My homemaking skills are not what you would call... advanced. My apartment is usually pretty tidy and I always manage to have a spare roll of toilet paper or two and clean, fluffy towels for guests. But beyond that, I'm pretty amateur. The garbage constantly needs to be taken out, and I guarantee you that no one comes into this house saying, "Gee, I love the clever way in which you've... managed never to complete that shelving project in the living room." or "What a charming jumble of crap you've accumulated in your kitchen drawers!"

If they did, I just might have to question their sincerity.

The bathroom drawer has, since the day I moved in, been a particularly unattractive area - a true domestic failure. I'm forever yanking at it, hearing the contents inside fighting to keep it closed. And once open, it's a jumble of make-up and hair do-dads and essential eye goo. Q-tips and Advil and nail clippers. I'd attempted several times to clean it out, but like I said, it's essential stuff. I need it. Right there where I can get at it after a good, long game of tug-o-war.

Yesterday afternoon, Jamie and I were wandering the housewares section of TJMaxx (c'mon, don't pretend you don't love a bargain), and I saw it. A stationery organizer - the answer to all my problems. Well, not all my problems; it didn't offer me a job or cure my dry winter skin, but it sure saved me from being a bathroom drawer failure. People, I have never been so happy with a nine dollar purchase in all my life (and that's what I paid for my copy of Dirty Dancing - The Ultimate Edition). I keep sneaking in there to have a peek at my new bundle of joy. I even took a picture, I was so proud.

I like to think that in some small way, the success in my bathroom drawer makes up for the giant cardboard box that's sitting on my patio collecting rainwater and leaves - the one that's been there since the day I moved in. Like I said, I'm an amateur.

I just spent the last fifteen minutes drawing graffiti into my fogged-up patio doors.

I eat popsicles in bed - year round - and leave the sticks on the nightstand. I have an emotional attachment to my tweezers. I love cinnamon toast more than is reasonable. I talk too much, iron my sheets, and speak Spanish to my cat. I take beginning Italian classes on Sundays with my mother. We might be too smart for that class.

I sleep a lot when I'm stressed. I stay home Tuesday nights so I can watch The Real Housewives of Orange County. I have two drawers full of underwear. I like love to floss.

I have a counter full of perfume; I wear the same one every single day. On Christmas, I stopped short of accidentally referring to my stepBob as "dad." I distrust women who know too much about sports or carry Louis Vuitton. That shit is too expensive to be that ugly.

I have really nice hands, good cheekbones and bad posture. I am a terrible liar. I had a fling with a college student while I was in Italy. We set of the alarm at Yves St. Laurent in Florence. I hate whistling more than any other sound on the planet. I love to tease.

Your turn.

I just want to be let alone.

This is not, by any means, a dig at my traveling companion. If not for her, my stupid German-accented driving commentary wouldn't make a ripple. I love laughing ourselves to sleep and sharing desserts and playing the synonym game we play when trying to find new words for 'pretty.' Because, of course, Scotland is pretty. And gorgeous and exquisite. And... well, it's Angie's turn now.

I'm just not used to this. Eating, sleeping, teeth-brushing - I'm accustomed to doing it all alone, on my time, and to no soundtrack other than the thoughts in my own head. And Angie isn't really one for companionable silence. And that's totally alright - not everyone prefers to sit in absolute quiet. But boy, I sure do. I love quiet in the car, and quiet while I'm wandering, and I don't necessarily want to have the street signs read to me. But saying this kindly and diplomatically can be hard -- if not impossible -- because it's usually at wit's end that it occurs to me to mention it.

Speaking of the car and wit's end: Driving on the left side of the road is, incidentally, totally nerve-wracking. The streets here are incredibly narrow. And if it looks like a turning lane, it probably isn't. And if your GPS tells you to go right, she probably means left - so that's no help at all. And by the end of the day, I've very nearly had three strokes and a total emotional melt down, and then, I still have to buy gas at EIGHT DOLLARS a gallon. Man, am I glad I'm done with that whole thing and back on the train, letting someone else do the driving.

And even in all this missing my alone time, I know that when Angie leaves on Sunday, I will wish her back again to read me road signs.

As a side note: I have to say I'm amused by the comments that express displeasure that I'm blogging about traveling (and, god, the nerve, linking to where I've posted the photos I've been taking). I'm not sure what I'm expected to write about... when this is a personal blog, and personally I'm traveling right now. For the next several weeks. I'll be staying put in Barcelona next week, so I hope to be able to get out, meet the locals and have some fresh, funny stories. In the meantime, jump ship if you must, or stay and have a look at some photos I took in the shire and on the moor.

Heather: I have a game for you.

Ari: Ooh, fun!

Heather: Guess what I'm wearing.

Ari: Grey or black yoga pants, tank top, and Hal.

Heather: No. It's so out of character, you'll never get it.

Ari: Okay, a nun habit and cat o' nine tails?

Heather: Close! It is a torture-related device.

Ari: A Jewish star, yarmulke, and nothing else.

Heather: Shit, is today a holiday?

Ari: A corset?

Heather: No. A WATCH! I'm wearing a goddamn watch.

Ari: WHAT?!?

Heather: I know.

Ari: That makes it more of a holiday.

Heather: Did you feel it? The world just started spinning in the opposite direction.

This watch thing is a big deal for me. During my first week of my freshman year of college, my mom bought me a watch. Nothing fancy. Just a timepiece to help get me to class before roll call. When that sucker died two days before graduation, I believed it was a sign. I took off the watch and never replaced it. But now that I have places to be, trains to catch, and I won't be glued to a cell phone, wearing a watch is sort of necessary. Hateful, but necessary.

And, as it turns out, totally awkward. It feels weird. What's more, I'm not exactly sure where on my arm it's supposed to go. Right at the wrist? A little higher up? Is it too loose? Should I have a link removed?

People, there is just no end to the list of things I can worry about. I mean, a watch should not require this much pondering, but I put in the effort, because that's the kind of neurotic mess I am. Who knew I was one Timex away from a complete mental meltdown?

The Indiglo sure is pretty, though.

Whatever the opposite of awesome is, that's how I feel today. Blank, actually. That seems like the best word to describe this. I feel somewhat blank today.

I spent the first official morning of Unemployment wandering the mall. Oh, blessed contradiction. When I have no income, what do I do? I go shopping. Though, unless you count the two predictably-worded birthday cards I picked up in Papyrus, I didn't go buying. So no harm done, really.

I tried to do some buying at the grocery store later, and that's where I ran into trouble. I spent a solid hour there and couldn't manage to put anything in my cart. In the end, I went to the checkout counter with four containers of yogurt, a loaf of bread, and some toy mice for Hal. A Please don't hate me for leaving you for two weeks gift. My parents used to bring us Skittles or airplane goodies when they went away, and that always seemed to work. Taste the rainbow, Hal, and pretend I'm a good pet parent.

When I left the store, I sat at a stoplight on Lovers Lane and cried, because I realized what kind of predicament I'm in, exactly. The not having a job thing. It, too, is the opposite of awesome. When the light changed, I wiped my nose on my bare arm. I might have felt silly, boo-hooing, knowing that people in cars on both sides of me could see, but, well, I just learned that my father routinely falls asleep at red lights, and by comparison, crying seems far less absurd.

My trip West was so much more stressful than I'd imagined it being. Over the last week, we managed at least one crisis per day. Our personal best: fewer than six hours between the car breaking down and the dog running away. Even when you can see the humor in it (like, Henry Hill knocking my dad flat on his ass to ditch the house for a park adventure), it's perfectly exhausting. Especially if you're a fixer.

Hi. My name is Heather, and I'm a fixer.

Thing is, I rarely feel any sort of compulsion to please people. In fact, I piss people off all the time because my pretty little compulsion is to make things right. You there, why are you crying? This situation can be remedied! Here, let me. I know it comes across as bossy, and I imagine people resent it (how could they not?) that I care less about them liking me than I do about the ease and orderliness of their existence. In the absence of true leadership (i.e. someone who actually knows what they're doing), I will almost always appoint myself Person-in-Charge. I don't like to see people stressed, or in chaos, or crying. So I will do whatever it takes to stop it. Even if, it turns out, that means absorbing the stress myself. I might be broke, but I will make myself broker to stop you from crying. The end result being that I get cranky and need to nap a lot. Most of the last thirty-six hours, in fact.

Obviously, this is something I should be talking about to a therapist of some kind. But we'll save that for a time when I'm employed and insured. So, um, anyway, I think I'm going to go take a nap now.

February, 2007

I know I told you he was a liar and that he unstrung me. Ruined parts of me. So it might not make a whole lot of sense right now when I ask you - when I beg you - to lie to me.

I want to hear that you get it - that I'm exceptional, that you're fucking lucky that we met. That there isn't anyone who thinks like me, laughs like me. That there isn't anyone who deserves better than I do. And I want to hear endless excuses that you've taken time to build. Layers of lies to cover up for the times you let me down. I'd rather hear silver-polished loads of rubbish now and hate you for it later, than despise myself all along for tolerating your lazy indifference to me.

Either way, I'm the sucker. And it's easier to call you a liar than to own up to the fact that in your eyes, I wasn't worth the effort of deception.

"What the hell am I doing?"

Last night as I was laying in bed, begging myself to fall asleep, moving stress finally caught up with me. Big time.

What the hell am I doing? Which, incidentally, is not the same questions as, "Why am I doing it?" Because that answer to that one hasn't changed. Money, space, family. It's just that the logistics are starting to take their toll and the little things have been getting to me.

Like the cardboard box wasteland that used to be my living room. Or the thought of being without my creature comforts for weeks while my furniture is in transit. Twenty-one business days! What is that?! Or what kind of havoc it's going to wreak on Hal when I trap him in a cat carrier and drag him onto a plane. I mean, he's already pissed at me because he sees the suitcases laid out in my bedroom and thinks I'm running off again. Just wait til he hears he's going along.

That worry bothers me the most; cats are not known for their adaptability.

Do they actually make you take your pet out of the carrier at security? I can't imagine Sir Hal is going to be cool with that. At all. I'm hoping that's sort of... optional. If you have experience with pet travel, I'd love to hear about it. Just... no horror stories, please. I'm strung out and hopped up on pain killers. There's no telling what I might do.

Between Saturday and Wednesday of this week, I didn't do a whole lot of sleeping.

Which is why I've been a bit absent. And cranky and spacey and tired and really, really cranky. And, did I mention cranky?

See, where I work, there is no air conditioning. I know, right? That has to be illegal, but it’s not. Ten hours a day, sweating my ta-tas off, choking down rotting garbage smell just to catch a breeze – if that’s not a testament to how much I love those bratty little kids, I don’t know what is.

The only relief comes when at the end of a hot, sweaty workday, I get to go home to my climate control(ish) apartment. Ish. I mean, it’s a window unit. It has its limitations. And on Saturday, it became apparent that my little window air conditioner’s limit was about… 79 degrees. Once it hit 80, the poor old thing couldn’t keep up. And I couldn’t sleep.

Every night, I camped out on the living room couch, which is closer to the coolest air. With Sir Hal stretched out next to me on his back (dude was desperate to get some relief for that furry belly), I wiggled and fidgeted and sweated myself into a frustrated half-sleep. It went on this way for several nights.

Apparently, in my sleepless delirium one night, I did a little online shopping. I say ‘apparently’ because it was only after I got a Your item has shipped! email from Amazon that I even vaguely remember it happening. Sweet god, am I glad I don’t drink heavily. I’m uncomfortable enough with the idea that I don’t remember buying books. I can’t imagine what torment I’d go through if I couldn’t remember how I got home or who this snoring, hairy-backed dude was sleeping next to me.

So, why not buy a new air conditioner? Well, there’s the cost. Which, frankly, became much less of an issue after a few days on the couch. I missed my bed. I missed it a couple hundred bucks worth, at least. Then there was the issue of getting it home and getting it into the window. Those buggers are heavy! And two things I have very little faith in are my physical strength and my aptitude for things which require common sense and simple mechanics. I’m more of an ideas girl.

But after days and nights of being sweaty and exhausted…. Well, see this cut on my finger? That’s the battle wound I got installing my brand new, kick-ass AC unit last night. All. By. Myself.

That’s right. I just watched the entire sixth season of MacGyver. There’s nothing I can’t do.

(Except save Pete from Glaucoma. Because even Mac couldn't do that.)