iVillage - This Fish

unbuttoned

2008-07-22T13:52:45Z

This morning, I had very serious thoughts about wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer. The official reason I will give for not wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer is that at 7:40 AM it was already 87 degrees outside, and that's a whole lot of clothing to be wearing on such a ferociously hot day. But because we're close, I'm going to level with you. It's cold in my office. Damn cold. But even sucking in, I couldn't get that blazer to button.

Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?

If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.

Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.

I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal.

nibbles & bits

2008-07-17T20:34:44Z

I want to tell you the story of how Facebook is evil. But there is no time to do it justice at present. So without proper segue or entertaining transition (which also require more time than I've got right now), let me say, I've been getting a lot of junk mail from my alma mater recently. Like, three letters a week. They want my money. This simultaneously annoys and amuses me. Obviously, there is a disconnect between the fundraising folks and the rest of the university, because somewhere there has to be a record of the fact that I graduated from their fine institution with a liberal arts degree. I was a Spanish major, for pete's sake. What kind of financial success do they think I could have possibly attained with that extremely useful degree tucked under my belt? Unless we're reaching for the stars and I became say, a United Nations translator, the most they could be really be hoping for is high school Spanish teacher. And we know there's no money there. Grossly underpaid teachers say, Heeeey.

It has just occurred to me that perhaps good old Brigham Young University counted on me staying Mormon all these years and they weren't anticipating that I'd blow my legacy on booze, coffee, and birth control. But, golly, aren't we glad I did?

That's rhetorical, by the way. And now we'll break for an important public service announcement.

Public Service Announcement:
If you're not watching Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, you're doing yourself a giant disservice. Like getting all your major crevices nice and clean, following the adventures of Neil Patrick Harris Evil Genius is just part of being a functioning, likable member of society. Throw in a little booze, coffee and birth control and you just might get to sit at the cool kids' table. I mean, no guarantees, but think about it.

call the waaaaaambulance

2008-07-16T15:07:38Z

Yesterday was not exactly the best day I've ever had. Among actual real people problems, my thighs were touching a little too much for my happiness, I hadn't gotten enough sleep, my apartment was dirty, and someone in particular was rising so fast to the top of my shit list that I was having fantasies about voodoo practices. Or murder-for-hire. I mean, by now I've watched enough hours of Law & Order to know how not to do it. Surely I'd be able to pull it off. But since I wasn't feeling creative enough for doll-making, and hiring a hit man turned out to way, way unrealistic in terms of my budget this month, I opted for a little friend therapy.

Lucky, lucky Ari got the full whinery tour.

"... and I really freaking hate So-and-So."

"I feel the same, except I hate everyone always."

"Wow. I only hate specific people on some days. But that's just because I have a recessive Mary Tyler Moore gene."

"Well put. So what do you anticipate the highlight of your day being?"

"I got nothin'."

"OK - let's do this together, because I have nothing either. Want to see the boys that broke my heart and then you can mock my hideous taste in utterly unworthy men? There are some gut-busting laughs to be had."

She wasn't kidding. My own list of unworthy men just makes me cringe, but hers - complete with photos of the subjects in what appeared to be the 2008 Mark Paul Gosselar Sportswear Collection - was truly hilarious. And god love her, just what I needed. Is it schadenfreude when you're laughing with love? I hope not. Because knowing that someone else has had it worse than you - man, that's the kind of gift that keeps on giving.

The ice cream cone I scarfed after lunch didn't hurt either. Except, obviously, with the thigh thing.

blogaversary - q&a

2008-07-09T18:04:20Z

Tomorrow, this blog turns six years old. I think we should celebrate.

When I turned six, I got a new bike - a pink Huffy with a big, squishy seat and a kickstand that was not very reliable. I loved it (until, of course, it became clear that to blossom into a sleek, sophisticated woman I would require a ten speed with impractically slim tires and a seat that looked like a potential gynecological hazard). Come to think of it, the year of six was pretty fantastic, in general. I got a new sister, had Mrs. Clark for a first grade teacher (we made Stone Soup and were encouraged to color outside the lines, if we very well pleased) and a pair of purple and white Roos. The livin', it was easy.

Let us celebrate this Year of Six by playing my favorite party game*, Truth or Dare. I choose truth. Like always, I'll answer any question that isn't rude or obnoxious. Sometimes that answer may be, "None of your business, perv!" but hey, an answer is an answer.

Fire when ready.

*Fine, my actual favorite party game is Spin the Bottle, but you see the logistical nightmare involved in trying to play that with the Internet.

(P.S. I'm not answering/publishing them in order as some take more consideration. Also, I am feeling a little ADD. So, if your question hasn't shown up, keep checking!)

doubles

2008-07-08T13:05:13Z

I need a body double. A body, brain and heart double, actually. Or three of them. One to sit in for me and go clickety-clack on the keyboard and produce useful workish material, another to go clickety-clack and produce useful bloggish material, and one (preferably with a valid driver's license) to run all nine thousand party errands left on my list, so that when Friday evening rolls around there is beer, finger food and an iTunes playlist of fun! and engaging! party tunes all wrapped up in a very tidy apartment lacking in any conspicuously unfinished shelving projects. Ahem.

If the body doubles venture were successful, I'd have time to flop down on my bed where I may privately make a mountain of a molehill and indulge in this woe-is-me feeling that's bubbling up in my anxious tummy. That's all I want to do. Lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. It's not that anything in particular is wrong, exactly. I'm just overwhelmed. I chalk it up to the fact that I've a lot to do in a short time and, more importantly, where matters of my heart are concerned, it doesn't matter how much rest I get at night, the very act of being awake is something of an effort.

you wang?

2008-07-02T20:02:21Z

This afternoon when I clicked over to my gmail spam folder to make sure that no legitimate messages were trapped within, one message caught my eye. Not for promising the ever-sought-after "mighty wang." I mean, either I am not so picky about, um, wangs, or have never been presented with a less-than-mighty specimen, because this issue ranks on my List of Concerns somewhere near the personal minutia of The Hills cast members and maybe, car stereo equipment. Which is to say oh, god, don't care. But! The subject line of the email gave me a few giggles.

From: Laurent

To: Heather

Subject: Sperms of Endearment

Sperms of Endearment? Oh, spammer, your sense of humor is showing! That amused me so much, I briefly considered replying, to thank Laurent for brightening my day.

Something else wang-related that amuses me: how much pride men take in their erections. You know, as if they did anything more than possess a properly-functioning circulatory system to achieve them. I mean, judging by the look of satisfaction a simple blood rush can produce, you'd think it had involved trigonometry -- or at the very least some complicated long division. Ah, yeeeeah, baby. Check it out. Remainder of four.

if i wasn't careful

2008-07-01T13:25:22Z

When I was twelve years old, my dad told me that if I wasn't careful, I was going to turn out like my mom. We were driving down Main Street in Spanish Fork, just past the public library, when Dad dropped the b-word. Total bitch, he said. At twelve, I'd probably heard the word a total of three times, and I was embarrassed by it. Clearly, he and my mom had fought about something (money, more than likely); he was blowing off steam. Once after they'd argued, he punched the deep freeze in the garage, leaving a shallow dent. This time he told me that I was going to have a string of unsuccessful marriages and nasty divorces, because I didn't know how to treat people. I don't really remember my dad spanking me as a kid. But I remember this.

I remember, too, coming home from a church activity that evening, frazzled and upset, and telling my mother that one of the girls on my kickball team called me a bitch. I went to bed while the sun was still up. And, while the sun was still up, I was dragged back out of bed and into the living room where an innocent thirteen year old girl was waiting to apologize for hurting my feelings. I confessed, bawled, and went back to my room.

Later, my mom came in, sat down next to me on the daybed and asked me why I'd lied. I told her I didn't know; let her assign it to general preteen angst. But I knew. All I'd wanted was for her to be sorry that someone had called me such an awful thing - without telling her it was my dad who'd said it. If I told her, they would fight again. Dad would punch something or hold onto the banister and yell until Mom left to drive around the neighborhood while it got dark. Later, when she came home, Dad would have written, "I'm sorry" in his slanting scrawl in dry erase marker on the garage freezer door. And I would have had another nightmare about thick, brown barrels tumbling from the sky - a dream I'd associate for the rest of my life with the barrel-shaped rootbeer candies - and woken up with my pillowcase soaked in sweat. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be the reason they yelled.

Mostly, though, I didn't snitch, because I didn't want him to be right.

in my family, we call this the "never mind"

2008-06-30T15:54:19Z

If we work together, stop reading right now. Or, more importantly, if under any circumstances we have seen each other naked (or, you know, might in the future), stop reading right now. I beg you. But for you non-coworker/non-nookie folks, I present the following, because I love you.

As originally told to Sarah Brown, who has kindly agreed to still be friends with me:

An afterthought to my outfit this morning, I put on a pair of Spanx. See, I was already fully dressed, but I figured a little extra nip in the waist would do my little black dress up in the manner it deserved. So, I grabbed a pair, wiggled into them (these babies go from mid-thigh to underboob and getting into them is really a workout), and headed to the office. Then, just a few minutes ago, nature called. On autopilot, I went to the ladies' room, sat down on the toilet, and did my thing.

Now, for those of you who aren't aware, Spanx are gusseted. As in, they come with built-in split-crotch panties. Only, you know, in a black spandex girdle form, so as to undo any sexiness associated with a split crotch. Going commando (hot) in a girdle (not hot). You see what I mean - it's barely breaking even.

Anyway, so there I was, doing my thing... only, it sounded wrong. Muffled. It took me a moment to realize this was BECAUSE I WAS WEARING UNDERWEAR - a detail I had completely overlooked. In a whirlwind of adrenaline and mortification, I stripped in the bathroom stall, took off the soaked undies (god, I wanted death), wiggled back into the Spanx (an awkward, unsightly dance not unlike mating rituals I've seen on the Discovery Channel), rinsed and wrapped said undies in paper towels, washed my hands six times, and skedaddled out of there as fast as I could.

Then I immediately emailed Sarah and Ari, who graciously put the whole thing into perspective.

"If you were in kindergarten, you'd have a cubby with an extra pair. I think adults underestimate the clean panty need."

Let's just say, lesson learned. The hard way.

(discreetly) talking your ear off

2008-06-24T23:35:08Z

When I was a kid, I would talk to anybody. About anything. Endlessly. You're all shocked, right?

I have a vivid recollection of sitting on a bench at Curly Slide Park (if you want to be accurate, it's called Canyon View Park, which in my opinion grossly understates the park's glorious attractions) going on and on to a complete stranger about Ramona Quimby. She was eight, I was eight - this was very important and deeply meaningful. She, meaning Ramona. The woman was probably in her 30s or 40s and god bless her, patient as the day is long. I talked to her so long that my mom was compelled to apologize for my chattiness (I remember this being the first time I ever heard the phrase "talk your ear off"; I was a very literal kid and it bothered me. A lot).

Anyway, not much has changed in twenty something years. I'm a talker. A texter, and emailer, an IMer (not much of a phoner, but that has more to do with total and complete inability to focus while on the line. What was that you were saying? I'm sorry, I got caught up de-linting my sofa cushions) and a blogger. I'll tell most anyone my business as long as it serves some sort of entertainment or therapeutic purpose. Though, more and more often, I go with the sanitized version. See, I'm slowly learning what some folks are naturally programmed with: discretion.

It's been a hard lesson learned. And publicly, too. Remember when I said too much in the New York Times? Someone at a big fancy paper asked me to write a story and I was thrilled. The backlash was instant and intense. I was young and so terribly naive and I took the criticism very hard. My inbox flooded with shame-on-you emails. The comment box filled up with much the same. Someone even went so far as to create a blog, pink and filled with my reworded and re-punctuated (so!! many! exclamation points!!) entries to make me look even more naive and foolish. Why? Because over-sharing was just about the most pathetic thing the mock-blog's creator could fathom. I cried myself to sleep for a week. Incidentally, this person seems to have spent the last couple years unlearning the lesson that her adventures in html taught me; evidence of it recently graced the cover of the New York Times Magazine.

Life, it is funny. Mean, sometimes, but funny.

The above is all a very lengthy preamble to say, I promised you a story. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that for the sake of discretion, I just can't deliver on that promise. Except to say: I now know the most fun you can have in a swimming pool has absolutely nothing to do with chicken fights.

Rowrr.

"i love blogging!"

2008-06-23T13:41:05Z

This morning, I'm operating on about thirty-five minutes of sleep. That comes with a good story. But right now, I'm waiting for the coffee to replace the water in my blood stream, so in the meantime...

I don't know if it's the exhaustion-induced delirium, but I think I kind of love this a lot.

glad i don't have a subscription

2008-06-18T13:25:52Z

I think someone needs to explain to me how this happened. I was just clicking around Ye Olde Internets and I found this: People's Hottest Bachelor, Mario Lopez. Really? REALLY? George Clooney is baching it up again and A.C. Slater is the hottest bachelor? Yeah, yeah, he's all muscley and dimple cheeked but seriously? Maybe I'm being extra stubborn because I'm having a very, very hard time erasing images of Slater in his crazy acid-washed, wide-thighed, tight-ankled jeans. There was nothing hot about that. Even back then. And I know bad 80's fashion happened to lots of folks (I had certain feelings about florescent pink t-shirts and black leggings that I wish I could forget), but have you ever seen George Clooney in a get-up like this?

No. No you haven't. Mostly, you see George looking very accidentally, tummy twirlingly, handsome. Like, out for a bike ride or filling up his car at the gas station. I mean, I saw this photo and had to have a moment to myself.

Oh, People Magazine. It's like hearing that Cameron Diaz is Hollywood's highest paid actress all over again. I worry for the children.

molecular biology

2008-06-13T15:19:38Z

Molecules. I'm increasingly convinced that's what it came down to, mostly because there was no other explanation. One minute I was fine - better, than fine, really. Bright! Attentive! Able to form complete sentences with very little effort! - and then there he was. And then there I was, plop! off my barstool, slack-jawed and stupid.

It wasn't that he was a particularly handsome man, or that he showered me with any special attention so as to make my heart go pitter-pat. He was, in fact, average. He dressed carelessly, carried around an average man's beer belly, and on the issue of my affection, tended to run pretty hot-and-cold. On top of it all, the things we had in common made a very short list comprised of deep, meaningful items like tacos and cold beer.

Like it mattered. The first time he walked into the room, the part of my brain responsible for bad decisions regarding men, alcohol, and chocolate cake started chanting, "Take off your pants!" Obviously, way ahead of the game. I hadn't even smelled that spot under his chin that made (well, to be fair, the idea of still makes) my stomach do cartwheels. We'd never even spoken, much less had our first argument, or watched Zoolander with his hand clamped furiously tight over my mouth because, as hard as I try, I just can't watch it without reciting the lines like I'm Ben Stiller's brain twin.

Again, like it mattered. It was all in the way his molecules were arranged. In the way they danced around mine in a naughty strip tease, making my brain go soft, and for the nth time in my life, filling me with gratitude that my anatomy wasn't capable of giving away my... amorous state.

I ordered another cocktail and waited for things to get complicated. Who was I to argue with science?

the curious incident of the cat in the bathtub

2008-06-11T14:44:24Z

The only interactions I have with Joe the Maintenance Guy are the notes he leaves behind after he's fixed whatever's ailing my apartment. Broken garbage disposal, washing machine that won't spin. Usually, he simply writes the outcome of his labors - "garbage disposal working" - and signs his name. Not this time.

Hold on, let me back up a bit.

When I came home from the ranch on Sunday evening, the shower that I took Friday morning was still lingering in my bathtub. I had noticed that it was slow to drain, but there were other things on my mind that morning besides clogs, so I'd swung the shower curtain closed and hurried off to work. On Sunday, it smelled like three-day old stagnant water smells. Wretched. The sight of it tugged at my gag reflexes.

Ordinarily, the tub is Sir Hal's domain. For a little guy with lots of fur, I imagine that part of the lure is the cold porcelain. The other part is that it drives me nuts. I have to clear cat toys out before I can shower. And while I'm showering, he's perched on the edge, dropping them right back in or swatting my beauty products into the stream of water, looking very satisfied as he watches me put them back. He's like a baby in a high chair. And so, during my investigation of the situation on Sunday, I noticed a sad, neat little pile of kitten toys by the tub, and an expectant looking feline staring at me from the doorway. I called maintenance and left a message.

Which brings me back to the beginning of the story - Joe the Maintenance Guy. On Monday, I got home from work, kicked off my shoes and headed to the bathroom to check on the tub status. Happily, it had been fixed, scrubbed (god, I love Joe), and as usual, there was a note left on the counter. Scrawled in black ink on the incident form was Joe's note.

Drain unclogged. Cat is funny. - JMS.

I can only imagine.

fyi

2008-06-10T16:50:44Z

Most of you have no idea that I also write a daily newsletter for iVillage, called Conquer Your Craving. It's about healthy stuff - like, how to avoid the free bagel trap at work, or food that is really good for you and doesn't taste like cardboard (or look suspiciously like Soylent Green). Anyway, I just re-upped my contract, and thought I'd fill you in. Sign up, if you like! You know, in case you don't get nearly enough of me here and feel like you just won't be complete without my musings on such important topics as:

Don't Cut the Cheese (why dairy is awesome)
The Skinny on Your Latte
And, Fiber is not the F-word

I'm sure you feel wiser and healthier already.

P.S. I'm sorry if the sign-up page seems confusing; all you have to do is click the box next to Conquer Your Craving, then go down and enter your email address. It will only sign you up for that. one. newsletter. and nothing else. Promise.

ranched

2008-06-09T13:19:49Z

This weekend, I earned my Bad Ass merit badge.

As a kid, I wasn't allowed anywhere near a four-wheeler. But on a thousand acre ranch, with my protective mother miles and miles away, I was all over that thing. And, after some coaxing, I was also all over driving a door-less, top-less jeep through an obstacle course of steep ravines and wash-outs, whooping and hollering, while Poison and Van Halen blared from the speakers.

Did you know people grew up having this kind of fun? I did not. But I did know that when my co-worker invited some of us up to his family's ranch for the weekend, that I had an education coming. An education in bad-assedness.

There was an incident where a poisonous snake was killed and I cried (minus five bad ass points), but I don't think that's something you could toughen out of me if you had a hundred weekends at the ranch and a hundred deadly snakes. I even had to have someone else take care of the scorpion in the guest house. But I jeeped, bow howdy, and we did not roll and no one died. I was proud.

By the end of the first evening, we were all sunburned and wearing a thick coat of dust and gritty grins. Seeing my normally buttoned up coworkers in ripped out jeans, dragging around chains and driving tractors and dump trucks was a lot like watching little boys play with Tonka trucks. I thought my face was going to stretch out from smiling so much. Fishing poles, shot gun shells, gas cans, horse bridles. Naps in the absolute silence. I don't know when I've been so relaxed.

As dinner wound down that night, I thought about how it might feel like chaos for some people - ten bodies packed around the dinner table, three different conversations running at once, dogs winding in and out, thick tails thumping against chair legs as they hovered for a piece of brisket - but for me, it was a slice of heaven. As the kitchen filled with the clink of silverware and chatter of kitchen clean-up, I turned to one of the boys and said, "I think this just might be my favorite sound ever." He looked a little confused, and his eyebrows raised for an explanation. "You know, like family." He nodded.