Sick Joke

Why does the dentist offer lollipops at the front desk? To add insult to injury? To insure good business? Well, I am not buying it. Furthermore, if I am getting cavities it is going to be from something good. Not some lime-flavored, high fructose corn syrupy things on a stick.

A little father/daughter bonding.

This is a conversation I never thought I would have with my father:

"Hello?"

"Hi honey."

"Hi Dad, what's up?"

"What was that video that is on the internet you were talking about yesterday? You said it was really funny. What is it called?"

"Well....um, I am in public so....um, 'something' in a box."

"Right. So should I just type in www.di..."

"NO! No, don't do that."

"Should I do a Yahoo search?"

"No, just go to youtube.com and search for it."

"Okay, hang on."

(typing)

"Okay, this one with Justin Timberlake?"

"That would be the one."

"Okay, thanks honey."

"Anytime, Dad."

We were on a break.

I have a lot of reasons why my posts have not been very up to date. The first reason is crappy and personal which I will not be getting into on the inter-web. The second is that I have been using all my creative juices on ridiculously long email threads composed on Tuesdays that revolve around a show that myself and a few other wonderful women in my life are just slightly obsessed with. It's The Hills and you know what? Don't be a hater. You know you watch it and you know you love it. Go team Lauren!

Anyway, I am back. Not just because I enjoy writing but because I am freaking hilarious. Just saying.

Things that make the south different from California

1. People are nice: Ok, this is not to say that all Californians are mean because that would be entirely untrue. What I mean to say is, everyone is nice. Not once did we have an encounter with another human being that did not say, "How y'all doing" or something else southerny. Not to mention the eye contact. Take elevators for example. Californians don't typically speak in elevators. Elevators are moving machines that get us from point A to point B so we can get on with our very busy and important very day. It is not a place for chit chat. But in the Tennessee, quite the opposite.

2. People talk a lot: And s-l-o-w-l-y. About pretty much...whatever. I went into a boutique for example and in the course of 10 minutes I learned about how the owner of the business actually acquired the business. See, her daughter, now she went to school out in California and she lived real close to San Francisco. She went to school for art, you know, paintings and things. But when she was finished with that she decided to move home and open a shop. So she did. Now it had its ups and downs here and there, but she enjoyed it. But you see, she had been seeing this boy, her boyfriend I guess you could say for, well, oh about 3 years so they decided to go on a get married. So what does she do? Goes on and moves to Colorado! So she sold her business to her mom and well, the rest is history.

Blink...Blink.... "That's nice....."

I tell you, it is a nice change of pace, but it sure is enough to make a California girl a little uncomfortable.

3. Bathroom Attendants: I have no idea what to do with these. And P.S., what an awful job. Listening to bodily functions all day? Gross. But my biggest question is what the hell is the point? I really think I can figure out how to work the hand soap and get my own hand towel. Also, you are crazy if you think I am going to use any of the hairspray, lotion or lipstick you have laid out for me. I did not come to Tennessee to get a staff infection, thank you.

Our first night there, we ate at BB King's in Nashville. When we were done I had to use the facilities. I walked to the restroom and when I saw the bathroom attendant she was very polite and said "Hello" and I said "Hello" back. But really I was thinking, "Hi there, it is your job to sit here and listen to me pee!" After peeing, I went to wash my hands. This is when I was wildly power-squirted with hand soap from a spray bottle. The lady got me in a sneak attack from behind and I had no idea where the hell it was coming from, not to mention most of the soap got in the sink and on my arms. The woman is paid to perform one simple task. Unbelievable.

I finish washing my hands, (and arms apparently) and it is time to choose a towel. I have 2 choices, paper or cloth. My instinct goes for the paper. Wrong choice. I know this because the lady proceeds to SLAP ME ON THE ASS and tell me that she laid the cloth ones out special just for me. Needless to say, she did not get a tip, although she did ask for one. Classy.

4. Muggy as Hell: The humidity was shocking every time we walked out side. It was only in the 80's but you could feel the air surrounding your body it was so thick; it was like you were wearing an atmosphsere sweater that you couldn't take off. At one point Grant said, "I am hot inside my clothes." It was wrong.

We really did have a great time though, but I have to say, I am happy to be back in California where we don't talk to strangers, we keep our hands to our selevs and where 82 degrees doesn't feel like the seventh circle of hell.

p.s. Read about our food experiences here


Beale Street, Memphis TN.

Conversations with Jessie

I am a little jealous that I was not present for this conversation but still worth a mention.

(Scene: Jessie's response to seeing a little kid in public with a harness on)

Jessie: You know, I think if you can't keep your kids under control in public then you shouldn't take them in public.
Mom: Yeah....I put you on a leash.
Jessie: WHAT!?!?
Mom: Well, you just started walking and Heather was walking of course and you didn't want to be in the stroller anymore. You wanted to walk with her so I thought I would try it...it didn't last long I swear!
Jessie: Well did Heather have to be on a leash?
Mom: Yeah....no.

It is like a tiny little victory I never knew I wanted to win.

Two years...and change.

Today is our second wedding anniversary. I say wedding in that way because with Grant and me, the type of anniversary needs to be clarified.

See, first there is June 15, 1995. It was on this day that Grant asked me to be his girlfriend, in front of the band room. So romantic. He had a ring and everything. Granted, it was plastic and in the shape of a squirrel, but it was in a box at least!

This was a super secret anniversary for a while. We were not ready for our parents to know about our love! However, it was a little hard to keep it a secret considering that neither of us drove and a boy who is "just friends" with a girl does not often agree, with little to no complaining, to going to see a romantic comedy unless there is some sort of guarantee that the girl he is with will be making out with him for some portion of the flick. So I think they were onto us. One thing I have actually learned since then: parents are smart. Anyway, this past June, if you were counting from the first time, we have been together for 12 years.

After the great breakup of 1996, due to a flood of raging hormones and melodramatic emotional outbursts, we got back together on January 1, 1998. That time, although he kissed me first, I did the asking out, making this past January mark 10 years.

I don't know what I would have said in 1995 if someone told me what would happen to me on October 1, 2005. I probably would have turned red in the face, giggled and said I didn't believe it. However, part of me wants to believe that all I would have said was "I know." So today makes 2 years, but really I look at it as nearly half my life. We literally watched each other grow up.

It started here...


then here...


and again here...


until finally we made it here:


We have been though a lot together; life and loss. More things in fact, than I thought I would ever have to experience. But I am glad all the things I have been through over the past 12, 10 and 2 years, good and bad, have been with Grant. And despite all of the imperfections and flaws that we have discovered about each other, and many times overcame together, we have always loved each other unconditionally through it all.

Well...almost all of it.

Conversations with Jessie

(In an effort to not give too much of my Halloween costume away, this conversation ensued because for the costume, I thought I might need to borrow some of my sister's clothes...specifically a dress of some kind.)

Heather: Can I try on your bridesmaid dress from my wedding? Maybe that will work.
Jessie: Yeah, sure.
Heather: You know, I loved these dresses so much. I always wished I could have had one of my own. I never tried one on until now.
Jessie: And I even got to try your wedding dress on.
Heather: Ha ha.
Jessie: No seriously, I did...I was never going to tell you though.
Heather: Shut up!
Jessie: You know, I decided it was not a flattering cut on me.
Heather: Oh my God! So, what did you do when you...when did you...why did you put my dress on?
Jessie: Hmmm, let me think. Because I was alone in a house with a wedding dress...and I am a woman.

The $100 store.

The $100 store, or the "$50 store" as I try to call it more often so as not to drive us horribly into debt is commonly known to most people as Target. I don't know what it is about that store but when you enter the doors, you are sucked into some kind of alternate reality that convinces you that it doesn't really matter what your original need was when you enter Target because regardless, you will be leaving with either $50 or $100 worth in goods.

Take the other day for example. Grant and I went to Target to purchase the following items:

1. Foil
2. Deodorant
3. Spray-n-Wash

My best estimate: Total cost of the items will be about $13.

Here is what we left Target with (including but not limited too):

1. Halloween socks for my nieces
2. 3 CDs
3. A wicker pumpkin
4. Halloween themed tablecloths
5. A giant, decorative, ceiling spider
6. An "I love Jim Halpert" (from The Office) magnetic notepad for the fridge.
7. Chip clips
8. A houndstooth headband
9. Toilet Paper
10. Foil
11. Deodorant
12. Spray-n-Wash

As you can see, all very necessary purchases. Since I now have come to terms with the fact that it is simply impossible to walk into Target, go directly to the foil aisle, as the case my be, ignore the temptation of the shoes, clothes, decorative candles and clearance end caps, I have decided to embrace it. Since I can typically determine within the first 2 minutes if it is going to be a $50 day or a $100 dollar day, I make every effort to come in just below that number. And the grand total of all our purchases the other day, ridiculous Halloween decor included...$99.45.

Just barely though. As we were about to go check out and we were walking past the shoe section, Grant said, "You know honey, I saw some really cute shoes over there that I thought you might....you know, why do I even suggest these things to you?"

It is a disease, I tell you.

Justice is Served

The other day, my 2-year-old nephew was stung by a bee. We are all well aware of the fact that a bee gets what it deserves when it stings you because it dies shortly after you are stung. (Is that really true...seriously? Or is that something said to make little kids stop crying? And learn about a little thing I like to call revenge?) Anyway, of course he was fine, just a little shook up.

But for me apparently, death to the little buzzer was not enough. Today on my run...I PUNCHED A BEE! Seriously, reminiscent of a Dane Cook routine, "I punched that bee in the FACE," rendering him unconscious and unable to fly.

Take that bee! That will teach you and your friends to mess with my boy!

Itsy Bitsy?

I am not afraid of spiders. I just don't want them near me. They just give me a general skin crawling type of willies. I am ashamed to admit it, but I am a spider killer. Growing up, I remember my Dad going on "bug hunts" before bed. He would comb the perimeter of my bedroom where the wall meets the ceiling and take care of any creepy crawlers that would surely come eat me during my slumber.

When I became a preschool teacher, I had to change my killing ways as we taught "non-violence" in my classroom. When bugs (spiders unfortunately included) were found in the classroom, we told the kids that they must be lost and we need to gently take them back outside so they could find their homes again. So, I would scoop the little thing up in a cup and shake it out as far away from my body as my arm could possibly reach. Gross.

Well, my home is no classroom and the spiders should know better as far as I am concerned. Grant is now my protector when it comes to slaying spiders. Usually I exaggerate the size. I will come running down the hall from the bathroom to our bedroom and say, "Honey, there is a HUGE spider in the bathroom!" He will look at me with disbelief and say, "Are you sure it is 'HUGE?'" It is rarely any bigger than a dime.

Yesterday was the exception to the rule. This spider was, in fact, HUGE. I swear to you, as the self-admitting queen of exaggeration, I am not joking when I say this spider had the wing-span of a silver dollar. And its spider ass was the size of a large garbanzo bean. Not to mention its web was starting to block our front door. Something needed to be done.

"Honey, I swear to God, you need to kill that thing."

"No, we can't kill it."

"Why not? If we don't that thing is going to find a way into my bed."

"Honey, I feel bad. I mean, I don't know why I feel less bad killing tiny spiders that I find in the house and I can't kill this giant one."

"Exactly, the ones in the house might be babies...you could be killing a baby. Now just go do it!"

"Well, I mean, I feel like based on the size of that one, it is more advanced...like it has the ability to use tools."

(pause)

"Oh my God, it is on me...I swear I feel it on me"

"Ok, ok...I will kill it."

"Are you scared?"

"No."

"What are you going to do if it jumps at you?"

"I will effing freak out."

I wanna rock!!!

On Saturday, Grant and I went to Ameoba Records in San Francisco and saw John Vanderslice do an quaint in-store performance promoting his new album. It started at 2:00 pm and after it was over (around 3:30) Grant said, "I kinda wish all concerts were this early."

Agreed.

It was lovely, after the show we got to enjoy an early supper together and made it home just in time to catch all our programs.

At the show, a few isles in in front of us was a couple that looked about our age and with them, specifically on his dad's shoulders, was their little boy. He was probably about two and a half to threeish. I am sure mom (or dad) saw that there was going to be a concert by one of their favorite musicans, in a music store with no age limitations, cover charge or need for a sitter and they said, "Screw his nap time. We are going to this!"

The little guy did pretty well, actually. When John Vanderslice first came out on stage he was waving at him frantically. And after each song he turned to his mom with a big semi-toothy grin and clapped proudly. Despite how well he was doing, he was bound to get tired. His mom gave him his blanket and a binky and he closed his eyes and laid his head on his dad's shoulder.

This made me think of the time that Grant and I went to see Superdrag at Bottom of the Hill in the city. We had a nice dinner and being that I was freshly 21 years old, I decided to order a glass of wine, house red I am sure. Not realizing the effects that cheap red wine can have I proceeded to get very, very sleepy. You would think it would be impossible to fall asleep during a rock concert. You would be wrong. I started to fall asleep...while standing. Since I knew this was never going to work, I scoped out a stool, placed it behind Grant and leaned my head against his back and fell asleep.

So, it can be done. And this little boy also "pulled a Heather" right in the middle of a rock show. After he fell asleep I thought to myself, toddler, enjoying a rock star, not causing a ruckus, falls asleep without disturbing his father's listening enjoyment...this is everything Grant could ever want in a child.

Oh...you were talking to me?

The other day I think I was hit on. I say "think" because I think that most of times I am hit on (like men just flock to me or something...hilarious) I am oblivious to what is going on. Basically I have been married, well for about 12 years. Ok, so officially almost two, but Grant and I have been together for as long as I can remember. I think even that brief period we were not together, we both knew we would find each other again. Therefore, I always feel like I am walking around with a giant neon sign flashing over my head that says "TAKEN! TAKEN!"

So if and when it does happen, I am either completely unaware of what is taking place, obviously trying to ignore the advances, or laughing nervously. The other day, I was demonstrating "completely unaware."

I was waiting to cross the street and there was a line of cars stopped at the red light to my left. I thought I saw someone motion to me from a car. I looked and saw nothing. The motioning occurred again. So I looked once again at a gentleman a black convertible, waving to me...with his fingers. Um, creepy. I did not know the gentleman so I thought he must be waving to someone behind me...so I looked. Of course there was no one there and now I feel like a complete idiot. So, I fixed my eyes on the stop light in front of me and refused to peel my gaze away. I mean, I can't look again! I married for God sake! Do you not see my giant neon sign, sir! Meanwhile, the man began to rev his engine to, I don't know, scare me or something. As he peeled out in a last ditch effort to make me all hot and bothered for him, bothered being the operative word, I thought to myself, thank God I never had to play the dating game. As evidence from above, I would have surely lost.

I give life.

I periodically donate blood and it is always a rewarding but basically uneventful experience. It takes all of about 30 minutes and nothing very exciting ever happens, and for that I am thankful to be very honest. The blood bank will typically have a volunteer there to help you with your treat of juice and cookies after your donation is complete. It is always a very awkward exchange because you sit down in an area that is about 3x3 and the water, juice and cookies are all right there. However, it is the job of the volunteer to walk the 2.7 ft to the water cooler to get your beverage. I always feel so silly being waiting on in that setting. I mean, it is not like I have to run up a hill or battle a dragon before I can get my water. I was able to walk the 15 feet from the donation chair to the "canteen" as they call it. For God's sake, I can walk the two more and get a glass of OJ! But I digress.

Nearly every time I have donated, the volunteer has been an elderly lady named Dolores. She talks (pretty much for the entire 10-minute required waiting period to make sure I don't pass out or something) in a low, mumbly voice. Though it may seem rude, I have found that asking her to repeat what she says does not really change her volume or diction, so I basically smile and nod and try to laugh when she does at her own jokes.

At my last donation, it was not Dolores but a bubbly teenager who quite quickly reaffirmed the fact that I am getting old. During my donation I watched her sing...and kind of dance along to the new Rihanna song, "Umbrella." (Hey, I guess I can't be that old. I did not even have to Google that song title...that's right, I like the funky jams.) As I made my way over to the table she greeted me with a smile full of braces. Oh Lord.

She asked me what I would like to drink and brought me my water. She then sat at the table I was at and just stared at me, smiling. "Thank you." I said. (Wow, that is quite a smile she has there. Uncomfortable...)

"So how are you doing today?"

"Really well, thanks."

"Do you come here a lot?" (To the blood bank? Yeah, totally, it is awesome here!)

"Well, not recently. My iron levels have been too low so I have not been able to donate but I have been taking iron supplements so..." (why the hell am I telling her all this!?!? Ok...now there is awkward silence...why is she still staring at me...)

"Hee-hee...well I am really glad you got that taken care of!" (and hair flip, hair flip)

We had a few more uncomfortable exchanges and then the kicker. I asked, "So, have you ever participated in a blood drive at your high school?"

"Well, I mean, we have had them and stuff but I have never done it because, like, you know how you have to be like 17? Well, you also have to weigh 110 lbs...and I am neither so...hee-hee!"

"Riiight." (I don't remember when I weighed 110 lbs but whatever!)

"And I mean, next year I will be 17 but like, I just don't think that there will be anyway that I can gain 5 pounds between now and then!"

Ok, you know what, honey? I would be willing to bet that these Nutter Butters I am eating right now are probably going to pack on an extra 5 lbs. In fact, just looking at them is probably going to make me gain 5 lbs! And you know what else, lets not even talk about the Pecan Sandies that I am eyeing over there that I probably won't eat right now, but lets face, will take for the road. I gave life today!

Alright, so maybe I am overreacting a little. I know, I am not old. I will say that it is quickly becoming very apparent that people in high school are a lot younger than me now. I don't remember when I reached the point where I no longer felt like I could still identify with them in some way.

But there is still that high school girl in me somewhere. After donating, I went to buy myself a pair of running shoes (See aforementioned Nutter Butters) and I went with the light blue ones, not because they will support my feet and ankles, but because they will look cute with my new running outfit. Some may call me juvenile, but I say that is just good fashion.

Pure Joy.

I had some of the best company on my vacation.

Kids these days.

At dinner tonight there was a table kitty-corner from ours that was a party of six girls. If I had to guess they were probably 14-ish. I could be off by a year or two but I can say pretty confidently that the only way those girls got themselves to the restaurant was via parental escort or public transportation. They were all dolled up in an attempt to look a lot older then they actually are even though three of the six girls had braces and I think one had ordered apple juice as her beverage.

All of their outfits made me think of how my father must have felt when I was fourteen and trying to leave the house. One young lady clearly had a sweater on when she left her house, but once out of sight of her parents, quickly removed and shoved it in her purse not to be worn again until returning home. She was wearing a strapless black dress and red bra. Yes, I said strapless and yes, I said bra. Classy.

All six girls had cell phones which they spent approximately 78% of dinner talking on, texting boys, talking pictures of each other or just looking at the shiny buttons. But I think what truly aged these girls was their menu selections as three of the girls ordered french fries...for dinner. Enjoy it while it lasts, ladies.

Welcome home...

There are a variety of reasons why coming home from vacation sucks. Lucky for us, Grant and I came home to a clean house. I am still not sure how this happened but I am pretty sure gnomes were somehow involved. Even more miraculous, we unpacked within an hour of being home instead of next week, or next Christmas, like we usually seem to do.

One of my favorite activities on this vacation was to go for walks at whatever time of the day I wanted. My walks were not dictated but pesky alarm clocks or work hours. One thing Grant said to me on one of our daily walks was, "Everyone says 'hello' here." It was true; we never passed a fellow vacationer and/or retiree without hearing a friendly greeting of some kind.

So I my walk today I guess I expected the same treatment from passers-by. Well we all know what happens when one assumes. Not a single person that I passed in this quaint and pleasant little town of my mine said so much as hello to me. Vacation is officially over.

I are smart.

Someone I work with has a daughter that is going to Yale. When I hear things like this I wonder if maybe I was aiming low when I applied (and later was accepted) to Sacramento State. Did I really try? Should I have gone for something more impressive on paper just to say I did it?

As my co-worker talked about Yale, I sort of tuned her out a bit and these thoughts crossed my mind again today like they have million times before...

Yale.....I wonder if I had tried if I could have gotten into Yale....well maybe not Yale...maybe Cal at least....or maybe UCLA...sigh....where is Yale? Seriously...I have no idea, what the hell is wrong with me. Well, I can't ask her! What will she think? She is standing in front of my desk...I can make it look like I am working when in fact I am googling "where is Yale." That's right Heather, just keep smiling...just keep nodding....Connecticut! Excellent....

"Wow, so Connecticut is going to get pretty cold, huh!"

Good save...

Yeah, I think Sac State was a good choice. I don't think my interviews with the staunchy Yale guy would have gone over very well:

Staunchy Yale Man: And do you have any questions for us Miss Andersen?
Me: Um, yes actually...where are you located?

Numero dos.

I have officially started blog number two which can be found here for your reading enjoyment.

Why, you ask? Beacuse food is tasty and I would love to tell you all about it.

Enjoy!

One more of our silly conversations...

Grant on fancy cars:

"You know, I am not really into having a super nice car"

"Agreed"

"I guess I am more interested in..."

"Functionality...point A to point B if you will."

"Right. I mean, I don't want an ugly car."

"Sure."

"I guess if I am ridiculously rich one day, I might buy a fancy car. But only after I install the indoor pool."

"Well yeah. I mean, we have priorities."

"Right. And what better way to cool off after dancing all night in the Disco room?"

"Well, that goes without saying."

Growing up boy/girl

I am not one to buy into gender stereotypes. Girls can play with trucks and get dirty. Boys can play dress up and "house" and fight over who gets to be the mommy at preschool and not grow up gay. (Seriously, ask my mother-in-law about that one...true story). But these beliefs of mine are up against societies norms so lets just face the facts, people.

"Are transformers good guys or bad guys?"

"That depends. Some are good guys and some are bad guys."

"Which is which?"

"The Autobots are the good guys and Decepticons are the bad guys."

"Oh."

"Ok, I will tell you the name of a transformer and you tell me if it is an Autobot or a Decepticon."

"Ok."

"Optimus Prime."

"Decepticon"

"What!?! Decepti...how can you? You know what, we can't talk about this anymore."

So what if I didn't know. What I do know is that anytime I was around any boys playing with those silly little action figure things, they always found a way to ruin a perfectly fancy and lady-like tea party I was having with my Rainbow Brite dolls and My Little Ponies. How rude!

Maybe someday we will be on VH1's behind the music.

Ok. So I am a little biased, but if you come to one of their shows, you will not only see them live, buy a CD and get it signed by the band (before they were famous), you can also hit on my very handsome and talented husband and I promise I will not interfere with your attempts. Seriously. I am no help to him. If he finds himself trapped in a corner with a fan and we happen to make eye contact from across the room and he calls to me with his eyes for help, I just smile and wave. He really appreciates it.

www.farewelltypewriter.com
www.myspace.com/farewelltypewriter

Now I am in it to win it!

Tonight was the last class in session one of belly dancing. Jess and I both missed last week so we were just a little lost this week. At one point the instructor stopped what she was doing to turn around and look only at both of us and just say, "Ohhh-kaaay. Let's try that again...from the beginning." I can't really blame her. The confused expressions on our faces spoke louder than 1,000 words. Also, I think the "rhythms" we were creating with our finger cymbals were seizure inducing.

When class started I was sure that by the end I would leave that class and never look back. But surprisingly, at the end, I was starting to get it. And by starting, I am talking, my movements became...slightly more human in nature. So you know what? I am going to take this class again and this time, I am not going to care what I look like. I'm going big baby, and I am going to get this!

Wow.

We bought a Dyson on woot.com the other day. It was a great deal and I am really excited that we have it.

Grant, however, seems to be experiencing something that is difficult to describe. Elation maybe? In the days leading up to its arrival, he was acting as though we were days away from the arrival of our first child.

It was late when we came home on Sunday. It had a been a long day, a long weekend really, and when we got home I walked right past the vacuum without a second thought. I had a few quick things to do before bed and that was it. Clearly there would be no time to vacuum. At 10:30 I realized I had not seen Grant for a awhile so I called downstairs.

"Honey, what are you doing?"

silence...

"Nothing."

That was a loaded "nothing." "Nothing," in reality was him putting his new baby together. When I came downstairs, I found him with his hand gripping tightly on the handle and he had a look on his face that can only be described as pure and utter joy.

I just looked at him with an expression that tried to convey, "It is late. What the hell are you doing?" But nothing could ruin that moment for him. He just looked at me with his child-like eyes and said, "It is our vacuum honey!"

He named her Regina.

Conversations with Jessie

Friends: The one with Frank Junior

Joey: Maybe my ruler is wrong.
Phoebe: Maybe all the rulers are wrong.

My phone rings:

Heather: Hello?
Jessie: Hey.
Heather: Hey.
Jessie: I am very distressed.
Heather: Why?
Jessie: Because I just went to the doctor and apparently I am 5'8" 1/2. 5'8"1/2!?! How tall are you?
Heather: 5'11"
Jessie: What the hell!
Heather: I'm sorry?
Jessie: I am 5'10". That is what I identify with; that is what I always tell people. 5'10" is cool. 5'8" 1/2, is so...boring. So, either I am shrinking or the ruler is wrong.
Heather: Maybe all the rulers are wrong.
Jessie: Friends?
Heather: Yeah.

One of our many talents. We can always bring it back to Friends.

Not that I plan on eating any but....

...boy does it remind me of the fair. The beautiful, beautiful fair...



(photo by grant)

Don't ya think?

I find it a form of cruel and unusual punishment when you are at the gym and the hanging TVs above your head are tuned to the food network. Not only is it the food network, it's Sandra Lee's show. Nothing is worse, in my opinion. If she is not using Tater Tots to substitute for potatoes, cool whip topping for real whipped cream, or making this (ugh), she is pouring vodka into a chilled champagne glass and calling it a cocktail. Plus her eyes make her look dead inside. Easy on the eye liner for God's sake.

On second thought, maybe all the TVs in the gym should be her show. The loss of appetite is basically instantaneous.

I H8 VANITY PL8S

Maybe hate is a strong word. For the most part my reaction to whatever your personal vanity plate says is, "who cares." I don't care if you figured out a clever way to say that you love dogs, you are a soccer mom or you are part of Raider Nation in 7 characters or less. What I hate even more than vanity plates of the cheesy variety are the ones that are so complex and personalized to you specifically that they make no sense to anyone but you. What is the point of that? I don't want to feel like I am trying to figure out a word scramble while driving.

The other day I came across a vanity plate that didn't seem to fit into the cheesy or annoying cateragory. I don't know where it belongs to be honest and I am truly at a loss for words as to why someone thought that this would be a "cute idea." It said, POO(heart shape. lame)SME.

Poo loves me!?! Um, gross. Personally, I think some things are just better left unsaid.

Unfortunately, my hips do lie.

My sister and I started taking a belly dancing class.

(and pause for laughter...)

Our first session was...interesting? No, frightening would be a better way to describe it. But at least my sister was there to look ridiculous with me as we both tried to move our upper bodies as though they were not attached to our legs. However, for the second session Jess "wasn't feeling well." (Whatever...cop out.) So I had to go by myself.

While doing my best to blend into the back of the class, I learned several new things:

1. Seeing myself trying to belly dance in a full-length dance mirror is a little too much Heather all at once.

2. It is much better to stand behind the girl who can dance just like Shakira than in front of her. Luckily, I was in this prime position for most of class. Then we had to switch lines, which meant I was in the very front of the class (see no. 1) and Shakira was now behind me and undoubtedly judging my every attempt at a hip shake.

3. Dancers are show-offs. As the class neared an end, the second-session students started to come in and began to join our class. The end of class proved to be a disaster for us first-session students as we tried to combine feet, hips and finger cymbals into one move. I think I looked like a belly dancer. Well, if by belly dancer you mean a drunk epileptic with concrete blocks for feet. Sexy. The teacher quickly noticed that we were spiraling out of control, stopped the music and said "Right now, the most important part is to remember your feet...just focus on your feet." That was the point when "Session Two" standing next to me felt she need to chime in and say in her wispy, ethereal voice, "But I thought the most important part was to feel the music."

Barf. You know what, Session Two?!? Is there even music on right now?!? Because I could give a crap what is on the radio since I am pretty much just focusing on not making a complete ass out of myself! Feel the music....give me a break.

4. Finally, one thing that is reiterated time and time again in yoga is that yoga is not a competitive sport. Yoga will never hurt you but your ego will, and when you are on your mat it does not matter what is going on around you because you can only do as much as your body will allow. It is not about skill, it is about listening to what your body is willing to give you that day.

Right. Um, that is all beautiful and everything but really, really does not apply to belly dancing. There are very clear and well-defined skill levels in belly dancing and it is pretty obvious that I am about as graceful as a donkey and my body movements are about as fluid as that of a 2x4.

God help me.

To whom it may concern

Dear Jean Makers of the World,

I can think back to a time when the jean size I actually needed to wear was called "slim." Well those days have since come and gone due to things such as college and what is commonly known as the "freshman 15," the discovery of alcohol and 9 to 5 employment. To my dismay, you have brought back "the skinny jean" not as a necessity for some woman, rather a fashion trend which I contend is designed to make women feel bad about themselves.

And yet, they call to me...like a moth to a flame and if I happen to find my size it seems I cannot resist the urge to try them on, just to see...just in case. There is one similarity in all these jeans that I have come to realize and you, Jean Makers, have clearly overlooked. It is not just our waist lines that gets wider. It is an all over type of expansion, if you will. Increasing the waist band but leaving the leg hole openings a size 2 is never going to work for us.

When I returned the ridiculous pair of pants to the dressing room monitor she asked me in her oh so bubbly voice, "How did that work out for you?" In my mind I heard myself say, "For my self esteem? Wonders! Thanks for asking." But out loud I simply replied, "No thanks. Not today." Not today. Not any day.

In conclusion, I am not asking you to bring back palazzo pants because no one wants to see that disaster again but I am asking you to understand that no one deserves to feel and look like a sausage in their jeans. I think the women of America are with me.

Sincerely,
Heather

Just a suggestion...

Not that I think that Anonymous commenter will ever read my website again, but just in case they do, I invite them and everyone else who reads this little insignificant, just because it is fun and maybe, just maybe puts a smile one someones face, website to read this.

It is for this very reason that I love her, that she is my best friend, and she is my Brittaney.

Conversations with Jessie...x2

Considering my sister is one of the funniest people I know, it should not be surprising that one conversation with her warrants two separate "Conversations with Jessie." Sometimes, I think that maybe I am the only one who thinks these are funny...then again...sometimes I think you might be jealous that she is not your sister.

Jessie: How was work today?
Heather: Oh fine. Busy.
Jessie: Do you want to know what does not taste good?
Heather: Um....
Jessie: Rotten Kalamata olives.
Heather: I can imagine.
Jessie: It was like I was eating them....but in reverse.
Heather: Well, thank you for the warning.
Jessie: Just an FYI.


This next one, I would like to preface with the fact that my sister is a very, very good baker. However, I think that this next little moment of banter is due to her lack of employment and boredom.

Heather: What did you do today?
Jessie: Today, I made Red Velvet cupcakes...sans the red.
Heather: Oh...kay. How is that?
Jessie: Well, we didn't have any red food coloring.
Heather: But the name of the cake is Red Velvet cake.
Jessie: I would have been able to make a Blue Velvet cupcakes...but I thought that would be gross.
Heather: Again, I don't see the point of making a Red Velvet cake without the main ingredient!
Jessie: Oh yeah, I didn't have any eggs either.

Feeding My Impatience

There is now a sign up that is counting down the days until the fair comes to town. I feel like it is not really helping, rather taunting me. The other day as we drove by Grant and I discussed my strange addiction to this summertime event.

"Still 49 days! I can't handle it."

"I know honey."

"Love the fair. I am a big fan...and you know, I really don't even know why."

"Because it is kinda dirty and sad."

"It really is."

Like drinking wine from a mug.

The other night, Farewell Typewriter played at the Red Devil Lounge in San Francisco. It was a really cool venue; I felt like I was at a Halloween party!

There were several interesting characters there for the show. One in particular was a man who I think was doing Yoga? This was the same guy who came over to the merch table while I was selling Farewell Typewriter CDs and put himself on the other band's mailing list. It is too bad he was not a fan of Farewell Typewriter but I am not sure what kind of mail he expected to get considering his email address consisted of a few "letters," squiggly lines and happy faces. Right...

The person who I assume was the owner or manager of the club had his dog there. The dog wandered around randomly from the behind the bar and into the crowd several times throughout the night. Oddly enough, the dog did put himself on the Farewell Typewriter mailing list. I guess he liked what he heard.

But I think my favorite was the girl who was drinking Bud Light from a can...with a straw! Whatever gets the job done I suppose.

Fremont's Finest

Recently, Fremont opened a Hooters to which I have two words, Thank God. Nothing says class like a euphemism for breasts! I walked by it today during a lunch time stroll and outside was a waitress who I assume was taking her break. She was wearing the traditional bathing suit and opaque dance tights that made her legs look like flawless Barbie doll legs, or as Hooters would describe her attire as her "uniform" which consists of "shorts" and a "tank top."

Even more repulsive then the business men enjoying their lunch break at this fine dining establishment, was what was outside of the restaurant. As I walked by I quickly noticed a smell that surrounded Hooters in a disgusting fog which seemed to marry all the componets of this scene before me into one big, happy trashy family. The smell was not that of deep fried chicken wings, beer battered clam strips or the fake-n-bake skin of the waitresses. Rather, the smell could be described as none other than a toilet. That's right, a sewer drain over flowed outside the resturant and was cascading down the grass, sidewalk and gutter. As I walked by, gagging and at a very hurried pace at this point, I realized that the place was full, which means that the patrons literally got out of thir cars in the parking lot and looked at one another with snarlled noses and at least one member of the group said, "It smells like poo out here." But the poo did not deter them and they still chose to eat there. Ah, the power that is Hooters. Classic.

Dirty birds...

Grant's response to the previous post:

"You think they are expectant parents?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I can't hear the baby birds yet."

"No. I mean, Maude is pregnant?"

"Well, no...I mean...birds do not really get..I mean, they just...What else would two birds be doing in a birdhouse besides hatching eggs?"

"I don't know. I thought that maybe they were just shacking up."

"Oh no. They are good Christian birds."

Feathered friends

My Grandpa made me a birdhouse that hangs outside my kitchen window. I hung it outside with the intention of it only being something cute to look at. I guess I never thought that the house which is intended for birds to live in would actually serve its purpose as real estate. One morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find that a couple of birds decided it was time to settle down and raise a family in a house in a safe neighborhood with a white picket fence. I mean that quite literally; look at the picture. Spike and Maude,(that is what I named them)have been really great expectant parents. It has been fun to watch them each day.

Today, while I was making dinner, Spike was bringing Maude a little dinner of her own. A big, fat, still alive, still writhing caterpillar stuck betwixt Spike's tiny beak. Nature in my own backyard...Disgusting.

Conversations with Jessie

Dinner had ended and Jessie requested the radio be on the local college station so she could sing along to the lastest "jams" that all the kids are listening to these days. Lucky for us, the singing was coupled with dancing. Granted, she looked ridiculous but I have to give her credit considering she really has had no formal training, that girl can move.

Heather: You are looking good.
Jessie: I know it.
Heather: How did you learn to dance like that?
Jessie: What do you think I do when I am home alone? I dance!
Heather: In front of the mirror...don't deny it.
Jessie: Oh yeah, fully. Um, just dancing around without looking? Well that would just be ridiculous. I need to be able to critic myself. Hello.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall....

F is for fun!

Another great weekend with my friends has come and gone. It started with an awesome rock and roll show featuring Farewell Typewriter and Shayna and the Bulldog. The house was rocked and beverages were consumed.

Saturday night we decided to take it down a notch. We had a nice dinner and retired to the house for a family fun game of Scattergories and the hilarity ensued.

On the letter "O" one of the categories was "Bad habits." To which Ryan tried to earn double points for "Ogling octogenarians." This raised debate as we discussed the possibility that the ogler them self could in fact be an octogenarian, making the act seem slightly less offensive. Regardless, no points were earned as Brittaney also had ogling as her answer, canceling each other out.

Another veto: Things you find at a football game. The letter was "A" and Brittaney's answer, accents. This was vetoed due to the fact that it was not specific enough despite her gripping argument, "What, someone could be at a football game and have an accent!" This answer did lead into a very interesting conversation by the language police, Grant and Toni, as they debated the difference between an "accent" and a "dialect." As interesting as the whole thing was, Brittaney ended the discussion by saying, "Ok, this conversation is getting to the point where I am going to shoot myself."

We also had Ryan and/or a law student playing the game with us. When one of the categories was "items you save up to buy" he begged the question, "Now, does this category imply that it is looking for the item that you actually purchase, or the 'items' you are saving to purchase the item, such as money." Such an attorney.

One of the most impressive moments of the game was with the letter "W." The category was "things you find in Las Vegas." Several variations of "hookers" were used, such as "woman of the night," "walkers of the night" and "whores." All variations were different and accepted for a point. Brittaney's answer: Wayne Newton.

In conclusion, nothing says good times like a little adult humor when it came to categories such as "body parts," "things that are round" and "things that are sticky." Use your imagination. Just saying.

Conversations with Jessie

At dinner, we were discussing at what age our parents allowed us to reach certain milestones as growing young girls. One thing, for example, ear piercing. For me it was 12, for Jessie, 10...whatever, no bitterness here. Make-up came up as well. I think the first time I got to wear make-up was to 6th grade promotion and it was tinted lip gloss. Junior High was the first time that we both started experimenting with all the wonder that is make-up. Oh, the make-up techniques of a 13 year old in the early 90's. The color combinations we concocted on our face were criminal.

Heather: When did you start wearing make-up?
Jessie: Junior High. I think Mom let me wear, you know, powder and clear lip gloss at first. But then I started to use your make-up and it was all over. I think at that point she didn't really care. She would just look at me and say, "Fine. Whatever. But you look like a damn fool."
Heather: I really doubt Mom said you looked like a damn fool.
Jessie: Yeah well, she was thinking it.

Could be worse I suppose.

Since the day we moved into our house, the downstairs bathroom had a mysterious and unexplainable scent of vanilla. I have searched for the producer of the smell that haunts the room to no avail. I assumed it would dissipate as the moths went on. This is not the case and instead I have just gotten used to it. In fact, about a month ago, my sister used the bathroom and when she came out she asked me, "Did you guys ever figure out why that bathroom smells like vanilla?"

Tis' a mystery indeed.

The plot thickened the other morning when it was not vanilla, rather toasted marshmallows that I could smell. Now it is just messing with us.

I only have one request

Even if you hate the very ground that American Idol walks on, you have to watch it for one reason and one reason only. Watch it only to see each contestant stand next to Ryan Seacrest and gaze in wonderment at the fact that they all literally look like giants next to him. GIANTS! As in "fee-fi-fo-fum" giants. I swear to God, I am not exaggerating. He looks like he is the incredible shrinking man. Especially next to that Jordan girl; her Dad is a football player and it i looks like she could step on Mr. Seacrest. It is worth a moment, I'm telling you.

Confession...

I did something for the first time today. Today was the first time that I have vacuumed the cob webs from the corners of the ceiling and wall. Appalling, I know. And I admit, they no longer fell in the "web" category. Cob business parks would probably be a better description.

Cleaning and I have a very love-hate relationship. Part of me wants so badly to really care about having a house that is clean nearly 100% of the time. But the larger, albeit lazier, part of me seriously would rather be doing something else. I would never call my house dirty, mostly thanks to Grant, who cannot leave the kitchen after dinner until it is clean. Messy at times would be a better word to describe it. There are already so many tasks that I have to do constantly. For example, as previously mentioned, the kitchen. I cook a lot. I also tend to use every dish, bowl, pot and pan I own when I make a meal. If I want to cook again the next night, the kitchen has to be clean. Then we have the laundry. How two people can generate enough laundry to warrant washing several loads on a weekly basis is beyond me. I am still not convinced that there is not a boarder living discreetly in our guest room who plays dress-up while I am at work.

Laundry and basic kitchen cleaning is time consuming in and of itself. By the time it is all done, sometimes I just want to moved the pile of papers off the couch and on to the floor, watch some TV and enjoy a glass of wine. (It should be noted here that this pile of papers that I speak of was moved to the couch after being on the kitchen counter. I can't cook dinner with a pile of paper on the counter!)

The problem I struggle with is that I do love the look and feel of a freshly cleaned house. When I do go all out and really clean up, it is usually sparked by a comment like this to my husband, "Hey, we should have a party. I need to clean the house again." And to the people of the world who are able to keep a tidy house all the time, I am envious. Honestly though, I can handle a little mess if it means that I am a happier person. There will always be time to clean up, but if the world is going to end tomorrow, wouldn't you rather want to go out knowing that you spent your time doing what you wanted instead of making sure you had a clean house that only you would see anyway? I would...and the spiders thank me for that.

Good Morning!

One of my favorite ways to start out my morning is to pay $3.03 per gallon to fill my 12 gallon tank. If you are like me and are unable to do the math in your head yourself, it was $39.00!!

I hate cars and the fact that they are so necessary. Maybe I could try to popularize blading again...

Son of a.....

We got a new oven. It is quite a sexy piece of machinery. As Grant and I gazed lovingly at the new member of our family, we were holding each other and thinking how lucky we were that this oven was actually ours to love and care for. Just when I thought I could not be happier, Grant looked at me and said, "Did you empty the drawer in the old oven?" (The pan that contains all the lids to my pots and pans)

It was about this time that I started swearing.

Conversations with Jessie

Call time: 3:40 pm on Tuesday

Heather: Hello?
Jessie: Hey. What are you doing right now?
Heather: Um...I'm working.
Jessie: Oh, right.
Heather: Why do you always ask me what I am doing when you call me between 9 and 5 on a Monday thru Friday? What do you expect me to be doing?
Jessie: I don't know. Maybe one of these times you will say you are milking a cow or something.

Silence....

Jessie: So, are you busy?

Open wide.

At a recent trip to the dentist, I was thrilled to find out that all 5 of my oldest fillings would need to be replaced making me realize that parents should never give their children a hard time about the cavities they have to pay for since, apparently, you have to pay for them all over again.

I think it is pretty fair to say that no matter what you are getting done, the dentist is an overall unpleasant experience but I have decided that nothing is more demeaning than someone else flossing your teeth for you. On our recent trip to Oregon, I was reminded of the full-service only gas stations law in that state and Grant was having a very difficult time with it. As we would pull into a gas station he was utter things like, "What, do they think we are stupid?" and "Seriously, this is ridiculous" or "Um, hi, I can pump my own gas."

That is what I felt like as the hygienist was flossing me. I am not a child. When he was done he asked me, "Do you floss your teeth like that at home." To which my bloody gums responded, "Yes" because you and I both know you lie to your dentist about the frequency of your flossing habits. I said yes but what I felt like saying was, "No! No I do not floss my teeth like that! What the hell were you were trying to do? Saw my jaw in half!"

Then for the polish. What the hell is that? Did a bunch of dentists sit around a table and say to one another, "How can we make this experience more uncomfortable? I've got it, mix sand in the toothpaste!"

At the end of my appointment the hygienist handed me a wet-nap. I took the wet-nap and thought to myself, "Why that is odd, I do not recall eating any barbecued ribs at this appointment." In fact, the last time I checked, your hands are not usually involved in any type of dental work. I had no idea what to do with it, so I started to wipe my hands, then thought it must be for my face, but who puts a wipe on their face?

Honestly, the best part about the dentist is rescheduling knowing that you will not need to come back for another 6 months. I was robbed of that satisfaction as well as I will be back for two appointments to fix the wear and tear. Lucky me.

Converations with Jessie

Ode to Oregon

Mom, Dad, I don't think you know the full extent of this story so now might be a good time to close your eyes. Sorry for telling on you Jess:

The following are tips for how not to get caught by your parents if you are planning on taking a secret road trip: 1. Do not take pictures of funny road signs along the way. 2. Do not ask your mom to get the pictures developed for you but not to look at them.

Jessie: I drove to Oregon once. Remember that?
Heather: Oh yeah. Wait...I thought you only drove to Redding?
Jessie: Well Mom saw the pictures of the road signs we took along the way and we ran out of film in Redding so....
Heather: You are an idiot! You actually created your own evidence.
Jessie: Yeah. True story.
Heather: What did you even do in Oregon?
Jessie: We drove across the border into Ashland, ate a Subway sandwich and then drove home.
Heather: That's awesome.

Mom and Dad, you can open your eyes now.

Portland, Or

Grant and I took a little adventure this Presidents' day three-day to the great city of Portland, Oregon. The whole trip, in a way, started with a joke. Grant happened to notice that Ben Kweller, who I adore, was going to be playing in San Francisco on Monday, February 19th. I do enjoy a good show in the city but I am not as young as I used to be and Monday night? I would have to be to work early the next day, the show would be over late, etc...

"You know, he is playing in Portland on Saturday the 17th. We could go then."

Next thing we knew, we had a hotel room booked in another state, so we could go see a show on a Saturday because Monday night was just going to be too late. Perfect solution, drive a total of 20 hours there and back. That is not exhausting at all.

Regardless of what you think of our logic, it was a great time spent with my husband and stepping outside of my comfort zone and doing something totally spur of the moment and in many ways, ridiculous.

As I watched Ben Kweller rock the freaking house down, I thought to myself, "Are we crazy for doing this?" Maybe we were but maybe someday, when our kids say to me "Mom, tell me a story from when you were a kid," like I remember doing so many times, I will be able to say that one time me and their Daddy took a crazy road trip all the way to Oregon just to see a concert and really just because we could. We spent too much money and we ate too much dessert, but it was one of the best times we ever had together.

Best show on TV

I am really not normally a fan of action. I am not a violent person or one who enjoys watching that kind of thing. But there is something about 24 that I cannot get enough of. Maybe it is because the complete unrealistic plot lines make it almost believable. Maybe it is because Jack Bauer is a bad ass and can kill a man with his teeth. Or maybe it is because despite the seriousness of the subject matter, Grant and I always seem to have conversations like this one:

Scene: A nuclear bomb is found in an apartment building by none other than Jack Bauer and it will detonate without his steady hand and quick wit. He enlists the help of the very smart, yet very odd, Chloe at CTU to help disable it. He only has 3 minutes.

Grant: I love watching bomb dismantling scenes.
Heather: Why? Because they are so ridiculous?
Grant: Yeah. What, does she know how to dismantle every bomb? And it is always so ridiculous. 'OK, what you need to do is cut the 2nd and 3rd wire. That will open a box. In that box will be a picture of Johnny Carson. You need to trace around his face. But do not, I repeat do not touch his nose. Do you copy?
Heather: Yes, I copy. The box is open. Oh God! It is a picture of Jay Leno. Repeat! We have a picture of Jay Leno in the box!
Grant: Dammit! I must be looking at an old schematic!

Maybe you had to be there. Either way, nothing says good times and laughter like some explosions and a few Johnny Carson jokes!

I love my friends.

With the birth if my nieces, I knew that a lot of things about my life and the activities that I share with my friends would change. Things have changed and for that I am very, very thankful. I am so in love with those girls. But the truth is, we just can't do some of the same things we used to do. I mean, you just can't take babies to rock and roll shows.

Well....

See, the show was at a pizza parlor, not a bar. And it was their Uncle Joel's band so we thought we should all show up and surprise him. And surprise him we did and it was awesome.

Now just calm down because we were sitting all the way in the very back of the restaurant. Honestly, it just sounded like a loud radio was playing. And you know what, they better get used to it. Two of their uncles are rock stars for God's sake. The point is the babies were fine and it just goes to show that even though the day of their birth was a day that our lives changed forever, it was also a day that our lives changed for the better and no matter what we will still find ways to support each other and spend time with one another.

It was the babies idea anyway.

Conversations with Jessie

I came over to my parents house for dinner and upon my arrival my sister told me that we were going to the store. Reluctantly, I agreed to going. Agreed, only if she was willing to change. She was wearing a shirt with a hoodie...cute enough. However, coupled with a pair of dirty gray sweats, bright purple muppet-ish slippers, no makeup and who knows what was going on with her hair, for once, I actually looked better than her.

Heather: I don't want to go to the store.
Jessie: Yes you do.
Heather: I am not going to the store with you looking like that.
Jessie: What? Don't worry. I'll put on a bra.

My crazy mind.

Recently, Brittaney posted a dream she had that left her readers entertained, shocked and admittedly, slightly disturbed. It is worth a read.

Typically, I am of the belief that the only person who really cares about a dream is the person who actually dreamed it. Dreams only make sense while you are in the dream. When you start to explain it out loud you start saying things like this: "We were at the mall, except it wasn't the mall." Or, "I was at your house, but it wasn't your house but I knew it was your house, but you weren't there, but there was this other lady there, and like, she was you...blah, blah, blah."

The only person I really subject to hearing about my dreams to is my husband. He never remembers his dreams but in the morning I always ask him if he had any good dreams that night. This morning was no different. He then asked me if I had any. I did. Brittaney has inspired me to share, despite how I feel about sharing dreams with other. However, this one is kinda funny and I have a few readers who I think will find it entertaining:

I was at a restaurant giving a presentation for work and in the next room, John Vanderslice was performing. After my presentation I walked over to talk to him. When I went into the room, John was hiding in a loaf of bread. I said, "What are you doing." He poked his head out and said, "I'm hiding." The I told him that I wanted to go to his show on Wednesday at the Independent. That's all.

Grant said, "How was he hiding in a loaf of bread?"

"I don't know, like this."

"That's awesome."

So how was your day?

All I wanted to do was wear my pearls to work today. I don't know, I was feeling fancy I guess. Twenty minutes before I needed to leave (which is usually my coffee and couple minutes of a morning news program time) I went go to put the pearls on. Except that they are not there. So my last twenty minutes before heading to work were spent looking for the missing pearls.

I hate when I lose things. I mean, I can't think of anyone who enjoys losing their valuables but when I lose things like that I tend to panic and obsess about it until I am ill. My husband is a very patient man.

So I leave for work, thinking only about the pearls that I must have thrown away or accidentally donated to charity. I mean, I was not able to locate them in twenty minutes so the only logical explanation is they are gone forever.

Then I was almost hit by a bus. Excellent.

The work day seemed to go ok. Surprisingly, nothing terrible happened. Nothing seemed to be missing. This is shocking to me considering at this point I am pretty sure that the pearls are actually out to get me and intended to ruin my day. But before it would be time to search for the missing necklace again, I would be going to yoga. Calm, relaxing yoga. So I drive from home to pick up my mom, then on to class. As we pull into the parking lot of class I realize, I do not have my yoga mat. Ok, now I am about to drive myself into a bus. What the hell.

Now I am even more determined to find the pearls that I have convinced myself are living in a landfill somewhere. When I am trying to find something that I have lost, I am truly in rare form. If you are ever around I would recommend protecting your face and to watch for flying objects. I seem to turn into...well, I honestly don't know if it is Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. Whoever the psycho one is.

No luck. I went through my purses, jewelry boxes, backpacks, cabinets and attempted to move furniture. I even tried to conjure the spirit of my great-grandmother, may she rest in peace, to tell me where they were.

By the time Grant came home, I was too exhausted to think straight. He went through a list of places I had already looked two and then three times. And just about as quickly as he said that he was sure it was not donated and would eventually turn up, I heard him say, "Honey. it is right here." Here was on the floor between the wall and dresser with just the little gold clasp poking out. This was about the time I broke down. Grant just hugged me and asked, "Are you just glad that you found your pearls?" To which I responded between sniffles, "I was almost hit by a bus today." Honestly, at that point, I am not sure if I was speaking literally or metaphorically.

It would mean having to live in my brother-in-law's attic....

I am watching Full House and it is the one where Uncle Jesse gets a record deal and Jesse and the Rippers are going to go on tour but at the same time Rebecca finds out she is going to have a baby and she just doesn't know how she is going to tell him. Getting a record deal would be the chance of a lifetime for Jesse and the Rippers. I mean, they had always planned on starting a family but not for a couple of years! And before you know it, the entire family knows about the baby. Everyone but Jesse that is. And that little Michelle just has the hardest time keeping a secret! Oh, the conflict! But when she tells him in that riveting game of Win, Lose or Draw (Cheese, 1/2, ink = she's having. What a hoot!) she realizes that although Uncle Jesse is nervous about the change he excited at the same time and ready to be a father and she had nothing to worry about all along. Sigh....

As I watched this episode the other day I asked myself two questions:

1. Why the hell am I watching Full House right now?

2. Why am I getting emotional over Uncle Jesse and Rebecca's unborn baby?

As soon as the famous "tender moment" Full House music started to play, my eyes started to well up. Well, Rebecca is married to a rock star and she gets to have a baby! I was actually jealous of and yearned for that moment on the cheesiest sitcom that ever was and that ever will be, so much so, it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I thought to myself, I want that!

Oh man. Maybe I should get a puppy.

Great Weekend

This weekend was one of the best. It started with seeing one of my best friends rock the mic like a vandal (quite literally) with his band Shayna and the Bulldog. It was good food, good drinks and great music.

And then, I got to spend the day with three of my favorite people, Brittaney and my nieces. It is so amazing to see brand new babies looking at the world around them. Everything is new and exciting. They are enthralled by things as simple as ceiling lights and are now at the point where they will stare at your face, as if they are studying every detail.

I am so lucky to be apart of these new experiences. For example, when Brittaney, the girls and I went shopping on Sunday, I was honored to be able to say to them, "Ladies, this is the Nordstrom shoe department. You must treat it with respect and honor and you will grow to love it."

Rescinded.

Fine! So I left out a few details. What's the big deal? Apparently my husband states that this was the "real" conversation we had.

Admittedly, I was sore and did not take any medication to help fix that problem. Which is exactly why I was asking for a massage! Hello...

And I guess he used the word "silly" and not "annoying" to describe my behavior. Well, silly may have been what was said but the non-verbal cues were screaming annoying!

It went something like this...

I am not feeling well and I just wanted Grant to rub my back before bed. Is that too much to ask?

Heather: Can you just rub my back? I am so sore.
Grant: Not tonight. I have a headache and I just want to go to bed.
Heather: Please. I am sick. (I'll admit, there was a little whinning)
Grant: You are so annoying about these things sometimes. And you have not emptied the lint trap in the dryer for like, three loads. It was like I pulled a sweater out of there the today.
Heather: What?
Grant: Sorry. I just thought of that right now.

1....2....47.

I have a new goal or myself. I will do 47 crunchs a day. I was going to set an arbitrary number but I figured that might be to lofty of a goal. Instead, the other day I decided to do as many crunches as I could. That number, 47. I know it doesn't seem like much, but now I know that I can do at least that many.

I have other things I plan on accomplishing in 2007. One of which is to find the perfect lip color and to not be afraid of a little bling.

Christmas 2006

We arrived at my aunt and uncle's lovely little cabin in the woods of Plain, Washington on Christmas Day. It was beautifully covered in snow. The landscape made it difficult to realize how cold it was outside but it was cold. None of that mattered since the cabin was powered by a nice electric central heating system. But see, the thing is an electric heater (and stove, water pump, fire place fan, hair straightener, blow dryer, blender...all the essentials) will only work if there is this fancy little thing called electricity.

See, it was really uncalled for when those trees fell on those power lines because it was right at the part in the movie when Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby had just gotten to Vermont and they were bringing the whole show up three days before Christmas to try to save the lodge from going under. And you know what? It is just not Christmas until I can hear those crazy cats sing, "Gee, I Wish I Was Back In The Army."

Well, the movie we had not, but a White Christmas, yes. It continued to snow and get colder. And an electric water pump meant no showers...or flush toilets. Yay! We all survived the first night and the next morning, still nothing. We drove into Leavenworth, which is a little Bavarian town with all the schnitzel and bratwurst you could ever ask for. We ate breakfast and shopped, but more importantly used every working toilet in the town.

Driving back to the cabin we had high hopes as we saw the Plain Valley lit up and beautiful. Not so much. Still no power at the cabin. It was night time again and it was getting colder.



Family meeting time! Frustrations were high at this point and there are really only so many "Donner Party" jokes that can be made before they all start to sound the same. And lets face it, there would be no drawing straws; the weakest were going to be the first to go.

Our choices were the following:
1. Brave the night. Load up on layers of PJ's and blankets and if there was no power by morning, pack up and leave.
2. Pack up the house and the cars in the dark in 12-degree weather and leave that night.
3. Make more Donner Party jokes.

Everyone was silent. We all looked at each other, huddled around the candlelit table staring at the bags of pretzels and beef jerky we would be eating for dinner. And to everyone's surprise, Grandma, (who was bundled up and looked like the little brother from a Christmas Story at this point) said with passion, "I say we stay!"

So we stayed. And we ate pretzels and beef jerky for dinner. We played Scattergories by candle light. We drank very, very cold wine and beer. We made more Donner Party jokes. It was the best.

And after 30 hours (give or take) we had power again.

I am sure as we re-tell this story as the years go on it will get a little more exaggerated and sound more like we were not just at a cold cabin on Christmas but in the seventh circle of hell. Obviously, we were all fine and we were not in any real danger. One thing I did think about as we were sitting in the dark with blankets wrapped around us was at least we were inside with a roof over our heads and that we had blankets to keep us warm and food and family around us. And when this is all over, we have a home to go to and this trip will be just another funny story to add the the vault and it is not really my life.

I am thankful for that...and that we didn't have to eat Grandma.

A little late but....

Christmas was an adventure this year. More to come later. As for now....

Merry Christmas from the Shellens!



(The giant, red Christmas balls you see in the background are courtesy of my dear friend Joel. He thought they would enhance the tree.)