Trickery!

"You never looked at my updated resume," sayeth J.

"I totally did. I printed it and made notes on it, the day you sent it to me. I told you that."*

"No, I put 'My wife is a hot babe.' into the text to see if you caught it, and you didn't."

"I have it right here; I''ll get it right now!"

*Pulls out resume, immediately locates "My wife is a hot babe."*

Shit.

My H has resorted to trickery!

It was only a matter of time really; I'm kind of an a-hole.

*This is true; apparently I just wasn't as thorough as one would have hoped.

Shut up, Facebook. Shut UP. Also, beware the email forward. And try not to cry at work.

To start with, Southwest must have canceled their direct flight to Columbus, OH, and it's like, seriously killing me. I hate US Air. But I just can't justify a connecting flight to Ohio. It don't make no kinda sense. So, in short, you have hurt me Southwest. Deeply.

But you know what I am not going to do with this information? I am not going to post it on Facebook and make you all read about it. Because it is fucking boring as hell, and the only place I am going to put you through such boredom is here, on my own blog.

But did any of us sign up for this with Facebook? Didn't we just want to reconnect with high school friends? Didn't we want to post pictures of ourselves looking hot, and then only tag those pictures, and untag all of the unflattering ones? Didn't we want to discuss our book club reads in peace? Maybe some of us wanted to create a list of all the plays we have ever seen in this life, but goddamnit, that was our prerogative.

To be sure, there are some FB status updates I love. There are those people that are hella funny, and then there are those that really have no sense of humor, but they are so lovable and positive and upbeat that they make me smile all the time.

To be further sure, one might argue that I could not spend glorious minutes of my life reading the status updates, but that's just not practical. I spend a lot of time waiting for planes to take off, and also sometimes watching live TV with commercials (I know: what is this, 1867?). What am I supposed to do during those times?

Sigh.

Yes, I need to back off the Facebook as well. It is sucking the life from me faster than my television. (Oh, which, by the by, the one-hour a day? Not going great. More later.) There was once a simpler time when we didn't have to know what 400 acquaintances were experiencing at any one time, and I want that time back.

This morning Grace forwarded me an email, and wrote: FML.

And I was all: I am so happy you wrote that, because - what the hell does it mean??

Fuck. My. Life.

Okay, I feel about 126 since I didn't know the acronym (I do know that WTF means "why the face?" though). But also - Facebook? For JC's sake: STOP SAYING IT. People use FML all the time in their status updates. Temper your MISERY, friends!

So what now? I can read less, butI can't quit cold turkey. Can I delete everyone and start over? I have to tell you, I know we're all excited about the World Series, but I think the status updates every inning may kill me. Not to mention the stupid Yankee jokes.

And now, out of the bitter barn, and time to play in the hay!

Oh shit, nope, one more thing: I made someone cry the other day. At work. Am a mean, cold Swede.

I can assure you I save my vitriol for the Internet only, so I didn't yell at this person. Something I did (ahem, email forward entitled "FYI") was forwarded on just as callously, and well, repercussions. And ripple effects. You guys get it.

In short: beware the forwarded FYI. I think I shall avoid it at all costs for the rest of my life.

Oh, and another life lesson: never put ANYTHING in writing that you don't want shared with the masses.

(HA! Sayeth the blogger. I am pretty sure I can never run for office now.)

But you guys know what I'm saying.

And on that note, in this entry of absolute nonsense, when I talked to my wise, sensible husband (who is like, my corporate shrink, as he is is pretty reasonable. Although I am sure he wishes my work stories of woe were a little less long-winded.), he was a little taken aback by the crying.

Ah, crying at work. I don't do it. Well, I did it once, and even then I did my best to hide it (to be fair, this was an extreme situation of harassment, but that's another story). I have never cried in front of a coworker or superior at work. I just don't do it. It doesn't mean sometimes I don't want to, I just try to avoid it at all costs.

I did explain to J, however, that women cry. And sometimes at work. It happens. And I don't find it particularly shameful, though I would gauge by J's reaction that men do. "You know how the dudes at your work just call each other and scream?" I asked him. "Well, same deal. But women cry."

What say you, ladies? Have you cried at work? In front of a man? Behind your office door? Menfolk: have you ever cried? Comforted a crying lady? Felt completely comfortable doing so?

And now, to update my Facebook status. FML. I bid you adieu.

And now, a milestone.

I’m 30,000 feet above earth right now heading to Columbia, SC, taking this time to clean out my inbox and of course update my 2009 Flights Word Doc (there isn’t much I don’t record, friends.).

People: I have taken 62 flights this year.

Each flight is a small victory to me; so 62 flights in a year? Makes me damn proud of myself.

I remember the abject horror – HORROR – I suffered on my first solo mission after September 11th. It was November 2003, and I was headed to San Francisco (by way of Phoenix) on my very first business trip. I felt very adult; I was a 23 year-old kid, sent to a pier in San Fran to oversee something or other, business-wise. I was excited to get to a city I had not yet visited, even if it was for three nights only.

And then I got on that plane, and I just fell apart.

I had my journal with me, and judging by my handwriting – oh, and the fact that whole pages just read OH MY GOD OH MY GOD LORD SAVE ME I DON’T WANNA DIE LORD I AM DYING – I’d say I was in the throes of a full-scale nervous breakdown. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was… was I afraid the plane would be hijacked? Of crashing? Of exploding mid-air?

My heart pounding, I didn’t know how I would survive.

And then, I did, of course. (Though I nearly missed my flight from Phoenix, as I was at the airport bar at 10 AM ordering a liter of beer and two shots of tequila)

My trip was nice, though marred by the fact that I HAD TO GET BACK ON THAT PLANE, that minion of death and destruction.

Yeah, I think I collected my bags at Philly International and went straight to a psychiatrist. Do not pass go. Get thee to a mental health professional.

I worked through it, as y’all know. And admittedly, if you should see me on an airplane just before take-off today, I am probably still faking it a little. I look like I am reading O Magazine, but inside I am likely praying.

But oh, so much less than I ever was. And without any meds!

You’ve come a long way, HomeValley.

Life Insurance Testing with a Racist Nurse

So yesterday, I eeked out about 30 minutes of solid TV-watching. And then I whipped out my Eva Peron journal (I don't know why I always insist on "whipping" it out all the time, but let's go with it), and transcribed all of the things I accomplished yesterday.

I. Vacuumed.

I don't think anyone but J can truly appreciate this fact, but I don't really do much housekeeping. Don't get me wrong: I will do it. But usually J has to bring it to my attention. Like last Sunday, we arrived home from breakfast and my H said - not unkindly - "Hey, did you ever think about sweeping the porch?"

And I replied honestly, "Um, no. I have never, ever considered sweeping the porch."

Oh, but I swept it. I swept the hell out of it.

So yes, it is very fortuitous that my husband is very neat and clean. Or else we'd really be screwed.

Yesterday, though, high on the freedom from the shackles of TLC, I vacuumed, just because. Because I felt that the second floor needed to be vacuumed. And then I swiffered the first floor, bitches! It was an amazing moment in the life of HomeValley. Then I lit the cranberry candle and sat on the couch with Eva Peron. When J walked in shortly thereafter, he commented: "Wow, it sure feels festive in here."

"I vacuumed!"

And then Nurse Racist appeared at our door, knocked (and I swear just walked right in), kicked off her shoes and got ready to take a billion specimens. (We're applying for life insurance, like bonafide grown-ups, and this is apparently all part of the process. )

She threw all of her crap over our dining room table, then began filling out forms with lightning quickness. "Whoa, you're fast," J said. "Yeah, I wanna get outta here before 76 gets backed up." She replied, which is totally what you want in a nurse who's poking needles in your arm in the place you eat your dinner. Speed.

I did appreciate her measurements, however, which actually put me at 5'8" ("Yeah, I round up.") and my weight at a solid five pounds less than normal.

But whilst I was upstairs collecting my urine in a cup, she and J began discussing the Dominican. I am assuming that J mentioned we GOT MARRIED in that country (so may be a little partial to it), when she ranted for a few minutes about how much she HATED it there, and how awful everything was, and how disgusting the people were. And guards carried guns at the resort! And anyway, she was used to vacations where she could walk around outside. And those people were just after rich white Americans. She could feel them eyeing her up at every turn. Scumbags.

(Alright, thank you very much, get out of our house now.)

But she still had to put mah pee in her test tubes, so as she took care of that she began a second rant about a woman in her building who is dating a Turkish guy (I may have missed the part where J told her how much we adored our time in Istanbul), and that the Turk wants this woman to convert to Islam, and she emphatically told her NO! You cannot become a Muslim, this guy obviously just wants a green card. But her neighbor insists that her biological clock is ticking, though she's just 34, and HELLO! Women in their 40s have babies now! Isn't 40 the NEW 30?

(Alright, well, nice meeting you. Drive safe. Get the fuck out of our house.)

When she left, J stood in the kitchen, shell-shocked.

"Well, she was one of the weirdest people ever, huh?"

Indeed.

My Television is Making Me Depressed. No. Seriously.

When J and I were on our flight back from Buenos Aires in early August, we whipped out my brand new Eva Peron journal (I know, but it was necessary) and did some strategizing. We had enjoyed our time in Argentina so much. I had learned how to say "croissant" in Spanish (medialunas, y'all), and between bottles of malbec and The Most Delicious Sandwich on the Planet (true story), we were finally able to relax for once in our lives. (And dudes, don't get me wrong, I love me some Middle East, but driving through the desert after dark in Jordan does not exactly make one sigh with relief.) (Nor does political unrest in Istanbul, while we're at it.)

(Yay! Parentheses!)

Okay, so the moral here? In Argentina, we unclenched. We drank wine, we lounged around. We took meandering walks through Palermo and Recoleta. We saw the most gorgeous, haunting cemetary on earth, and we had the brilliant staff at BoBo to make our stay as comfortable as possible.

And so when we were on our flight home - disappointed to be leaving, but energized - we decided to jot down some goals for ourselves. I'll get into all of those later, but here was one of mine:

Melissa will limit television watching to NO MORE than one hour per day. TV inhibits all productivity.

Aaannnnddd... FAIL.

I started out doing well... But then the fall line-up was all Watch us! We are funny new shows! We are flashing forward into the future! I'm Courteney Cox, and I'm back in primetime! (Oh but FYI, giving up Cougartown will be no hardship. C'est terrible.)

So that happened. Then, lately, I have been ill. And with said illness comes a lack of energy. And with said lack of energy comes a barrage of A Baby Story, and Say Yes to the Dress, and King of The Crown, and old episodes of Jon and Kate Plus 8 (where did it all go wrong, guys?), and Oprah, and Accidentally on Purpose (I heart Jenna Elfman), and How I Met Your Mother (which I will never give up. Don't even think it.) and so many, many more.

Oh, The Biggest Loser.

And sometimes Moving Up on a Saturday.

GAH!

Am sick. (I even hesitate to write these words, because I know my husband is reading them, and he is going to be all, I told you so, but yes, he told me so.)

So yesterday I was watching Oprah, and crying, because it was the show with the new lead singer of Journey, who grew up poor in the Phillipines, and was all, Good for you, man! You're awesome!

And then I thought about my own awesomeness factor, and how it has plummeted a bit of late. Because I am not out making life happen; I'm watching it happen. To other people. On the talking picture box. Last week, I was in Boston, and I spent ten minutes of my life - precious, precious life - watching Jon Gosselin on ET. The fuck? That motherfucker can't even spell his own name, and yet he is stealing minutes of MY LIFE!? I CAN NEVER GET THAT TIME BACK, JON GOSSELIN.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

I have been feeling down, and I swear to you all: my television is making me depressed.

Now I know some of you out there can likely just watch TV, and be done with it, but I think I am somehow incapable. I am someone who walks into a room and turns on the TV before I put my bag down, as I need the company; the idle chatter serves as reassurance. I can't fall asleep very well without TV, and when a television goes on, I generally stop what I am doing and stare at it. You know how you park your kids in front of the TV when you need a break, and they just sit and stare all open-mouthed and spacy?

I am that child.

And it's high time I really, really limited my telly intake.

So today I woke up resolute. I haven't turned on the tube at all today, and I am trying to get used to the silence. I don't know that it is reasonable to cut out all TV (is that what alcoholics say? I don't think it is reasonable to cut out wine, so I'll just stop with the beer and hard liquor?) But for now, we are going to ONE HOUR, PER DAY.

That means 7 hours per week.

I am going to need your support on this one, Internet. I already feel slightly less sick today, but I know the withdrawal is coming, and I'll try to put on Jeopardy tonight. I musn't!

The Universe Mocks Me.

I forgot to set the alarm clock yesterday. So there's that. Of course, I am working from home this week, so this error in judgment only affected one person this morning.

And, I still don't think he likes me very much today. He just got home, and sort of grunted at me and then ran away to the gym.

Also, I was just updating my super-cool "Currently Reading" list (in which I record every book I have read since 2004. Jealous?) and SEVEN books I have read this year are in RED. And I have no idea why they are in RED. And it is killing me. Like, why, self, did you put these books in red? I can see no discernible pattern between Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett and Dead to the World by Charlaine Harris. (Oh but what if Sookie helped build that cathedral? That would have been something.)

It is almost as bad as my password-protected Word doc, circa 2004, in which I know the remnants of a great novel are locked, but I CANNOT REMEMBER THE GODDAMN password. And every day I attempt to crack the case, and I fail, I die a little inside. Who was I in 2004? What did I think was an acceptable password?

PW: iheartzachbraff?
PW: gardenstaterules?
PW: hotsingleswede?

So there's that, too.

Regarding Douchebaggery.

Gah! So many thoughts on comments on the Douchebag post! Let's dig in:

• I will never - ever - concede American Psycho. I actually saw the film in the theater with Vanessa when we were living in New York, and we both walked out incredibly shaken. Having sex with a woman, winking at yourself in the mirror as you do, then throwing a chainsaw on her? So. Not. Okay. I don't care what erudite social commentary we are making here. So, agree to disagree?
• Fight Club is a great movie. I fear that you dudes merely skimmed the article (as J admitted to doing last night). Go back and read it. The author doesn't deny that Fight Club is a great film; it's just that douchebags love the film for all of the wrong reasons. As he so eloquently states: "One man’s allegory is another douchebag’s excuse to get into a barroom brawl." He actually goes as far as saying that the movie was quite prophetic. Let's all take a deep breath and go back and read the blurb. Then tell me if maybe he doesn't have a point.
• I will concede Brokeback. I didn't love it; and I don't need to ever see it again. I stand firm that many a heterosexual male is put off by the subject matter, and thus avoids it completely, despite the heaps and heaps of critical acclaim. Was all of that acclaim deserved? Likely not. It was a provocative topic, and thus it gets an Oscar fast-track because the Academy likes edgy these days. I do think Heath was good: stilted, mumbling deliver and all.
• Speaking of Heath, how awesome was The Dark Knight? That is one for you, Grace. That and the new Star Trek are among the movies Awesome People Love. And Clueless. And Fools Rush In starring Matthew Perry and Salma Hayek. Those two are goddamn charming together.
• I think I am going to put myself on a strict two-viewing policy before I go ahead and say a movie is worth seeing. I absolutely thought Milk was one of the greatest films of the last several years, but perhaps I was in an odd emotional place when I saw it, and that is why I was so moved? I will report back when I make J sit through it. Yep, Sean Penn is a douche. No one is denying that. But if you saw Milk, you can't claim that he plays himself in every film. He was magnificent as Harvey Milk. He became the ill-fated politician. Also, Penn is responsible for directing one of my all-time favorite films based on one of my all-time favorite books: Into the Wild. I have seen this movie at least three times, and it's phenomenal. Life-changing. Read the book, rent the movie, and then download one of the all-time greatest movie soundtracks. (Which, Penn is also responsible for, by charging Eddie Vedder with the task. Brilliant.)
• Koos, D, and I used to hold Godfather viewing parties at D's back in high school. We worship these films. It's thrilling to settle in to a day with the Corleones, any old time you catch it on AMC. Guys, it is not douchey to like the Godfather. It's not douchey to love the GF. It's just that douchey men tend to like the films (and mafia films in general), if for no other reason than it is cool to like these films. These are worlds where violence and bad-assery abound, and thus tools flock to these films. It is in the same vein that the author describes Fight Club: "Violence is really the key to understanding why this movie is so popular with douchebags." Ya dig?
• Swingers. I do think this is a difference of perspective, fellas. But again, read the blurb: the author thinks Swingers is a great film. The issue is this: "But the point of the movie is that the non­-douchebag wins in the end. That being honest and forthcoming and refraining from describing things as "money" (or sick, ill, phat, etc.) counts more than having the right pick-up line. Douchebags see Trent as Confucious and apply his philosophy to their lives, and we continue to suffer from such idiocy to this day." Word, word, a thousand times word. Guys: when you describe anything as money - and you are not being ironic - well, I don't even have to say it, do I?

As some of the commenters of the original article have mentioned: it's not the films, per se, it's what the douchebags take away from them.

And let's not forget, I wrote a piece about how Garden State changed my life. Douche.

You Might Be a Douchebag...

OMG, I love this article. LOVE. Love! Bless you, Spike!

Friends: we have here a list of the Top 10 Movies Douchebags Love.

And it is as awesome as one would expect.

Please, please tell me, sisters? Have you dated these guys? Did you marry this guy? The dude that loves all of these movies? Squee! I am so excited about this!

J doesn't love all of these movies, and generally, I don't find him particularly douchey. Nay, friends, I am afraid I am the douche in question here. One of these movies - at one time - well, I wrote - oh fuck - that it - aw hell - changed my life.

Yes. As you might have already suspected: I am a douche.

Now, to be fair to me, I took Garden State with me on my recent flight to Denver. And I popped it in my laptop, thrilled to be reconnecting with it. The film is an old friend, one that got me through some very tough times as an impressionable, soul-searchy l'il 25 year-old thing.

I finished it later that night in the guest room at Far-Mor and Far-Far's, and I was spectacularly umimpressed.

(I even told Grace as much, so she can totally back me up on this.)

It was just so... so obvious. And self-indulgent. And lo, the indie-ness of it all. Medieval times? Really? It is a quirk-tastic masterpiece, and it doesn't really work for me anymore. (Because... God! Okay, fine: here is the link. It really did help me though! Don't judge.)

Old School? Fight Club? Swingers? I dare you - dare you - to check Facebook profiles immediately. Let's experiment, shall we? All those friends we suspect are secretly douchebags? Let's put them to the test.

(Oh, and I cringed when I read about the Napoleon Dynamite quoting. Because, come on. I definitely told J recently not to be jealous that I've been chatting with babes online all day. I didn't even get the quote correct. Douche!)

What are other films that should be considered here? I am going to going to have to go ahead and raise you:

• The Godfather, Parts 1 and 2 - Look, obviously cinematic masterpieces. But. Sigh. Complete douchebag fodder.


• AMERICAN PSYCHO. If you are male, you probably love this movie. You probably think the scene with the business cards is hilarious! You probably love that fucking Phil Collins soliloquiy. Personally? I am deeply, deeply suspect of you. This film is grotesque, misogynistic, and tremendously troubling. (Challenge given. OK, dudes. Bring it.)


• Goodfellas - I don't think I hate this movie. I don't really like it though. Ray Liotta creeps me out, and I'll never forget an awful evening in which my ex came in drunk and put it on, despite my eleven year-old brother being present. No one says "fuck" in front on my little bro except me, alright? And also, it coincides with d-bags generally loving any film to do with the mafia. (I love my husband because he doesn't understand or appreciate mafia movies. The only one he likes is Analyze This. And seriously, that movie kills him. It's adorable. Also, babe? We really should Netflix The Godfather one of these days.)

Oh, I also find it troubling - and possibly a bit douchey - when men won't see certain films because they are uncomfortable with the content (and by content, I mean homosexuality). Brokeback Mountain anyone? Milk? I am curious to see which men among you have seen these films, and will admit to enjoying them (well, enjoy might be a stretch. These films are pretty intense. How about appreciate?)

What movies did I miss?

Cougartown is the New Queens.

Greetings, Earthlings.

Still, nothing good going on over here. Did anyone watch The Biggest Loser last night, by chance? I forced J to sit down next to me on the couch and point out which one of those bitches had The Crazy Eyes. I am consistently amazed by The Crazy Eyes - like, they are an actual phenomenon, y'all! You can honestly look at someone and behold TCE. My husband sat down and pinpointed the Crazy instantaneously. (It was Tracy. Crazy, crazy Tracy.)

I wonder if TCE can be learned? One day, I shall be bat-shit crazy and you will look into my eyes and know. Such a shame, you'll say, as you shake your head solemnly. Such a nice blogger, too. Until she got completely boring and lame and went crazy. Just look at those eyes.

Lord, I have never wanted an anonymous blog so badly. There are things in mah brain, people. Things that need to be discussed but CANNOT. It's distressing.

Instead, let's talk about this past weekend, shall we? J and I headed to Penn State for the PSU v. Iowa game, and to spend some quality time with the baby bro. (Whom I hardly recognize anymore, he is such a man!) We had big plans to tailgate and drink lots of beers and toss the old pigskin around campus. Maybe play a little frisbee and walk around with our backpacks or something? What do college kids do these days anyway?

Alas, it rained - nay, poured - all day. And so mainly, we walked around in ponchos, in the rain, all day. And we hung out in Baby Bro's dorm room. And occasionally, one of his friends would drop by to hang out. Which, involves a lot of sitting. I remember this sitting. You go to others dorm rooms, and you just sit. And visit, you know? And watch TV. But mainly: the sitting. Oh, and the Skittle and cheeseball consumption. You can't get those slices of heaven at the HomeValley Ranch!

We made it through the first quarter of the game. Tired of being wet*, we headed back to the car, changed, and I settled in to keep J company for the 3.5 hour drive home. Unfortunately, I was asleep within seconds. I am an excellent navigator.

Now I am in Midtown for the afternoon, tucked into Starbucks on Park Avenue, waiting to head to a meeting. I am hopeful that the upcoming days and weeks and months will bring topics worth chatting about, but you never can tell. We may change the name of this blog to "Cougartown is the New Queens" and then we can devote every post to Courteney Cox and how we all hope that we can look like her at 45, minus the botched collagen lip injections. Who's with me?

*That's what she said.

Nurrthing.

Greetings, beautiful babies!

I have not posted in over a week, with good reason! My life has been extremely, extremely boring of late. For instance, last Friday night, I took a nap around 5:30. Then my amazing husband cooked spinach noodles (which are just sinfully good), and then we settled in on the couch for a highly anticipated viewing of Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Which, apparently? You can skip. But how would I know? Blart barely made one lap around the mall on his segue before I was sound asleep.

I feel like our life has officially become a single dude who just graduated from college's worst nightmare. Like, sorry ladies, but I am the REASON he won't commit. And the saddest part? I am blissfully happy to do nothing these days. I want to be home and watch the Eagles game on my couch and take a nap, goddamnit!

Alas, even if I do nothing on weekends (beautiful, glorious nothing), this sister is still superfly during the work week. Last week was DC; this week I traveled to the Bronx, where I hosted an event at the new Yankees Stadium. Then I stood in the dugout like a nerd:

Then I went out for Mexican on the Upper East with Vaness. And then I had my requisite why don't I live in New York? Am fool for not living in NY! anxiety attack. Then I watched How I Met Your Mother and was passed out by 8:30. The end.

Oh, in other news? I attended the PA Governor's Conference for Women on Thursday, and Glenda Hatchett may be my new hero. You don't expect to be moved by a TV judge, but guys, she was on point. And also, Suze Orman is slightly more tolerable in person. A tad obnoxious and shrill? Sure, but the schtick works for her. And now I feel compelled to remind you that you need an 8-month emergency fund, and you should probably think about a will if you have not done so already. Thank you, Suz. That's good advice.

So you see, that's what's up in the mystical land of the HomeValleyians. I am sure more exciting topics will be discussed soon, as Cougartown premieres tonight on ABC. I adore Courteney Cox, and I don't care who knows it.

Suit Yourself.

Swear to God: there are few pieces of clothing that make me feel LESS sexy than a business suit.

(Now go back and read this post's title. See what I did there? Clever.)

Ladies, I need guidance. I feel like I should be wearing business suits (after all, I am in business); but I also feel - as my H would say - like a giant pudwacker in just about every suit I own.

Today, I am in DC, and for this occasion, I packed a blue pin-striped suit. I paired it with a silk, lime-green sleeveless blouse and deep burgundy pumps. I styled it up with a few strands of pearls. I swept my hair back in an effortless knot.

And still: I felt like a grandmother. Nay, like a douchebag grandmother. Like your giant pudwacker douchebag grandmother.

(No offense, FarMor. You are totally more stylish than moi in my stupid shapeless suits.)

So. HALP.

I have tried all kinds: Ann Taylor, Banana, Anne Klein, Jones New York, all to no avail. I have gone to my tailor and had pants taken in to fit my form. And still, I have no ass to speak of in any of these pants. They give me saggy ass! And why - why?!? - are suits still manufactured with shoulder pads? Now I look like a douchebag, a pudwacker, your grandma, and also: a linebacker?

I am willing to pay for a quality suit. But does such a suit exist? Do I have to go with Prada here, and chalk it up to an investment piece?

Kindly post your advice.

Love,

HV

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.