.

Guys! Sometimes we talk about real issues here. Issues that matter to us as women and men and couples and humans. Let's continue the dialogue.

What's New With You Guys?

Honest to God, E. I really want to know why this drivel you masquerade as content sucks me in every ever-lovin' time. (I'm lookin' at you, E! True Hollywood Story.) Tonight it's a bullshit show about Christina Aguilera, which begs the question: exactly how relevant was The Mickey Mouse Club? If you watch enough E, you get the sense that The Mickey Mouse Club was at one time the creme de la creme of all, er, variety shows? SNL for the tween set; a rite of passage for young starlets abuzz with all the talent and promise in the universe. Fine, MMC, I concede Justin, Keri Russell, and Aguilera. But you also gave us JC Chasez. So shut up already.

(No seriously guys: did you watch? I never saw one episode, but I don't think I had the Disney Channel back then. Twas a dark period in the life of HV.)

Other than that, I woke up at 4 AM this morning. I had to drive to Cuse, y'all. I could have gone last night, but I am becoming accustomed to my homebody-ness, and so I opted to wake up at 4. (I would have totally watched Robin Scherbatsky's morning show too; you know, if that were a real thing.)

So I was on the road by 5 and in Cuse by 9. I did mah business; then I learned that there was nothing on my agenda for tomorrow. So I high-tailed it home. Eight hours of driving today, and it wasn't painful at all. I passed the time listening to Sedaris; chatting on the phone; and chugging sugar-free Red Bull.

A rather unremarkable day; but I write because I care about you guys. I know you all need your daily HV fix. So here's a mundane little tidbit from my day:

A funny thing happened when I arrived home at 7:30 PM.

"Babe - you mind if I take a quick run?"

Me. I said those words.

I think I am becoming a runner, friends. Old HV would have plopped down on the couch faster than you could say, "J, fetch Wifey her slippers and fix her a martini while you're at it."

(We do totally talk in the third person a lot at home. You probably don't want to hang with us in real life.)

Instead of the usual, I quickly changed and headed out for a twenty-minute run, in the dark no less.

I have been following a training schedule for 2.5 weeks now, and the amazing this is - I've been following it.

So, we're getting there. We'll see.

So. What's new with you guys?

Part Uno and a Half.

I understand - by the overwhelming response - how thrilling Part Uno was for us all. I mean, the Delta-bashing? The hotel check-in? I know I was on the edge of my seat.

That said, one of our faithful readers - let's call him Drew P., shall we? - wrote Part Dos for me this morning:

As we enter the hotel, we are shocked to find the lobby filled with great white sharks riding vampires. Little did these monstrosities know that I have extensive knowledge on vampire slaying and J has watched JAWS over 1000 times. What I am about to tell you is an epic battle where much blood was spilled and lives were lost....yadda, yadda, yadda....room service was delish.

Dear Drew P.: Anytime you wish to guest blog, just say the word. Love, HV

As If DP's version wasn't incredible enough, he provided an illustration, y'all, for the visual among you:

And that, kids, is the story of how I fell in love with Drew P. The end. (Sorry, J.)

For Those Who Love to Rock! Part Uno.

J and I barely made it on to our flight to Atlanta without bitch-slapping the jerkstores at the Delta ticket counter at Philly International. Air travel, unlike most other modes of transportation, really has the propensity to make my blood boil; perhaps it is the absolute callousness of the ticket agents. They know you are at their mercy; they are all drunk with power and douchebaggery.

All J and I wanted were the seats we had confirmed, which is apparently WAY too much to ask of Delta. (Normally we would not make a stink, but the seats were towards the front of the aircraft. We had a tight connection* and DO NOT trust that any flight out of Philly will take off on time, ever.)

(EVER.)

Plus, I also suffer from an acute affliction known as Haughty Arrogance of the Frequent Flyer. You've seen us, dudes. We have the security line down to a science and we're constantly judging you, rolling our eyes as you fumble with your laptop or YOU DEIGN TO PACK liquids in your carry-on sans plastic bags. What kind of asshole packs liquids? We ridicule. Oh shit, did this moron just fucking beep? Oh what, you forgot to put your cell phone on the belt? Amateur.

(J actually picked the shorter line when we got to security. I shook my head tiredly, beckoning him to move to where I stood. There are kids in that line, I mouthed. He moved. And sure enough, the kids held up everyone as the distracted parents fumbled with sneakers and tiny pink back-packs.)

(So ready to be a parent!)

Naturally, this disorder makes me especially senstitive to the insensitivity of the ticket agents. Don't you know who I am, I want to shout. I practically own this airport!)

(Okay, I exaggerate a bit. But still.)

(My, did I just take up 80 paragraphs about South America to bitch about Delta?)

(Oh, I did. And I don't regret any of it. I hate you, Delta.)

And now, for the piece de resistance - now with more painstaking-details!

J and I did eventually get the seats on our Atlanta-bound flight switched to the front of the plane; we made it off with plenty of time to make our Buenos Aires connection. Once we settled into our seats on the Boeing 767, I headed back to the bathroom and to chat briefly with one of the flight attendants.

"So, you make this trip often?" I asked politely.

She replied affirmatively, and I sweetly inquired, "So, is this generally a very turbulent flight?"

"Oh yeah. When we get towards the equator, it's always really bumpy. But don't worry; the pilots are military-trained."

*Faints*

*Wakes, pops pills*

Of course, Overly Candid Flight Attendant is wrong in her prediction. The flight is so spectacular that we hardly believe ten-and-a-half hours have passed when we stumble off the aircraft the next morning in Buenos Aires.

We navigate the airport rather smoothly, and we make it out to the taxi stand. We grab a cab to Puerto Madero, where we grab a ferry to Colonia in Uruguay. From Colonia, we grab a bus to Montevideo. I jotted down some notes on that leg:

Still high.

Apparently, all you have to do is put me any moving vehicle (plane, ferry, bus) and I am asleep and drooling within minutes. Uruguayian countryide is beautiful. Sparse and green, covered in pockets of small homes in which clothes hang on wires drying in the warm sun. Long to really jump out of this bus and start visiting homes.

(Obviously, the drugs had not worn off yet.)

We are still in good spirits as we arrive - via taxi - at our Montevideo hotel, Plaza Fuerte. We've been on this journey for about 24 hours now, and we're relieved to be in our temporary home.

Plaza Fuerte is a beautiful, refurbished hotel located in Cuidad Viejo, or Old City. Our room is split level; we've got a small living area on the first floor, along with a tiny balcony, a writing desk, and the requisite flat-screen. In the upstairs loft, we've got a queen-sized bed and an elegant bathroom with a large shower (the second biggest we've seen in our travels to date, which is always a welcome treat).

These stairs will kill you.

The view from the balcony.

We learn very quickly that no one speaks English in this place. I consider our American arrogance; any country we have visited up until this point, we have found English-speaking guides, receptionists, waiters, etc. to help us navigate the unfamiliar terrain. When people back home ask us how we manage to communicate, we usually shrug and say, "Oh, everybody speaks some English. We've never had a problem."

Enter Uruguay.

She is a welcome challenge. J took Spanish in high school; he still remembers a bit. We did some studying on the plane: Hola, Adios, Que tal?, Cuanto cuesta? We attempt these phrases self-consciously, and are pleased when we are understood; though when we do ask how much something costs, we can't decipher the answer and the merchant has to write down the amount for us anyway.

Our lesson in humility continues the next day, as we happen upon a street market near our flat. Montevideo's markets are teeming with antiques. J and I have little interest in these items in general, but we eye everything curiously. I zero in on sterling silver mesh bags from the 1920s, the merchant tells me. I am so relieved that someone is speaking English - that I may actually have a conversation in this strange place - that I start chatting excitedly. When he asks me where I am from, I tell him America.

"You are in America!" He exclaims, and my face turns crimson.

"Uh, North America, I meant."

"Anglo-America!" He admonishes me, though we continue to talk for a few moments before J and I meander off, towards the massive meat market J wants to visit. (Oh, now that is an amazing sentence.) It's about a fifteen minute walk from the hotel, and as we make our way we wonder aloud why the streets are completely quiet and empty. It's a Saturday afternoon, and the weather is cold but refreshing (perhaps in the high 50s). Are the Uruguayians hibernating?

We find everyone in the city at the indoor market. There are a billion restaurants enclosed here, some with table seating; most with bars you can sidle up to and order Patricia beer and blood sausage for a few pesos. We throw caution to the wind and order the barbeque for two. A few minutes later, enough food to feed a family of five for a week is placed in front of us.

Mmm... papas fritas!

Our waitress is a lovely, non-English speaking woman who gamely tries to mime what we are eating. She is pointing and rubbing her belly excitedly as we dig in... We hungrily eat the intestines in many incarnations, as well as a bite of kidney. (Not my first kidney, but likely my last. In case you haven't indulged, it's very... THICK.) We wash it all down with beers and sauvignon blanc, and eventually we meander through the empty streets back to our hotel...


Part Dos, Coming Soon!



*That's what she said.

As I work on that damn Argentina post...

I give you a FB treat!

25 Things, Y'all ( Written back in February. You're welcome.)

1. Meiko is playing on my iPod right now. I tend to love her.

2. I believe seeing Damien Rice in concert is a religious experience. If you have ever heard him play "I Remember", then you know what I'm talking about.

3. Of course, I also almost cried during the New Kids reunion concert. The ten-year old kid in me was completely overwhelmed and nostalgic.

4. I have kept a journal since I learned to write.

5. Recently, my mama found a diary from my 9th year. In one entry, I wrote: "If you ask me, all men are silly like that. Except maybe the New Kids!" Obviously, I was very astute.

6. I come from a beautifully-blended family chock full of six brothers and sisters in total. I love all of my siblings dearly; they are each so different and talented and funny as all get-out. (Shout-out, dudes!)

7. I am mostly ridiculously happy in life, except for brief moments of insanity that my husband handles with great aplomb.

8. Speaking of my husband: he is very cute, caring, and also gives the best hugs. I can't believe he agreed to take me on some days.

9. In the soundtrack of my life, the most important songs are: The Professor, by Damien Rice; Shimmer, by Fuel; Defying Gravity from Wicked; More Than Words, by Extreme; and Let Go, by Frou Frou. In some way, each changed me, or the trajectory of my life.

10. I snapped a picture of myself voting for Obama, and I saved all of Time's commemorative election issues for my future babies. I just know I did something important for them.

11. I am incredibly sentimental. (See #9.) (Also #10.)

12. I can't tolerate intolerance, which is ironic, huh?

13. I was raised Catholic, but I'm still searching. At Westminster Abbey last week, the Evensong program said something akin to "whatever faith you are, whether you are searching or not, you're welcome here." It was like a breath of fresh air.

14. Two weeks ago, addressing a group of 50 or so colleagues in a meeting, I uttered the phrase "deeper penetration." I immediately thought: "That's what she said." I still don't know how I kept it together.

15. Last night I watched the film Milk in my hotel room and cried like a baby. Have you seen it yet? You should.

16. I am obsessed with traveling. I am constantly planning new trips in my brain and ticking off places I must visit before I die.

17. I hate to fly, and last year I logged more than 50 flights. I am getting really good at faking it though.

18. That's what she said.

19. In the fourth grade, my brother and I walked into school and saw a huge sign that read: "Lordy Lordy, Ms. Egan's 40!" Seriously, 20 years later? Still stuck in my head. I say it constantly.

20. I luuurrrve to read. I prefer it to most other things.

21. My plan is to be a novelist. Now, I just need to plan to write that first damn book.

22. I idolize Indra Nooyi, Doris Kearns Goodwin, and Robin Roberts (is she not the most ebullient person you've ever seen?).

23. I thought I had perfected my clipped English accent in London last week, when a new Brit friend told me I really should stop shouting "Cheers, mate!" to everyone I saw. I asked him what I had to do, then, to sound authentic, and he replied, "Well, for starters, try being born in ENGLAND." Touche, Brad. Touche.

24. I am ever so grateful for my friends and family, who keep me laughing constantly. I can't believe how much my girlfriends and I laugh when we're together. It's a beautiful thing.

25. And now we end with India.Arie on the old iPod, "A Beautiful Day". It's happy music. Cheers, mates.

Are You There, Internet? It's Me, HomeValley.

Hey.

How's it going?

Yeah, so, we need to talk.

Sit down.

I don't know quite how to say this...

Look, I'm just going to come out with it.

I no longer believe I have any readers.

Y'all have been too silent for too long, and now I just don't have any faith in you anymore. Now, I read the stats (the tiny, tiny numbers) and they tell me people are visiting. But hello? I posted on Monday a story about how a pigeon UNLEASHED a shit storm of fury on me in Buenos Aires, and nobody said boo.

Testing, testing.

If you are reading, tell me you are alive. I worry about you. Leave a comment, even if you do it anonymously, and even if it only says "Present". (But really, you should probably do it anonymously and post movie quotes, 'cause I love me some movie quotes.)

Give me the strength to go on, gentle readers. Am I the proverbial blog in the forest? Holla at your girl.

Digging Out.

Hola, amigos! I am digging out right now, but wanted to pledge to you, dear readers, that I will post an update ABOUT MY vacation this week. That is my solemn vow. You should know it was amazing, even when someone asked me where I was from and I was all "America!" And they were all "You are in America, you jackass." And even when I was unceremoniously shat upon by a pigeon, because it wasn't just your run-of-the-mill bird crapping. It was a full-on SHIT ASSAULT that covered your blogmistress in warm, gooey bird poo and rendered me temporarily immobile.

"J? Oh my God, what is it?!"

"You just got shit on. By a bird."

*dies laughing*

"Oh my God? What the fuck? A falcon?" (Seriously, you should have seen what this bird of prey unleashed on me. My clothes needed to be changed. And probably burned.)

So a few minutes ago, I am in my office sorting through a floppity-jillion emails, grooving to the easy listening station. I was suddenly appalled. (Guys? that boogie oogie oogie song is playing. Come on.) I shot an email to Grace:

I listen to B 101 during the day. And I woke up at 4 AM in Buenos Aires and Dazed and Confused was on - and I was all shocked about what d-bags all of those people were and baffled that we thought it was really cool.

This is obviously what happens when you turn 30. I kinda hate myself.

To which Grace replied:

Show me someone who doesn't like soft rock and I will show you a liar.

This is why she is my best good friend. She nailed it!

More to come. (Like why was the song "I Adore Mi Amore" in our heads all week? Is that honestly the best Spanish song we could come up with? And other thoughts.)

xo

You Know I Don´t Speak Spanish!

Buenos dias, friends! Coming to you live from Buenos Aires, where, my Spanish-speaking skills? GOD, they are abysmal. High on the list of priorities when J and I return to Anglo-America? Rosetta Stone, bitches. You better believe it.

Next priority? Relocate to Buenos Aires. I am telling you, kids, this place is fantastico. Bueno!

Montevideo was... interesting. I think J and I both expected a warm, inviting, charming little village. The experience was much different, though of course, nothing we would trade. Just a bit colder (literally and figuratively) then we anticipated. Although I wouldn´t put it quite so extremely, Martin, our handsome bartender at the BoBo, explained: ´´It´s a good place to go. To die.´´

I must away now... We are going to Museo Evita (!) and then the Recoleta Cemetery to visit Eva Peron´s tomb (can you guess which musical theatre nerd selected today´s itinerary?)

Adios, muchachos!

Aaaannnddd... We're Off.

Running out the door to go pick up J and head to the airport! To think: only 1.5 hours in the airport, 2 hour flight to Atlanta, 1 hour in Atlanta airport, 10.5 hour flight to Buenos Aires, 40 minute cab ride to port; 3 hour ferry ride to Montevideo, plus 15 block walk to Hotel Plaza Fuerte, and we're home free. Uruguay is practically in our backyard!

I wanted to post pics of the packing (Lord! The packing!), but this is me and OF COURSE I am out of time. Fear not, friends: J assured me that he wants to "be bored" on this vacation (a rarity for us), so I am sure one day I will sneak off to a cafe and update the Internet on our South American adventures.

Stay tuned!

I Wish You Weren't a Liar.

So last night I am parking Roberta and grabbing the groceries out of the trunk (simultaneously, you should see it) when the H appears on the front porch.

He says solemnly: "OK, so, I have a little bit of bad news. But it's going to be okay; you don't have to freak out."

And then I had a heart attack and DIED. Right there on the street in front of our home.

DIED! Because someone was ABSOLUTELY dead this time.

I clutched my chest, eyes wide, and listened.

"Orbitz called. They canceled our flight home from Argentina... I'm on the phone with them now trying to figure it out."

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

"Oh my God, J. I thought someone was dead!"

J is on the phone for another hour as I cook dinner. Turns out Orbitz? Delta? Utter fucking douchebags. They canceled our return flight home. Just like that. And then they left us with two options:

1. Fly home a day early.
2. Fly home a day later.

Gee. Thanks, dudes. But surely you will pay for an extra night at our hotel?

Ha!

K, so then, you will upgrade us to first class?

HAHA!

Er, so then, you will make sure we can at least sit together on the 11-hour flight home?

HAHAHAHAHAHOOHOO!

So, yeah, that worked out for us.

In the end, we opted for more time in Buenos Aires. And the greatest hotel evah, Bobo, was more than happy to accommodate us.

(Oh, though my guess is, this is because we are flying into Swine Flu Central. Thanks, MSNBC. Meh.)

Oh, and then, this morning, stupid Robin Roberts just had to report on THIS. And she even had to comment to Lisa Stark: "We've been hearing so much about SEVERE turbulence lately; it's becoming a real problem for the airlines."

HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE

But nothing can thwart me this morning: I am an optimistic beacon of sunshine and fucking rainbows. Bitches.

And so, I leave you with this dude.

This morning he asked me (personally, through the talking picture box), to test myself and see how much I lie in one day.

Oh, it is on, and to be blogged about.

Happy Monday, y'all!

(Seriously: I am just still so happy that all of you are alive. Gloriously alive!)

(Right?)

Facebook Status Updates, sukkkkkassss.

TGIF, eh guys? Today, your Blogmistress is absolutely horrified by Facebook Status updates.

I need you to read these. I also need to tell you, I am related to the person who composes these.

(I really am not sure how... I... no words. Just read. If we are like-minded, you may just throw in the towel and quit the Internet.)

Finally... I am truly sorry for what I am about to unleash on you.

Here goes:

young money wher ya at in this bitch...we swanging n banging like a bat in this bitch... weeezyyyyy concert sukkkkkassss

weeeeezzzyyyy 2morow!!!!!!

one more day btiches..one more day... the motha fuken carter,,bitches on mi stick but mi name aint harry potterr................

i love it wen she say.....its cool i got it.. i got it... i gott it..

the shoes i wear u dont own a pair....weezy f baby 2 days bitchesssssss

wats in mi wallet dawg..big faced hundrreds..went to the mall bought errything that i wannteddd....suckas

lookin at new wips...anyone tryna buy a dodge dakota..

im so twisted i walk in swirls

july 31 weezy weee cant wait suckaaassss

im in the cut wit them ozzziiesss

oh kimosabe, big ballin is my hobby

i dont need security i need fan patrol

And the piece de resistance:

if u a bad bitch then im at chu like a pound of cake n a fat doode


*sputters*

So then there are people who respond to this garble... with something akin to:

lol ur so gay

Seriously? All of my senses are assaulted.

And who the fuck is weezy??

Oh my God, please comment. Lord have mercy, give me something to live for.

J, KC, The Nard Dog, and Me.

There are three sure-fire ways to get me out of a funk:

1. J, Husband Extraordinaire.

2.

3.

When I explained to J last night that I was feeling blue, he immediately sprang into action.

"What can we do to make you feel better?"

I thought about it for a moment, and then told him that we needed to clean the bedroom.

(Oh, super fun!)

But lo, the bedroom needed to be cleaned. And I needed to get organized. Cuz in the midst of my blues? Leaving the country next week (!). We're going to Buenos Aires and Montevideo (!!). Poor little depressed girl, must dutifully travel to South America. Don't you feel sorry for me?

This trip really sneaked up on us, though. So J, bless his heart, helped me sort the laundry and then, that man went and put it in the machine. I unpacked our bags from the NY trip. I straightened the bureau, and J dusted. Then we sat on the bed and made the Argentina list. As well as a list of cards and gifts that are PAST DUE. (Sorry, Koos. I really do love your baby. I'm just an asshat.)

Once we were organized, I felt I could breathe again. I ate some cherries on the couch and passed out during House Hunters International.

I slept more soundly last night than I have in weeks. It was glorious.

This morning I woke at 6, prepared a no-carb breakfast of eggs and turkey bacon, made some coffee, and then sent an email to Koos: how GOOD is coffee? Also, I watched Chelsea Handler. What of it? She is an irreverent beacon of delicious sarcasm and snark. LOVE.

At 7 I retreated to the office, and I filed and organized my desk while listening to Kelly Clarkson. Internet? Listen to Kelly Clarkson. KC = sublime happiness and productivity. You can imagine I was already feeling good and energetic, when my amazing husband sent me this email:

Subject: Start the day off right!

“They say you should never mix business with pleasure. Really? Well then explain to me how a putt-putt golf company operates.”

- Andy Bernard

And that is why, friends, I don't need anti-anxiety meds. I have J, KC, and the Nard Dog.

And happy hour! With dear friends Grace and JM (JM - don't you already have a pesudonym on this blog? Please advise.) Did I ever tell y'all about the first day of high school? Koos and I arrived and I believe we only had one or two classes together. (Koos? Please advise.) So I spent the first day observing the other chicas to determine whom I would deign to be friends with. (Er, or whom I thought might like my skinny, be-braced, nerd self.) And Grace and JM were the big winners!

I'm pleased as punch that 15 years later, we still can get together to drink cheap beer carb-conscious club soda and recall the old times.

It is going to be a good day.

%&$*#@@(!)

Arrrrgggghhhhh.

I'm having one of my days today, which is particularly trying, as I had one of these days yesterday. Hungover and sore from sleeping on The Real JC's air mattress, J and I sat on the couch all day, only removing ourselves from the gripping life of John Adams long enough to take a delirious trip to Wawa for chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (The need!)

And so I pulled out my planner last night, resolutely, and wrote down all of the things I needed to accomplish today.

And then I woke early, ready to start the day. But instead, I groggily plopped down on the couch at 6:30 to watch DVRed episodes of Chelsea Lately.

And then... nothing.

I walked the mile to the track, but found myself stifled by the heat and humidity. The run did not go well. So I walked home. I decided I needed to get out of the house today, so I showered and dressed and headed to my favorite coffee shop on Main.

But I couldn't pay attention to my conference calls; and after I composed and sent a few rambling emails, I packed up my laptop and planner and headed home by way of Machismo Burritos. (Damn you and your addictive power!)

I'm in my office now. I am trying to work, but I'm not present. I'm not sure where my mind is. This isn't working, I said to myself a few moments ago. This isn't what you're supposed to do with your life. The thought honestly occurred to me out of nowhere, as most days, I like my job a lot.

But I wonder if maybe there isn't a little kernel of truth to that last part. If this is my passion, wouldn't I be more, er, passionate? I wake everyday with the best intentions, but suddenly at 7 AM I feel... drained.

I blame E! True Hollywood Story.

When you watch that fucking show, you get the feeling that though everything doesn't come easily per se, these celebs know what they want and they work tirelessly - ruthlessly - to get it.

And then I'm suddenly inspired and embarrassed, because I have all of this potential, that I waste on the frivolity... Like E! True Hollywood Story!

It's a damn shame.

I don't know what's next. J and I talk about it all the time. We'll move, we say, once J is finished with grad school. Then I'll quit my job, and I'll go to grad school. While I'm at it, I'll write and have babies and be perfect and healthy and rich. The end.

I'm not sure where I am, or what I want, but I know I am at a crossroads.

To be continued.

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

D'oh!

Believe it or not, I started this amazingly well-written and structured post to give a little fitness update. So here you go:

Meh.

That is my update, y'all. I have been running, but not so well the last two weeks. I am okay with that, as my half-marathon training needs to start twelve weeks before the event; so after J and I return from vacation (August 15th) I'll begin the program in earnest.

P90X is on hold, as I have a lot of difficulty keeping to a routine with my constant travel. But I am determined to complete P90X at some point this year. I'll just have to develop a tighter schedule, as I am just now beginning to take back the reigns on time-management.

And the diet? Well, my Far-Mor told my sister Cat that I was "too skinny" after the Colorado trip. So, good on me! Alas, I'm not too skinny. I'm slim. I wa able to sustain the no-carb diet for 2 weeks, and I felt great, though completely bored. Then J and I went to a family party in which I ate a cheeseburger sans bun, and the paparazzi got wind of it and asked me what kind of crazy diet I was on, and when I said South Beach my cousin Lauren told me I was going to desTROY my kidneys, and then my mom called me the next day to say of course everyone was talking about this CRAZY diet you are on, and I'm all, hello, if any of you MFers read my blog you would already know about this diet! And also: South Beach! NOT crazy.

I guess the moral of the story is my family doesn't support me, and also thinks I'm crazy.

I lost three - four pounds on Phase 1 of South Beach, then I let my amazing weight loss skillz get to my head and started eating everything under the sun. This weekend I drank 85004 Hoegaardens at the Beer Garden in Queens, and so today? Fare thee well, carbs. I'm not sure how we are ever truly going to make this work, but right now, I just need some time by myself. I really need to focus on my career - obvs! - and what I want out of this life. And what I want involves passion, and most certainly does not involve a giant ass. (Sorry, babe.)

Love, HV

Almost 30: Coming Soon to a Mall Near You!

For the record, the H did take me dress-shopping last night. I really thought we'd hit pay dirt at H&M, but the only dresses we liked even a little bit were maternity.

There is a very limited selection of stores in the Plymouth Meeting Mall, so we actually walked into Wet Seal for a hot minute, before I turned around and headed straight for the door:

"Let's get outta here," I said, bristling. "I'm a 30 year-old woman for God's sake."

(So I'm not quite 30. But 29 is a fake age. No one cares that you are 29. You're so old now that people just round up. You're 30. Just wait.)

(And you are definitely ten years too old for Pac Sun, Wet Seal, and Mandee's. In case you were wondering.)

(You are also thirty years too young for the "Charter Club" at Macy's.)

(I really should develop a reasonably-priced boutique called "Almost 30". A slightly more mature Forever 21, for the hip, sexy young woman who cannot now nor ever pull off a denim mini for the love of Pete.)

(*And that's our tag line.)

Alas, I didn't find a dress. They were all too cheap looking, too long, or trying too hard. I love me a nice pattern, but come on. Your patterns are ugly, dresses. Fire your designers and buyers and start over. I don't want to look like a I'm wearing a giant wall-hanging tapestry.

The end.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me: The Burritos of Shame!

There are a floppity-jillion perks to being married to J. He is good to my family. He listens to me when I speak. He does some most all of the cleaning. He consults me before he makes decisions, big and small. When we started dating, he single-handedly helped me take charge of my finances, get out of debt, and create an actual savings account! In which, I didn't merely sock away money just to transfer it to my checking account each time I rarely regularly bounced a check or overdrafted. Like, an actual savings account. With savings!

And whilst I am eternally grateful to this wonderful man, I must admit I miss the days when I could be deliciously irresponsible with mah cash.

Sigh. The shoes.

What is it with the dudes, ladies? Are they always scrutinizing your purchases? I mostly abhor shopping, but there are a few luxuries that I refuse to deny myself. These are:

*mani/pedis
* shoes (from DSW! Not effing Louboutins. Men.)
* burritos

That is about it, y'all. And each time I indulge, the inevitable interrogation:

"Where did those shoes come from?"
"Oh, what, so you went to the nail salon today? How much did that cost?"
"Another burrito? You just can't eat at home, can you?"

I live in a state of perpetual guilt about the money I spend. I'm stuffing newly purchased gladiator heels into the closet, hoping he won't notice. (This from the guy that once pulled a coin out of the "junk" drawer in our kitchen and demanded: "Who put this nickel in there?") When he inevitably does see the shoes, I am vehemently defending my choice of footwear: "They sent me a coupon! For $10 bucks! How could I not go?"

I am also too lazy to hide my burritos of shame. I now get the burrito bowls (I miss you like crazy, tortillas), and once I'm finished, I just throw the plastic container into the sink (food coma, obvs). Then J arrives home from work, and he discovers the contraband.

"Babe!" He says, shaking his head at me as he walks from the kitchen. "What's this?"

I am in quite the funk today, and though we are off to NYC tomorrow afternoon, I emailed him quickly:

I think I need Panera tonight. I also want to find a cheap summer dress for Saturday. Thoughts?

With lightning quickness:

Yes. No.

Girls? Halp.

Sleepwalking

Things are happening.

Believe it or not, George isn't at home in addition to this here blog, I keep a journal. I bought it in Turkey with my sister Cat in mind, but I ended up keeping it for myself. It's small and blue, with a tiny Turkish rug splayed across the front cover.

I typically fill it with all of the sap-tastic things I don't want to post, as well as fleeting ideas and "to-do" lists. I haven't written in awhile, but something made me pick it up on Sunday night, as I was heading out to the airport, Atlanta-bound.

I began leafing through it only tonight, from my hotel room on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (and of course, my frequent jaunts in the city leave me, shall we say, wistful?). In it, I found this jem:

Also, new obsession? Post-it notes. I seriously carry them in my bag and use them constantly: love letters to J, "to-do" lists, and bookmarks in my favorite how-to guides, as well as O magazine. A recently used post-it adhered to a magazine page reads:

We sleepwalk through the possibility of joy.

Were truer words ever said about me? I am sleepwalking. There is so much more, and yet I get bogged down in the distractions: the Facebook, the dramedy, the Sex and the City rerun.

I don't want to be here again. I don't feel like reevaluating, then making amends to right the wrongs, get active, and start actually hitting my goals, rather than jotting them down here and thinking, I'll start fresh tomorrow.

Things are happening.

I have been working on it. I've been running; I am determined to run that half-marathon in November. That is a goal I will hit.

Now, however, I have a new addiction; a new shield to hide behind.

Ladies and gents: I am addicted to planning things.

By June, I had planned virtually every weekend throughout the summer. Which friends can we see? Who can we visit? Where can we travel? What shows are happening? Where can we have dinner? I have a free Southwest ticket, J! Where should we go?

I lurve my friends and family, but dudes? I think you are my new crutch.

When I realized I scheduled a business trip to Pittsburgh on the same day I was booked to fly out to Denver to hang with my grandparents and dear sissies, I called J immediately.

"Babe? I give. You're right. I'm done planning. I'm not planning anything else this summer."

When J asks me why I can't stop committing to events, parties, dinners, travel plans, etc., I typically tell him: I'm just so happy to be alive.

I say this seriously. I am so ecstatic to be here; I can't imagine squandering any of this.

But then there is that small part of my heart that is still sleepwalking. That longs for a Masters, and a novel, and maybe someday a super-awesome baby.

But I can't have those things, because I don't devote the time and effort.

I sleepwalk, you see.

I'm still hiding.

Things are happening, though.

I am starting to get all panicky again.

The last time I had an episode, I was talking to Koos on the phone. I was driving from Providence to Worcester two years ago, when suddenly I wasn't okay.

My heart was racing. I felt light-headed; and most certainly not myself. It's difficult to describe; I was not me, and also, I was terrified. I had an overwhelming sense of impending doom, I was afraid of a fate that I was powerless to stop.

I pulled into an office park. I stopped the car, and told Koos what was going on. I tried to maintain a normal conversation to get my mind off of it (whatever it was), but I failed to calm myself. I ended up hanging up the phone and driving to Worcester with the windows down. I needed air. I couldn't breathe.

I called a doctor in our neighborhood later that week. I had never seen this woman, but as soon as she entered the room I burst into tears.

"I'm so stressed," I sobbed. "I don't know what's wrong with me; but I'm losing it lately."

The doctor gave me a sympathetic glance and a few kind words.

Then she immediately wrote me a prescription for Paxil and Ativan.

PAXIL! An anti-anxiety med that you need to take on the regular, for at least 6 weeks, before it begins to work... She'd met me for five minutes. She'd seen nothing of my medical history. She knew nothing about my life, except for a few weepy moments inside her exam room.

I stuffed the scripts in my purse, scheduled a follow-up appointment, and left, completely disillusioned.

I tossed them almost immediately. First, I talked to my then fiance, who convinced me I was just going through a rough patch, and was I really ready to commit to this medication? Was it medically necessary? I canceled the follow-up. With J's help, I began to slow things down. I began to breathe and I never once experienced the panic again.

That is, until last week.

It was the same prolonged feeling of dread and powerlessness. When I finally calmed, I decided that this bonafide panic attack was the physical manifestation of the sleepwalking.

The need to do and grow and be, combined with the frustration of all of my crutches: procrastination, planned events, and HBO dramas.

Suddenly, I had my Cher Horowitz epiphany: I needed a makeover, but this time? This time I would make over my soul.

With no Pismo Beach disaster to mitigate, I am setting out to not only accomplish my own stated objectives, but to also be a better person. To give back more. To be a better friend. To finally, for the love of Pete, reduce the call-screening by 50%.

In essence, I'm putting in the effort again. On all fronts. All systems go.

It helps to write so candidly. The panic didn't kick my ass this go-round. Once I could think rationally, I decided to get to the heart of it. What was really causing me to worry so extremely? What is happening in my life at this point?

And the conclusion I drew was that I'm overworked, overbooked, and stretched too thin to feel really productive and worthwhile.

So I'm scaling it back, and concentrating on the people that are important, including myself. Enough with the sleepwalking. It's time to make like Janet and get back in control.

Can I get a witness?

Tabloid Fodder.

Each time I enter our bathroom, I'm greeted by Kim Kardashian's bosoms.

"I move the Time magazine over everyday," J told me with a grin yesterday.

I can't say I blame him. Sister looks good.

(Notice the cover of the Time. Still waiting for him to observe the irony.)


Each day, I punish J by moving the mag slightly to the left.

Marriage is fun.