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.
5.30.2007
5.27.2007
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.
(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.
5.21.2007
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
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
5.15.2007
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.
It is for this very reason that I love her, that she is my best friend, and she is my Brittaney.
5.14.2007
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.
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.
5.07.2007
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."
"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."
5.04.2007
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.
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.
5.01.2007
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.
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.
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