I suppose the goat never really had a chance.

It seems that every time I visit my grandparents he has a new and interesting story to share. This last visit, he told me that once upon a time he had a pet billy goat that he lovingly referred to as "Billy."



My Grandpa told us that he loved that goat but if my memory has not failed me, the goat developed a bit of a humping problem and my Grandpa's father, my great-grandfather, said the Billy's life had to come to an end. Grandpa was not about to kill his cloven hoofed friend so his father was going to do the deed. As my Grandpa put it, the goat first had to be hit in the head with a sledge hammer "because that is the only way to kill a goat."



Um, I'm sorry. What?



But, after the first big blow to the head, the goat didn't seem to bat an eye and continued to run around the pen, I don't know, making the fence his woman or something. It was clear Billy was not going down without a fight so I'm pretty sure it ended with a shotgun. However, I have to hand it to the goat for fighting the good fight. And gettin' a little while he was at it.

Note to self: Run toward help, not away from it.

I am not really the best in emergency situations. Read on.



We moved into a new house when I was going into the 4th grade. My grandparents we over and were helping with the move as well. The moving truck was backed up to the garage and my Dad and Grandpa were taking some of the heavier furniture off the back of the truck. While they were trying to get a huge cabinet off the truck, my Grandpa lost his footing and just as I was coming into the garage from the house, I saw my grandpa fall backward off the truck onto his butt and then watched his head slam against the concrete garage floor. He then let out the most horrifying moan that I imagine is the same as the sound of a Yeti dying. I completely freaked out and screamed and then ran the opposite direction from my grandpa into the back yard (away from any people that could actually help) and yell, "CALL 911! CALL 911!!!"



I suppose looking back, I did better than my grandma who supposedly was running around on the front lawn in circles and screaming as though she was being chased. And I suppose I did better than my dad who, after my grandpa had regained consciousness and the paramedics had arrived, told our neighbors that he hadn't fallen but rather my dad pushed him. Lovely.



My mom did the best job of all of us and right after my grandpa fell, he ran across the street into our neighbor's open door, right into their house and said, "Hi, I'm Allison. I live across the street now and I need to call 911."



Welcome to the neighborhood!!!



My grandpa was fine and made a full recovery. And I suppose I was able to redeem myself a few months ago. I came home to my complex to find my neighbor standing on the curb holding her baby and yelling for help. Her giant, scary, lion dog had attacked her. That's right people, HER DOG. THE HAND THAT FEEDS IT. Her jeans were torn. Although completely unharmed her baby clothes were covered in blood and chunks of skin were hanging from my neighbors jeans. Although I did not call 911 this time, at her insistence, I had her come into my house and sit down. I called her husband and waited with her for her sister in law to show up and drive her to the ER. She was really thankful for my help.



A lot of people have asked me why I let her in my house or apologized to me for having to deal with a hysterical woman. To that I just say, she was just a person that needed my help. So I helped her. Does that make me a hero or a human? Maybe a little of both?

If I could time travel, I'd go to 1955

We recently started watching Mad Men on DVD. Based on what I have seen, I don't really know why I would want to revisit this era as a woman. What traveling to this time means is that one, I will be a chain smoker. Additionally, I will either be a secretary who is sleeping with a married man (aka: my boss) or I am covering his tracks of infidelity from his wife. Or, the best of all I am married to an unfaithful husband while I stay home and take care of the kids. Did I mention I probably have a drinking problem too. Also the food looks terrible. What is up with suspending everything in jello and putting canned pineapple on canned ham, anyway? Blech.



So why do I want to go back to the 50's? 4 words: Awesome hair. Awesome clothes.



I'll deal with the sexism and a little lung cancer.

Conversations with Jessie

(Regarding the Tamarin Monkey we were looking at, at the Oakland Zoo)

Heather: And there are people out there that seriously don't think that we evolved from primates.
Jessie: I know, right?
Heather: I mean, look at that face. It is like a mini human face.
Jessie: And that is pretty much what I look like most Saturday mornings.

'Tis better to be a wuss and not decide.

"And this, boys and girls, is why Heather drinks wine."



Better to have loved and lost? Well this seems like the obvious "right" answer. The problem with me is that I hate the "lost" part. In fact, I wish the sentance read, "Tis better to have loved." The End. No lost. Nothing gets taken away. How about that?



The thing is I know me, and although I don't like to speak in absolutes, I feel like I really can't recover when this mean old "lost" thing happens. So maybe ignorance really is bliss. Because maybe the pain, sadness, and anger you feel about the loss is not worth the few moments of love you felt in the first place? For me it wasn't. So that begs, the question: What do I do now? Give up? Risk feeling like the shittiest if the shit again. Or worse? Spend the rest of my life wondering, "what if" all because I did give up and didn't take another risk just to protect my sanity?



You see, to me it is a vicious cycle that I feel like I am stuck on and frankly I am about ready to get off this ride.

I like to relax with acupuncture

Acupuncture Barbie

There are many things I do to relax really. Probably because so much of my life feels like I am constantly struggling to achieve a state of relaxation and less worry.



Cooking is a good technique. The prep work involved is very soothing to me.



I don't clean to relax. This really is a double edged sword though, because a lot of times the stress is amplified by the fact that my house is a mess. So instead of picking up a broom, I watch ridiculous reality TV which makes me realize that my life is not nearly as bad as any of those people. So what if I haven't folded the laundry! Heidi just married an abuser! And don't even get me started on Jon and Kate Plus 8!



Lately however, I have been using acupuncture as a means to relax. I should start by saying the lady I go to is crazy. She is very difficult to understand do the language barrier. (That is not what makes her crazy, by the way). What does make her crazy is that she talks CONSTANTLY. She leaves me be once all the needles are placed but before and after that it is one strange story after another. For example, she has told me EVERY TIME I HAVE GONE TO SEE HER that her husband "played around with other women." So they are divorced. She has repeatedly tried to get me to go to her church, specifically so I can talk to this one lady, "Monica" who is "white like me, the same culture, so she will understand what I am going through."



And the list goes on. So why do I keep going to her? Well I am trying to keep an open mind. Supposedly, she works wonders. (So she says). And quite honestly, when I am in the room alone, albeit covered in needles, I can really clear my head and just be. Also she gives an awesome acupressure massage which is an added bonus.



When I was telling a friend of mine about my adventures at acupuncture she did call me out though. She said, "Admit it Heather. Now you are just going to for more stories for your book."



She's probably right.

The lesson to be learned? Always take the cookie.

I was a good kid. Seriously. I never had a detention, got suspended or a Saturday school or even a paper pick-up. (Paper pick-ups were a demeaning punishment in Junior High where you had to spend your lunch break picking up trash in a designated area of the school. I don't know what was worse, knowing that everyone knew you were bad, or touching the trash). So I made sure to never do anything that would warrant that kind of punishment. Teachers freaking loved me.



But in the second grade, no amount of explaining was going to get me out of this one.



Let me first preface this story with the following:



I DID NOT THROW THE COOKIE!



I swear on my family's life, I did not throw the cookie. The following is the God's honest truth.



My friend tried to give me her cookie in a plastic baggie (the baggie is a key part of the story later.) I did not want the cookie. Why? I have no idea. In retrospect I should have just taken the damn thing. I gave the baggie back to her and said, "I don't want it." She gave it back to me, "yes you do!"



"No I don't!"



"Yes you do!"



You see where this is going? So now it had turned into a game, back and forth, back and forth. Finally, I snapped the baggie back at her and said, "I don't want it!!" It was not a hard snap. I don't think I would even say I "threw" the cookie from my lunch box to hers. Now, I don't know if it was the fling of my wrist or the force of the cookie hitting the side of her lunch box that sent the cookie flying 3 tables behind me to then land in someone's mashed potatoes.



I was completely dumbfounded. I was now holding an empty plastic bag. It was then that the evil lunch lady came barreling down the isle and told me to get my things because I was going to the office. I tried to explain, "But I didn't throw the cookie! I don't know what happened."



"Oh yes you did! I saw you!!"



Liar!!! What could she have seen?? I didn't do it! I was crying and trying to explain myself but she would not hear any of it. I remember saying that I was really sorry but I did not throw it! The office was shocked to see me in there. She told me that I would need to eat my lunch in the office for one week. This was a new thing the principal (who was also a terror) was trying to cut down on food fights during lunch. I asked to see my mom, who was a yard duty a couple times a week at my school.



"I'm can't get your mom!" she yelled at me.



When I told her that my mom was the yard duty she said, "Your mom is Allison Andersen? I am so ashamed of you."



Bitch.



My mom came and I told her what happened. She was not happy at all about what lunch lady said to me. My mom believed me that I did not throw the cookie and said that the reality was that some people, this lady included, are just mean and like to exert there power over the weak. But, the reality was, I was probably just going to have to eat lunch in the office.



But my mom got her revenge. Every single kid that she saw through anything thing from an entire roast chicken to a cheeto was sent to the office. I think she took about 25 kids into the office the next day for the food throwing offense.



My mom rocks.

Put down the Laffy Taffy, man!!!

My teeth suck.

But I don't get it. I think I take pretty good care of them; I brush twice a day and floss, I think more than the average person. Despite all my love and care, it seems that my teeth are still made of chalk or something. My most recent adventure (which is not over yet) is that I am getting a crown. Yay! So basically what the dentist does is grinds your tooth down to nothing but a stump, glues a temporary crown in and then you have to wait about two weeks for the permanent tooth to come in.

What was great about my procedure was that the Novocaine was not really working. Even after four shots of the juice there were still parts of the tooth that, when she buzzed over it with one of her torture tools, felt like she was shooting electricity into my jaw. Since most of my face was numb at this point I just wanted it to be over and so I took a death grip on the chair and said "Finish. Just finish NOW!" But, what I wanted to say was "Jesus Christ, just punch me in the face! Please for the love of God. PUNCH ME IN THE FACE!!!!" A punch would have done one of two things: Knocked me out completely or caused permanent brain damage that would make me forget this hellish day ever happened.

When she was done trying to kill me, I needed a moment. I went into the bathroom and looked at the tooth that once was. Thankfully it is all the way in the back. But as I looked at this disgusting little nub, all I could think was, "Well, I guess that is done." That's it. Done deal. It is never coming back. And with my track record, I have a feeling I will end up with a mouth full of nubs someday.

The first temporary crown she tried to make didn't come out right so she scraped the idea of trying to make one and I gots myself a little bling baby! She capped the nub with a metal tooth. Hot. But whatever, it is only for two weeks. I waited well over an hour for the tooth to set and around 8:30 pm, at least two hours after the tooth was placed on me, I ate some dinner. I thought leftover pasta was a safe bet. About four bites in to my meal, that little thing popped right off. So now I have a mouth full of hot food and a live tooth without the protection of m newly acquired "grill." How does it feel? Go chew on some foil for a while or stick your tongue on a 9V battery. Kinda like that.

I go back in the next day and she fits me with a better temporary made from a mold of my actual tooth so "this one will be better." I see the irony in it now but it was 3 days later, while eating a bowl of "Cracklin' Oat Bran" cereal for breakfast, my "better fitting" tooth was now floating around in my mouth, AGAIN. This time, the dentist said to me, "You know, I have never had a patient come back more than once to fix a temporary crown."

Well, lucky freaking me.

So the moral of this story, take good care of your teeth. After the second reattachment, the tooth is still holding. But, I have no doubt in my mind that I will be back in the chair before my permanent tooth comes in. But if my teeth continue down this path of destruction, I am just going to have to find someone who does sedation dentistry. Either that or self medicate before appointments with a healthy combination of Valium and vodka.

I couldn't agree more.

I strongly believe that one of the only reasons I can handle the demands of my job is because of post-it notes. If I don't have a pack sitting on my desk within reach at all times I get the shakes and start talking in tongues. I remember the day they came out with Super Sticky Notes like it was yesterday. And the day I got my pop-up notes with a dispenser? I could hear the angels singing.

So you can only imagine how I felt when saw this video. Glorious.

Let's git er done!

Plinky asked me to create a bucket list. I don't think I am asking to much, do you?

Become a Mom
One might think this is too obvious of a "bucket list" item. However, this is proving to be much more of a difficult challenge for me. I know I will get there. It is just taking a bit longer than planned and I think if I set it as a goal to accomplish before I die, I am sure to achieve it.

Oh, and word to the wise: It is rude to ask a woman when and if she is planning on having children because you don't know a thing about her. That being said, if you ask me, I might cut you. Also, don't ever tell me to relax. Because if you do, I just might ask you how easy it is to relax while I am hurling my fist at your jaw bone.

Go to Africa
Cliche? Sure. But I don't care and I think it is something that everyone should do at least once in their life. My dear friend Annie just got back from a trip to Africa where she volunteered at a orphanage. She told me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if I had gone I would have left Africa with a baby. (Hmmmm....interesting....see #1)

Live in a house with character
I want built-ins, original hardwood floors, leaded glass windows and maybe a wrap around porch. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the newness of a track home that requires little to no work other than moving in. I appreciate the fact that the plumbing or heating doesn't need to be replaced every year. But there is still something that draws me to a house that needs a little TLC. A house that my hands were a part of. This kind of stuff would help me look past the fact that my toilet OVERFLOWS EVERY DAY.

See a ghost
I am strangely obsessed with ghosts. I have no solid evidence of their existence but if they are real I sure would like to meet one. Preferably a friendly one.

Publish something
The interweb has made it fairly easy to pretty much say whatever you want and make it available for the world to read. I do this less than often on my blogs where little to no one reads or cares what I have to say. I would like to think that if given the opportunity others might enjoy what I have to say and by others I mean not my mom.

Seat me next to the quiet starer, please

I think my best friend, Brittaney, asked the right question: first and foremost, why would I ever be on a day long bus trip. That being said, I choose the starer.

You have make your choice based on who you can most easily get away from. Now, "Chatty Cathy" to your left may be annoying but is quite possibly very nice lady who just wants to share her story with anyone who will listen at the doctors office, in line at the grocery store or on a bus as the case may be. I don't want there to be any hurt feelings or have to tell her that I am going to be moving seats because if I don't I am going to shove spoons in my ears.

Poor Cathy.

Now, the starer is clearly a freak. So I say after one request for him or her to "Please stop staring at me" you are with your full authority to give them one serious stink eye and move several rows back.

'I Will Survive' will help you through a break-up

I have had very few relationships in my life considering I have known my husband since I was 12 years old. But there was a brief time period in our life as a couple where we found it best to go our separate ways. (We had a lot of growing to do between 10th and 11th grade). It is what I refer to as the "dark year." For that reason, I only have one song that really means anything to me in regards to a break up.

I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor

At the school talent show, Grant sang this song. I remember sitting in the audience thinking, "What the hell is he trying to do to me? So it was that hard being with me that you describe life after me as 'survival'?" To this day he swears that he covered it because Cake covered it and he liked Cake. Yeah, whatever. Glad it helped one of us.

The food saver is a winner!

New Food Saver by webg33k

One of my favorite places on the planet is the county fair. It has the whole package; fried food, animals, rides and carnies. One part of the fair that can't be skipped are the warehouses full of arts and crafts, chiropractors ready to give you an adjustment the famous "As Seen on TV" items for sale. I think of this place as a safe haven from the heat of the summer. What I do not think of this place is a place to go shopping. In fact, talking to any of the sales people in there terrifies me a bit. I have gotten good at avoiding an unwanted conversation.

1. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT.
2. When they ask you if you would like to "Try this fabulous new (fill in the blank) pretend you don't hear them.
3. Eat a funnel cake. The thing is covered in powdered sugar and there is no way they are going to want your sticky hands anywhere near their product.

So, I would like to say I have never been duped by any infomercial item but that would be a lie. Although I did not buy it at the fair, my mom and sister and I went in on a Food Saver for my Dad. My father is IMPOSSIBLE to buy for mainly because he wants nothing for his birthday and when you ask him what he wants he says sternly, "I don't want anything for my birthday. And I am serious. Dead serious."

You see how helpful he is. We have to go practical when it comes to Dad's gifts. Since he is known for his smoked salmon and it stores best in a vacuumed sealed bag, this was the perfect option. He loves it and uses it all the time. To this day he will still say "That as a really good gift."

Woot!

My handy dad.

Handiness does runs in my family. Both my Grandfathers are quite the craftsmen. My dad is very handy and even my mom for that that matter. But it seems the handy gene stopped with me.



The best examples I can use are my "school project" examples. The two that quickly come to mind are the replica of the Mission in the 4th grade and the rubber band powered car in 7th. The instrcutions for both projects was to "build" something. Well, they might as well have been in French once building was involved. My father, however? He was like a kid in a candy store. He was so excited about building the Mission (Mission Soledad, to be exact) that we failed to read the size limitations. The Mission was supposed to be no bigger than 12 inches by 12 inches. Mine had to be carried by several people and was large enough for several cats to sleep comfortably. He even helped me to stucco the outside walls of the church to make it really look like adobe. There was also talk of hooking up lights to make it "really cool" but I think the idea was squashed considering the fact that I am pretty sure the monks didn't have access to Chirstmas lights.



In 7th grade we had to make a car that was powered by rubber bands or string or angels or something. It had to be able to get up a ramp. The competition part of it was that there would be 2 cars coming up either side of the ramp (making a peak in the middle) and whose ever car could push the other back down their side would win and move on to the next round and so on. One car would remain in the end and be named champion.



My father had to win.



There were very specific items you could and could not use. My dad's idea was to build a car shaped like a right tri-angle, the angled side facing forward. As the car would move forward a huge, heavy dowel would roll down the front of the car and out ahead of it, crushing anything in it's path. He was convinced we were a sure win. The night before the competion, he drew flames and wrote "No Fear" all over the car. Although slightly embarrassed, I thought he just might be right. In order to set up the car, there was twisting and winding of string and rubber bands involved. This had to be "DONE IN A VERY SPECIFIC WAY OR THE CAR WOULD NOT WORK. HEATHER!!!!"



Well, guess what?? I didn't wind it right. And I am pretty sure we were out in the first round. And my mom caught it all on video. To this day my father still talks about that car and how, "if only I had....."



And despite everything I just told you my father swears that all he did was help me and by no means did he make either of those thing "for me." But to that I say, "Ok Dad. Whatever helps you sleep at night."



Thank God he is a handyman.

Well, you are not my mom's butt.

I was three years old and it was the first time I actually remember the feeling of embarrassment. My mom had dragged me out on a shopping trip for something lame like, well, anything that was not toys for me. While my mom was looking at some items against the wall of the store, I was doing what every child does in a boring women's clothing store; hiding inside of the free standing racks of clothes. On the floor under one of the racks I found something really cool. (Ok, it was like a button or something). And I had to go over to my mom and show her my treasure.



I ran up to my mom, whose back was to me, and she was slightly bent over to look at something on one of the lower racks. I was so enthralled by the item in my hand I was not looking at my mom when I started to smack her butt and say, "Mom, Mom, Mom, look what I found! Mom! Mom! Mom!" It was after about the 5th or 6th "Mom" and about the 100th spank on the rear that I heard my ACTUAL Mom say from the other side of the store, "Um, Heather?"



Horror came over me as I looked up at the face of a woman who was not my mom, and then at the hand of mine that had been smacking her ass.

My advice: Be careful on the highways.

Modarres Highway / Tehran by Hamed Saber (Hamed Saber)

My late Great-Grandmother was full of great one liners. Some of these included:



"That girl was thinner than a bar of soap with a weeks worth of wash on it!"



OR



"That child was slower than molasses in winter!"



Besides these, she was known making some inappropriate comments that only a 95 year old women can get away with saying. One, for example, was the time she unknowing thought that "lesbians" were "Lebanese people." Awesome.



She also gave me some of the best advice. Every time she would write me a letter or talk to me on the phone she would say, "Be careful on the highways." What better advice is that? And what better place to be extra careful? Since she lived in West Virginia, it was her way of making sure we were mindful drivers. Well, mindful drivers that hopefully will not be influenced by those crazy San Francisco "Lebanese."

My fear of Santa Claus

Let me paint you a little picture:



It is Christmas Eve and it is time for bed. You need to make sure you get in bed early and fall asleep in plenty of time so Santa doesn't skip over your house. Why, who is this "Santa" person you speak of, Mother? Well, he is a giant, overweight man, dressed in all red velour that is going to come down your chimney into tonight while you are sleeping and leave you gifts under your Christmas Tree.



So, basically what you are telling, Mom, is that this "Santa" character will be breaking and entering into my house and you, dad and the rest of the world apparently, are ok with all of this??



Christmas Eve nights were always pretty restless ones for me as a child. I remember very clearly, the Eve where the unthinkable happened. I woke up and had to go to the bathroom. Here is the bargaining that went on in my head:



1. Fall back asleep and hold it until morning. (Unlikely to happen, the more you think about not peeing, the more you actually have to pee.)

2. Call for mom and dad. (But then Santa might hear me!)

3. Pee the bed. (Looking like my best choice at this point.)



Well, I didn't pee the bed. I risked it all and fearfully walking back and forth from the bathroom to my room, convinced I was going to come face to face with Kris Kringle himself.



Don't get me wrong, I was always excited in the morning. The gifts were always worth the night of sheer terror. Still, I would have preferred if the story went something like this:



"...and all year long, Santa Claus makes toys with the elves in his workshop in the North Pole until finally on Christmas Eve, he has his elves arrange that all the gifts for the good little boys and girls of the world be delivered via FedEx and dropped of on your doorstep in a completely non-scary and non threatening way."



That is my kind of Christmas miracle.

America needs Jessie Spano

Jessie Spano
She's a hard worker, smart as a whip and will do what she needs to do to get the job done. Just make sure you keep the caffeine pills away from her.

Ina Garten
Someone needs to keep the President and all his peeps full and happy with dishes like her famous beef bourguignon, pumpkin mousse and antipasto platers.

John Stewart
Because I think he is the only one that really gets what is going on.

Larger Than Life

P1010035 by Cyron

The gift came from my Mom's second cousin, making him my third cousin? Or my second cousin, once removed? You see how this is already bizarre that we were getting a gift from this person at all.



Now, I should preface by saying that I was very young when I got this gift, probably 7 or 8. So, my memory of how large it was may be slightly skewed. I remember the box being the size of a refrigerator and inside was a giant stuffed koala bear that was at least 5 feet tall. If my memory hasn't failed me, I think my distant cousin entered a contest where he had to guess how many jelly beans were in a jar and he guessed correctly. The Grand Prize? This strange eye-sore of a toy whom we named "Rudy"



My sister and I were stoked. My parents were less than thrilled. At the time we were living with my Grandparents so we had very limited living space. My sister and I shared a room and there was no way this giant bear was fitting in our tiny room. The only place we had room for it in fact was in the back bonus room of my Grandparents house that my family used as a living room.



Rudy sat there, watching TV with us for quite a long time. I am sure it drove my mother crazy, being the decorator that she is, that this disgusting koala was messing up the feel of the room. She finally convinced my sister and I to donate Rudy to a better home. In this case "donate" may have been code for "dumpster."

If I were a superhero, I would certainly wear tights

As a super hero, of course I would wear tights. But only when appropriate of course. I mean, never with a flip-flop or an open toed sandal. And this is why I would be Heather "The Croc Killer." My basic duties would be to rid the world of all offensive shoe choices, mainly Crocs. The worst of all the shoes, in my opinion. I mean, they have holes in them and are made of foam for God's sake!!! I would, for the most part, be a helpful superhero. For minor shoe offenses my friends and foes would get a second chance to maybe replace the worn out loafer with a sassy wedge or pointy-toed kitten heal. They would be given the option to simply remove their socks if they insisted on wearing their Tevas. And of course, octogenarians would be given a free pass if wearing navy or beige Sas brand shoes. However, there would be no exceptions for Croc-wearers. Anyone found breaking this fashion rule who is not and never has been Mario Batali: instant obliteration.

Better than a pony.

(This is a post from my wonderful husband's company that just launched last thursday. I realize that the title I gave it makes it seem a little random but I wanted to try posting it to my blog from plinky.com. The question was "What wild animal would you like to have as a pet." Leave it to me to think of something random.)

Just to preface, these are not my "My Little Ponies." Mine prefer not to have their picture taken.

Tea Party! by Mary Bliss (dreamcicle19772006 (Checking Periodcally))

When I was a kid, my sister, cousins and I would play "invisible animals" (I have no idea why I am admitting this openly by the way). We had every animal in the book and they would help us with a variety of things such as saving the world and general crime fighting. My favorite of those animals was a unicorn I called Orange Twilight.



I realize a unicorn is not a "real" animal. But think about all the amazing abilities you would acquire by having a unicorn in your life? Not only do you have the free mode of transportation you have free access to magic as well! Not to mention Twilight's skills in fighting crime.