I Love You Dog.

I am PEEING my pants. I just came across this video and I've watched it a million times.

If you are a dog lover, you will LOVE this.

I like lists.

I'm always making short "check-in" lists.

They contain: feelings, events, rants, raves, complete nonsense...whatever.

Here's my most recent list:

1) My tonsils are more swollen than Anna Nicole's tatas and I feel like I have cotton balls in my head. I realize it's probably totally un-pc to refer to Anna Nicole's titties now that she's dead, but she was a wasted, washed-up, freak of nature, so I'm feeling fine about it. Plus, I'm bitchy sick. Ask April.



2) I have a real issue with self righteous, pious people. You know the kind. The ones who feel absolutely entitled to say exactly what they feel, when they feel it, regardless of how it may affect other people. They have all the answers. Oddly enough, these are the very SAME people least equipped to handle criticism coming their way - even if it's constructive. If you can't take it, DO NOT DISH IT OUT. I had a run in with a person like this today and it's made me crazy. Make that 'crazier.'

3) I wanna see the new Jodie Foster movie, "The Brave One." Her movie opens on my birthday. You can't be gay and not love her. They'll revoke your lesbian card. Also on the card are: having a toaster oven, being able to play softball, owning 25+ visors, being a fan of Ellen and KD Lang, and knowing the all the words to the movie Desert Hearts. Some of my readers are shaking their heads vigorously right now.

4)I have to go to the bathroom.

ok, back. thanks for waiting.

5) I'm re-reading the Harry Potter series (books 1-5). DO NOT tell me what happens in the final two books. I'm nearly through book 4 again. I wanted to re-read them because I'd forgotten so much of what happened. I've had to be all stealth like, skimming through newspapers, tv and radio because I don't want to hear how it ends. I was in the airport reading book 4 last week when this guy came up to me and said, "Hey, you're reading them again? Could you believe that - "

"STOP!" I admit. I yelled a little bit. I panicked. "I haven't read the last two books yet." I lowered my level and explained.

"Oh! Good thing you stopped me. I totally would have ruined it for you."

Totally. I've been reading like a fiend. I will kill the person who ruins it for me.

6)I love kissing my dogs on the teeth. I don't think it's weird. My friend Jenni says "Heather, it's okay to love your dogs, just don't LOVE your dogs." I don't care. I'm not ashamed about it. I'll full on make out with my dogs. So there.

7) I had the highest number of visitors to my site yesterday! People should probably sit down for this number. It was 79. Seriously, I know that is peanuts to most of you bloggers, but it was the bees knees for me. I suggested April buy me a diamond bracelet to celebrate my achievement. She said she'd get right on it.

8) Britney Spears in bonkers. I feel sad for Owen Wilson - I love his movies. Nick Hogan should be spanked for nearly killing his friend in a street race - and not by a hot blond model. Lindsay Lohan should not treat rehab like a day spa. Jerry Springer should have capitalized on his feel-good PR after doing "Dancing With The Stars" instead of going back to his heinous TV show. Speaking of TV shows, I actually really like the Tyra Banks show.

9) I think I'm going to have to get braces again. Totally sucks. I didn't wear my retainer as long as I was instructed to after my braces came off the first time and my teeth have moved. Two of my teeth actually "lock" and since I'm a grinder, I give myself head aches all the time. I'm totally pissed off about it. I think my mom wants me to pay her back for all the money she spent on the first go-round...

10) I can't get enough of Heather Green's music. She's an unsigned artist out of LA and she's fucking phenomenal. I hit up her Myspace page daily and put her songs on rotate. I love them all, but my favorite is a song called "LA." Check her out and let me know what you think. Her Myspace page can be found HERE.

Peace love and puppies kids.

Oral Histories are the bomb diggity.

Ya'll know how much I love my granny.

If you don't know, take a second and read my Repeat Yearly. Please. Repeat Yearly. entry.

When I say LOVE, I mean: my heart refuses to entertain the idea that there will ever be a day when she won't be with us.

She's the ONLY person who makes me giggle when she calls me Feather. All others receive the evil eye.

She can't walk past me without patting me on the bottom.

Her way of letting me know that she was okay with my "gayness" was to tell me how much she likes "that Ellen girl on TV."

How cute is that.

I thought I knew lots about my granny.

Until my third year of college at Florida State University.

I had a communications professor who was trying to make a point. He believed that although folks are well-intentioned, most of us have our heads up our butts and are really interested only in ourselves.

"How many of you could tell me, right now, a story about your grandparents childhood?"

I started to raise my hand. Then had to put it down, surprised I had nothin'.

"It's not unusal to see so few hands. I believe the oral histories of our grandparents and elders are priceless. Most of us never bother to ask our elders any questions. We are happy to let them spoil us. Your assignment is to interview someone over the age of 70 and write about the experience."

I was actually really excited. Thanksgiving was right around the corner and I couldn't wait to interview my granny.

When I told her my assignment, she was shocked.

"You want to know about MY life?"

"Yep, I do."

She settled in to her chair and I sat at her feet. I pushed PLAY on my recorder and learned some really cool stuff.

- My granny was one of a gaggle of kids

- All the kids slept in a loft in an old OLD farmhouse. In the winter, they'd put up a blanket to cover the window (there was no glass). They'd sleep all huddled up because, despite the blanket, snow would pile in on top of them.

- The kids truly DID walk a mile, uphill to school

- She met my grandfather, Robert, after she moved into a boarding house. She was in her room when she heard someone playing the piano downstairs. She went to check it out and fell instantly in love with the man in uniform who was tickling the ivory keys

- Although she no longer has the tiaras or sashes, she won a few pageants in her day

- When my grandfather went off to war, she worked in a plant making airplanes (how cool is THAT)!

I was so taken with my grandmother's past that my interview lasted several hours. I wrote my paper that night and read it to my father.

He didn't know any of it.

When I returned to school, I thanked my professor profusely for the assignment and am now a huge proponent of recording memories.

Me and my granny:



I save all my blogs in a notebook and hope that one day, future generations will get a kick out of them. I'm certain the blog about my first period will be a turning point for young girls yet to be born into my crazy family line.

How could it not be?

Brenda Lee!

I'm sitting here in my office and happened to look out my window.

Brenda Lee is walking the 'hood, hunting for change.

I couldn't help but snap a picture for you kids.

She's pretty amazing. I think she'd love to know she was "famous" in a blog.

If you are wondering who Brenda Lee is, you can check out my blog about her HERE.

No arguing. Period.

Warning: if you are male, this post will likely make you uneasy. It may even cause cold sweats and a little vomit to find its way into your mouth. Read at your own risk...

I was "that girl." The one that developed far faster than any of my skinny friends. In third grade, Meredith and Brookie were still stick figures with beautiful hair and really hip knee socks. I'd already started to pudge out and get "knobs" on my boobs.

I HATED that. I wanted to look like the other girls with my shirt flat against my chest. My knobs (and belly) were holding me back.

My mother started hinting about shopping for bras and I revolted. I was having none of that.

I knew my friends would be able to see I was wearing a bra and it never crossed my mind that they might find it "cool." I did not want to be different.

Here's what you need to know about my mother. There is no gray. There is white and there is black. You have knobs. You need a bra. Period.

My youthful angst meant nothing.

I cried and I cried.

I wore thick shirts (in the middle of summer) to hide my shame.

A few months later, all my friends started doing exercises while repeating the phrase "I must, I must, I must increase my bust." As soon as they'd start, I'd find a way to disappear, wishing with all my might that I could GIVE them mine.

Slumber parties lost their charm for me. In the middle of the night, girls would rip their shirts off and start evaluate who was "growing" and who had the best chance to get a boyfriend. I already knew that *I* had the biggest boobs and I'd NEVER want a boyfriend. It all seemed so unfair.

But none of that was anything compared to being the first girl in my class to get her PERIOD.

Talk about trauma.

Halfway through my fifth grade year, I was sitting on the toilet with a fist full of toilet paper. I wiped and stared.

And stared.

There was blood.

I freaked out. Not because I thought I was dying. I knew what periods were. My mother was always very open (more than I'da liked) about her period.

I JUST DIDN'T WANT TO HAVE ONE.

"Mom...?" I croaked.

No answer.

"MOM!!!"

"What?!"

"Can you come here, please?"

"I'm making dinner. What do you need?"

"MOM! COME HERE!"

I heard the spatula hit the pan and a big sigh.

Her footsteps down the stairs.

The door opened.

I showed her my toilet paper.

"Oh. Yep. Looks like you got your period. Hold on."

Moments later, she was back and throwing a TAMPON at me.



"Just make sure you get it in right."

After a very quick tutorial, she was back upstairs and telling my DAD.

I wanted to die.

And I had no fucking clue what to do with a tampon.

Years later when I was in high school, my friends and I talked about getting our periods and ALL of my friends had mothers who gave them the whole "aw, you're a woman now" speech and showed them how to use a PAD. They said their moms didn't feel comfortable with them using tampons at such an early age.

For my mom, it was like, "Stick it in and set the table."

I remember staring at the tampon for a long time.

Mortified.

I did my best to defile my own body. All I'll say is it wasn't pretty.

I trudged up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to never have to look at my father again.

He didn't meet my eyes. I was grateful.

The moment we sat down at the dinner table, I knew something wasn't right. I started fidgeting.

Then my mother, who'd never even considered that this might be a private and difficult moment for me, started laughing.

My dad and my brother looked at her.

"Heather, you don't have the tampon in right, do you? You can feel it?"

OH MY GOD.

SERIOUSLY?!

My fork clattered to the table. I'm sure I turned all sorts of red.

I couldn't even speak.

"Come with me, we'll put another one in."

I followed her back down the stairs, certain that death would be less painful than living at that moment.

Back in the bathroom, I asked:

"Isn't there something else I can use? I don't like these."

"Don't be silly. Wearing a pad is like wearing a diaper and people can see when you wear one. Besides, you have swim practice and you can't wear a pad. You need to figure this out."

Dear God. I had forgotten about swim practice. What if I bleed in the pool?

I wanted to cry.

My mother WATCHED as I tried several times to get a tampon in.

Finally, I had moderate success.

I skipped swim practice and went straight to bed. And prayed I'd die.

Knobs and bleeding? My life was over.

Somehow I managed to survive it all and am happy to report no issues with tampon use. No thanks to my mother.

Just in case you were wondering....

Sore throat.

I have one.

Grr.

April hopes I lose my voice.

Ha Ha Ha

Must See TV.

I think April is worried about me.

She won't say it out loud.

But I catch the sideways glances. The nearly imperceptible head shakes. The raised eyebrows.

I don't have a problem.

I can quit any time.

Besides, the choice is already being made for me.

There's hardly an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit that I haven't seen. Eventually, I'll have to quit watching.

But for now:

Every night, our routine is the same.

We crawl into bed and April reaches for Newsweek while I scramble to turn on the TV and grab the TIVO control.

I already know, before I even get into bed, that there will be 6-7 episodes of Law & Order saved on our digital recorder. This knowledge prompts me (on a regular basis) to thank the TV Gods for the show's long run and USA network for airing it nearly non-stop.

Every show starts with the same introduction. And even though it causes April to roll her eyes at me, I deepen my voice and say along with the TV:

In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories....DUH DUH!

Within seconds of the story unfolding, I'll know if I've seen the particular episode. If I've seen it, I delete it and go to the next recorded episode.

Repeat cycle (including the whole introduction bit).

Seen it? Delete it. On to the next episode.

Repeat cycle.

Cue April's sideways glances and raised eyebrows.

"WHAT?"

"Nothing," she'll say, burying her nose back in her magazine.

My love for the show is matched only by my love for Mariska Hargitay. Dear Lord.





The moment she fills my screen, I yell:

"SHE'S HOT!"

"Mhmmm."

"Seriously, Apes. You know if Mariska ever wanted to 'get with me,' I'll have to do it right? I mean, you'd understand. It's YOU I love, but I couldn't deny Mariska if the opportunity presented itself..."

"Mhmmm. If Mariska Hargitay, who is happily married and the mother of a young son, ever wants to 'get with you,' feel free."

"You don't think it'll ever happen, do you? Nice. Way to kill my dreams. I thought you promised to always be supportive."

"Mhmmm."

Hurmph.

Whatever.

I know the truth. One day Mariska and I will meet and April will see that all my stalking - scratch that, I mean viewing - will have paid off.

Until then, I'll have to scour my TIVO and hope to catch at least ONE episode I haven't seen before...

Making sense of change

Brenda Lee lives across the street.

She's in her late forties, but mentally identifies with young children.

She lives on her own, but a case worker stops by daily to make sure she is doing well.

Every morning, Brenda Lee puts on her favorite teddy bear t-shirt, steps into her blue shorts, her pink crocks and straps her blue fanny pack to her waist.

She'll triple check to make sure her door is locked before taking a left out of her apartment. She walks the neighborhood, greeting anyone within shouting distance.

It's amazing that she sees anyone to greet them. Her eyes are always glued to the ground.

"What is she doing?" I asked April, shortly after I moved in.

"That's Brenda Lee. She looks for spare change every day. I asked her once how much money she finds per day and she said sometimes she finds 30 cents. One day she found $3."

"Wow."

I kind of felt sad for Brenda Lee.

But then I met her.

Brenda Lee is happiest when she's out looking for change. To date, she's recovered something like $65.00 and she's very proud of it.

I asked her how long she spends looking every day.

"Oh, sometimes one hour, sometimes two. It gives me good exercise and I always find money on the street right here." She pointed to the corner outside her house.

"That's great," I said, thinking it likely that whoever parks in that spot loses change when he/she opens the door.

At least, that's what I thought before I got up early one morning and happened to glance out the window as April pulled out of our driveway.

She drove by that very corner, the one outside Brenda Lee's house, and threw something out the window.

I didn't need to see the sun catch the coins or hear them clatter to the ground to know that April was Brenda Lee's anonymous benefactor.

A smile crept across my face and a tear threatened to trickle down my cheek.

April's car sped away and I walked out of the house to the corner.

My own eyes scanned the street and I counted 62 cents.

Walking back to our house, I thanked God for April and filed the memory under life-"changing" events.

A little kindness goes a long way, kids.

You know you're at a lesbian wedding when...

You know you're at a lesbian wedding when....you're girlfriend dated one of the brides.

Most people are separated by nine degrees of separation. Only one-and-a-half degrees separate lesbians. The Showtime series the L-Word illustrates this perfectly with "The Chart," a diagram showing how it is possible that if you traced the sexual histories of everyone you slept with, you'll find that you have actually slept with your own sister. Ex: You slept with Lisa. Lisa slept with Sarah. Sarah slept with Jess. Jess slept with Moira. Moira slept with your "straight" sister after they met one night at a bar. Ergo: you feel dirty.

But back to the lesbians I know.

We're in New Jersey today for the wedding of Jamynne and T, a couple that we absolutely adore. Jamynne and April actually dated for many years a long time ago. No secret, both T and I were aware of this and we all get along famously.

Here's what I found hysterical.

After the ceremony, which was beachfront and absolutely perfect, April and I headed into the club for the reception. On a table was a photo album that the brides put together that traced their lives from infancy to current day.

We oohed and ahhed at the baby pictures. Laughed at the adolescent pictures. Then we flipped to the after-college photos.

I hear:

"Hey, she's wearing my sweater in that photo!"

and

"Hey, that photo was taken at our apartment!"

and

"aww, that was right after we picked out Scruffy and brought him home!" (Scruffy = dog)

I looked at April and said

"If I turn the page and see a photo of a bed, I dare you to say, 'awww, and that was where the magic happened,'"....

To which she replied

"Okay. Awww, see that couch, THAT's where the magic happened..."

I hit her.

Twice.

Seriously, though, I've never been more emotional at a wedding. When Jamynne and T walked down the aisle, I was a blubbering idiot.

I turned to Apri and said

"Damn, you'da thought *I* was the one who dated her!"

The brides were stunning and the ceremony beautiful.



But I only had eyes for my girl.





How can you not love this face?



She knows who her magic-maker is. That bruise on her arm serves as a really really good reminder.

Jay and T: we LOVE you. and we'll see out dancing tonight. and we will sing kareoke. but only if they have Harper Valley PTA.

We ate at EAT

My trip to New Orleans (for work) has been far too short, but I did manage to lose $10 at Harrah's casino and play with Suzi and her adorable husband Sarat for two nights in a row.

And by "play" with them, I mean we ate dinner (I know you people and how your minds work. gutter. gutter. gutter.)

Tonight we strolled down Bourbon street and passed: Hustler's hot lap dancers, the Bourbon Cowboy, a transvestite dancing in a window, a man holding a sign that read HUGE ASS BEERS, and t-shirt shops selling merchandise that read:

FEMA evacuation plan: RUN, BITCH, RUN!

We ended up at a little restaurant/cafe called EAT where we had a very gay twink of a waiter who was more concerned with his hair than with knowing what was on the menu. But the food was good and the company even better.

As we were signing the check and getting ready to leave, a conversation transpired between Suzi and her husband and I was reminded of why I love her so much.

Suzi (signing the check): "Wow, I really like this pen. I may steal it."

Me (horrified): "Klepto!"

Suzi (rolling eyes): "Sarat's the klepto. He steals glasses from bars. You know, the really nice beer glasses?"

Me (horrified): "You do?!"

Sarat (calmly): "Yes. But I'm not a klepto. I don't have a compulsion to take them. I just want them. I STEAL them. What I'm telling you is that I'm not a klepto, I'm a straight up criminal."

Suzi (putting her purse over her shoulder): "I think it's totally wrong, but he has to steal one more. We only have seven and my need for order and equal numbers outweighs any moral convictions I might have about my husband being a thief."

Strangely, I understand that.

And I think she stole that pen.

Friends don't let friends call wrong numbers.

This is a message for my friend Christine.

However, if you aren't Christine, you are still invited to read it. Perhaps you'll learn a very important lesson.

Dear Christine:

I realize you are in the midst of moving from Phoenix to Atlanta right now, but it's imperative that you LET YOUR FRIENDS KNOW WHEN YOU CHANGE YOUR CELL NUMBER.

"Why?" you ask?

I'll tell you why.

Yesterday, as I was driving my rented Sebring (complete with three small cracks in the windshield and the word "bitc" - bitch misspelled- written in pen on the steering wheel), you crossed my mind.

Somewhere between Hattiesburg, Mississippi and New Orleans, I thought about all the changes in your life and figured you might want some comic relief. I thought long and hard about my funniest fart story and practiced my delivery several times.

Once I was ready, I fumbled through my TREO to find your number and pressed SEND.

Of course, my TREO dropped the call and I had to go through the process again.

Ring. Ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, what's up hussy?"

"Hello?"

"I SAID, what's up hussy? You're going to pretend like you don't know who this is? Like lots of people call up and are as disrespectful as I am?"

Weird, uncomfortable laughter.

"Are you okay?" I asked, sensing that perhaps you needed a comforting friend instead of a funny one at this particular moment.

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You do know that this is Heather, right?"

"Oh. Hi."

Trying not to let your luke warm response hurt my feelings, I told myself you have a lot going on right now and it's not about me, it's about you.

"So, um, how's the move to Atlanta going?"

"What move?"

Silence.

"Shit. You aren't Christine are you?"

"No. I'm Amy."

"Oh. Um. Hi Amy. Clearly my friend changed her number."

"Oh."

"So, well, okay. Goodbye. And sorry about the whole 'hussy' thing. I don't really think Christine is a hussy. It's really a term of endearment. Just so you know."

"Oh. Okay."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

Listen Christine, I don't need your help making a complete ass of myself. I do just fine on my own.

Hussy.

Now call me and give my your new cell number.

Damnit.

Love,

Heather

It sounded like...fllwwp....fllwwp

True story.

A while back, April and I were driving home from spending a long weekend in Hilton Head.

It was late Sunday afternoon.

'Bout 5 hours from home, we heard:

flllwwwp....fllllwwp...

The car started pulling and bouncing up and down.

"What the fuck?" I yelled.

"Pull over! The tire just blew!"



I made my way to the shoulder of the road. Got out. Cussed a lot.

Perpendicular to the interstate, on a service road, a jalopy of a truck was inching by (inching, not driving).

The driver hollered:

"You'uns have a flat tire?"

"Looks like it," I yelled back, stopping for a brief second to look his way before resuming the task of unloading my packed trunk in order to get to my spare tire.

"I work for a mechanic just up the road a bit. Why don't you uns meet us there and I'll change yer tire. It's off the next exit on the right."

April and I exchanged furtive glances. It was late Sunday afternoon. No other service stations would be open, we couldn't make it home on a donut tire and we had to be at work the next day.

"He's a little man. I can take him if he tries any funny business," I muttered to April.

She gave him a good once over and nodded her head in agreement.

"All right. We'll meet you there. I just gotta put my spare tire on."

He gave us a thumbs up and drove off.

Before I could call upon the tire-changing experience I'd gained under the watchful eye of my father, a nice guy pulled over and changed it for me.

We thanked him and drove to the service station off the next exit.

The lot was empty.

We waited. And waited. And waited.

"Maybe they were fucking with us," I said.

"Maybe."

Just as we were getting ready to leave, the beater truck came ambling up.

Two of the roughest looking guys you've ever seen stumbled out of the car. According to his shirt, Dale was the name of our rescuer.

I felt better when I saw him open the garage with a key instead of a fist or kick to the door.

He grabbed the first tire he came to and said, "$80 for the tire, $20 for the labor."

"$100? That's really high for one tire. What kind of tire is that anyway? I've never even heard of that brand."

"It's the only tire I got right now and it's $100 cash. You're welcome to see if you can find someone else who will open on Sunday night for you."

Fucker knew he had me. And I knew that my $100 was going directly into his pocket.

I stared him down for a minute and then gave in.

"Fine. Go Ahead."

He changed the tire.

I gave him the money.

He said:

"You girls were just lucky that me and my cousin decided to grab a 12-pack of beer and go out for a drive. Otherwise, you'd still be stuck."

um. yeah. lucky for us.



morons. God love the South.

Memory.

The other day, Lisa (LIFEPRINTS blogger), wrote a post about dog-therapy and it reminded me about how much fun my pup Rosie and I used to have when we'd visit the old folks home.

I was living in Charlotte, NC at the time and was looking for a new volunteer opportunity as I'd just told the ladies of the Junior League to bite my ass because I'd been privy to more than one conversation that bordered on extreme racism. I wanted no part of it, their doctor husbands, Bunko games or big hair bows - and I told them so. After my tirade, the Jr. League president warned me that if I quit I'd be "black listed" and unable to ever join again. All I could say to that was "thank God measures are in place to protect me from myself should I ever lose my sanity and want to join again."

Not long after my run in with the "bow-girls," I joined a pet-therapy group and we toured our dogs through a local nursing home twice a month. I enjoyed and dreaded our visits. The undeniable joy on the faces of the patients kept me coming back; but the sad physical and mental state of many of them wore heavily on my heart.

Reminded me of my own mortality.

One man in particular touched me so greatly that I can't think about him without tearing up. Rosie and I were on our normal rounds, visiting all the regulars. We'd already gushed over "Miss Juanita's" LARGE costume jewelry and made sure that Mr. Samuel knew we agreed with him that the nursing home was really a spaceship and the nurses were "aliens made pretty."

As we turned the last corner, I noticed a very good-looking man standing in the doorway of the last room on the right. He was in his late sixties, impeccably dressed and reminded me a great deal of my father.

I wondered who he was visiting.

As we got closer, he smiled and crouched down to pet Rosie.

"Would you like us to come in?"

"Very much so. Thank you."

We walked into the room and I looked immediately to the bed.

It was empty.

"My boys just moved me in here today," he said, quietly.

Startled, I turned to look at him. He looked so...so not like all the other residents.

I didn't know what to say, so I just sat.

He pulled Rosie up on his lap, massaged her ears and smiled as she licked his chin.

"I don't feel like I belong here, but...I just can't remember things. It's too much for my boys, they all have families and don't have time to make sure I don't wander off and get lost. They promise they'll visit..." His voice trailed off.

I was still having trouble reconciling what I was seeing with what he was telling me. He looked like he belonged in a corner office behind a mahogany desk peppered with pictures of his grand kids.

He began to sob. Gut wrenching sobs. Rosie lapped his tears and I slowly got up to touch his shoulder.

"One minute I feel fine, the next I can't remember my name. Tommorrow I won't remember that you were here, being kind enough to visit with me."

"I'll remember," I whispered.

He gave a watery smile.

"I remember some things. Like the day 45 years ago when I met Sarah. She was at the local diner and I knew right away I was going to marry her. She was wearing a red and white checkered dress and had the prettiest brown hair and eyes you've ever seen. My Sarah."

"She sounds wonderful."

"She was," he whispered. "I can remember every moment of that day 45 years ago, but there are days that I don't remember that she's dead and I can't recall if I got to say goodbye. I just wake up, calling for her, and she's not here. Why can't I remember if I told her I loved her? Why can't I remember that!"

He hung his head, tears silently streaming down his face.

I wiped my own tears, feeling like I'd known and loved this man all my life.

"I'm sorry," I said, unsure of what to say or do. I stood, fidgeting, praying the right words would come out of my mouth.

"Will you come visit me again? You and your dog?"

"I will, I promise."

"You won't forget? Even if I will?"

I nodded.

"Even if you will."

I left his room and walked numbly to my car. I started the ignition and realized I didn't even know his name.

The next time Rosie and I showed up for duty, I headed for his room first. I knocked on the door and saw an elderly woman lying in the bed, her leg amputated from the knee down. She didn't want any "damn dogs" visiting her room, so we left and went in search of a nurse.

I found one, but she didn't know who used to have that room and even if she did, she couldn't give out his information.

I don't know his name. I don't know why he left so quickly.

I do know that I'll never forget our visit.

Even if he will.

Ya'll Come Back Now, Ya Hear!

Hey kids -

I'm still here, just gonna be posting later on in the day for the next week. I'm traveling and on the road for business, so don't have as much access to my computer during the day.

So don't go finding another funny blog written by a funny lesbian.

You hear?

A few quick notes:

1) Trying to post from your handheld TREO while sitting in the Memphis airport is impossible

2) They are making airplanes so small now that I fear I am carrying the child of the nice guy who was sitting next to me (..make that, ON me)

3) I love kids, but if you know your kid is a LOUD TALKER, he should be gagged. So that he can't yell: "Ooo! I see lots of pools!" and "Ooo! I see cars!" and "Ooo! I see our house!" and on and on and on. It makes me want to yell: "Ooo! I see a little gagged boy under his seat!"

Gotta run - I'll be posting later!

Heather

Weekend Laffy Taffy

I was going to write some kind of clever "lead-in" for this joke, but nothing is as funny as the joke itself, so I'm just gonna get to it.

Here it is. my favorite joke. as told to me by a family member.

(i know, i know. i continue to come more and more into focus with every post).

So, there's this elderly couple and they are going on a 7-day cruise to celebrate sixty-five years of marriage.

They are boarding the luxury cruise liner when Esther gasps out loud.

"What is it dear?" asked Milton.

"Oh, mercy! I've forgotten my hearing aids at home."

"Don't worry love. It's too late to do anything about them now and I'll help you with anything you need."

Uncertain about spending a week without her "ears," Esther sighed and followed her husband to their room.

Upon opening the door to their cabin, they found they'd been assigned a room with bunk beds.

Milton felt like a kid and loved the idea. It was clear Esther was regretting the trip and they hadn't even pulled out of port yet.

Expectantly, Milton turned to his wife and said:

"Up or down, honey?"

A look of sheer terror passed across Esther's face and she asked him to repeat himself.

He spoke louder and said "UP OR DOWN, HONEY?"

Trembling, Esther took of her clothes and jumped Milton's bones, reminding him of their stolen teenage moments in the barn behind her house. It'd been three years since he'd even been allowed to let lil' johnny out to play.

They enjoyed their first full day on the cruise and as they were walking back to the room, Milton began to get excited again. He hoped Esther was feeling as energized as he was. He'd even washed all his 'bits' just in case she said yes.

He shut the door to their room and repeated his "lucky phrase."

"Up or down, honey?"

"Whaa..?"

"UP OR DOWN, HONEY?"

Much to his delight, Esther ripped off her clothes and mauled him again.

This repeated every night they were on the cruise.

The first thing Esther did upon her arrival at home was to put in her hearing aides.

Later that night, they climbed into their large, queen-sized bed and Milton decided to go for it. Again.

"Up or down, honey?"

"What?" Esther looked at him quizzically.

"UP OR DOWN, HONEY?!"

"Stop screaming at me. And what in God's name are you saying?"

Frustrated, Milton replied:

"For the last week on the cruise, I'd ask you 'up or down, honey' and you'd take off all your clothes and well, you know, play with mister-down-there."

Relief washed over Esther's face as she said

"THAT'S what you were saying! I thought you were saying 'Fuck or Drown!'"

...i peed in my pants a little i laughed so hard.

ps. OMYWORD, how's that for a "potty mouth" and "gutter gums".....

MacGyver is not dead.

You remember MacGyver, right? The hero of that 80's sitcom who could fix ANYTHING?

TV.Com describes him as:

A different kind of hero - he doesn´t use weapons, he´s afraid of heights, and he´s an expert at making complicated machines out of ordinary things. A fan, a dough-scraper and some duct tape forms an excellent helicopter attack. A cut credit card can help cause a traffic jam. A light bulb makes an outstanding set of lock picks....

I loved this show and was devastated when it went off the air (gay pre-cursor?)

But I am relieved to report that MacGyver is not dead.

He lives with me now. Only he is a her and her name is April.

I have proof of the photo variety.

But before we get to said proof:

We're having a small issue with getting Rosie, our middle dog, to pee outside. There's something about our wood floors that screams "TOILET" to her.



She's not a puppy. She's 6 years old. She doesn't have any type of infection or illness. She's just stubborn. That's it. So stubborn that she'll pee right in front of you, ignoring your obscenities and flapping arms.

Yesterday morning at the butt crack of dawn, our poodle, Jean-Paul, started whining which means he needs to pee.



"It's your turn," I said to April.

"Murmph."

"Murmph all you want. OUTSIDE. It's your turn."

"Okay, okay."

"Take Rosie with you."

"Okay."

I fell back into a dead sleep only to be woken 25 minutes later by April screaming:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! DAMN IT ROSIE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I pretended to be asleep. I already knew what had happened. At least, I thought I knew what had happened.

Ten minutes later, April stomped up the steps and back into our bedroom.

"Your daughter just peed IN THE HOUSE! But not where she normally pees. I am furious. We have the most ignorant dog on the planet!"

"Didn't you take her outside?" I asked in my best 'non accusatory' tone.

"She wouldn't GO outside. But the other two did and I curled up on the couch to wait for them. I fell asleep and the next thing I know, I hear what I think is someone filling up a water bucket with a hose. Do you want to know what I was ACTUALLY hearing?"

"Um, Rosie?"

"YES, ROSIE. I looked over and she was peeing IN our floor vent. The sound I heard was her piss hitting the metal vent! Do you have ANY idea what that will smell like? (mumbled cursing)!"

"I'll take 'not good' for $500. So, um, what did you do?"

"Right now I'm doing nothing except trying to figure out how I'm going to reach down the vent and mop up all that urine. And after I figure that piece out, I'm going to put a plug in Rosie's twat. (mumbled cursing)."

"Okay," I said, thinking that a twat plug might be a tad bit unnecessary.

A few hours later, I walked into our living room to find that April - I mean, MacGyver - had brainstormed a solution for the pee-pee problem.

"Wow, Ape. That's um, some kind of...what IS it?"



"It's a yardstick that I wrapped in a plastic bag and then covered in paper towels so I could reach all the way into the vent to get the pee out."

"I see. What's all the masking tape for?"

"To keep the paper towels on the stick."

"Uh huh. And why the plastic bag?"

She looked at me like I was totally dense and then said

"So the yardstick won't get dirty, Heather."

Riiiiiiiiiiight. I HAVE mentioned she has a bit of a neurotic clean-freak thing, right?

She calls it "features" of OCD. I call it crazy.



But who cares:

MacGyver Lives! MacGyver Lives!

Pixar Animation's Worst Nightmare

My friend T just told me the most hysterical story ever.

EVER.

T is a single mom. Her son Joseph is the most adorable kid ever.

EVER.

Joseph starts kindergarten this year and is incredibly smart and a gifted communicator. I'll be having a conversation with him about quantum physics before I remember that he shouldn't know more than I do.

The other day I was explaining to T that I often worry when I have children, they will have potty mouths. I can just imagine one day getting a call from my son or daughter's day care because my kid called someone a "little fucker."

T started laughing hysterically. Not because what I said was so funny (she knows just how real a concern it is), but because of something Joseph had just done.

Here's our convo recap:

"Girrrrrrrrrrl, you are going to have to watch that mouth of yours. Joseph said something the other day that nearly caused me to have a car accident. And I couldn't blame him because I KNOW where he heard it."

"Nu-uh! What did he say?!"

"Well, he really wanted to stay and look at the toys in Walmart, but we'd already been to McDonald's and run a few other errands so I was ready leave."

"Uh-huh."

"We get to the car and he's still pouting and throwing a fit. Even after I get him in his car seat, he's crying and carrying on. We're almost home and I see his Nemo stuffed animal on the floor and I hand it to him. You know how he LOVES his Nemo stuff."

"Mh-hmmm. I do. He's made me watch the movie with him 9 times."

"Right! Well, I handed him his toy and said, 'Here, play with Nemo until we get home. He'll make you feel better.' You know what that child said back?"

"What?"

"FUCK NEMO!"

"No he didn't!"

"Yes, he did. 'FUCK NEMO' and then threw the toy on the ground. I couldn't believe it."



HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Later, as I was relaying that story to April, she made a very good observation. So good, in fact, that I had to call T to let her know:

"T, April says you should at least be proud of him for getting the context right. How many kids are smart enough at that age to understand the appropriate context AND voice inflection?"

Something tells me T probably never patted Joseph on the back for those things...

As for me, I can no longer just say FUCK when I'm mad. It has to be FUCK NEMO. And if there are little ones around, I just scream NEMO!

People look at you really strange when you just yell NEMO!....

Assume Much?

Last night April and I went to the Melting Pot to celebrate our 2-year anniversary.

When I called to make the reservation a week ago, the nice young man who answered the phone asked me if we were celebrating anything.

I paused for a second because I knew if I said "anniversary," he'd make a note of it so that whoever showed us to our table could mention our big day.

I also knew that instead of well-wishes, we'd most likely be met with awkwardness because our barley-twenty-year-old hostess would be expecting a man and woman, not two women.

So, I said:

"Yep. Anniversary."

The way I see it, the more people exposed to it, the more accepting people are of it. Us "gays" eat just like the straights - we use forks, and knives, and everything!

We arrived at the Melting Pot a few minutes late because April took me to Circuit City first so I could pick out my anniversary gift - a new Cannon digital camera (it ROCKS).

Upon our arrival, we walked up to the hostess stand and answered the "do you have reservations?" question.

"Yep." I gave my last name and waited for the moment.

They didn't disappoint.

One of the girls looked at the computer screen and not-so-stealthily poked her co-worker so she could have a look.

Then they looked at each other.

Then back at us.

Then at each other again.

I continued to stare directly at them. April was oblivious to it all as she had no idea I'd alerted them that it was our anniversary.

"Um, okay, please follow me this way," said our completely baffled hostess.

We followed her to a cozy booth in the back and as she sat us, I notice a card on the table.

I didn't even have to look at it to know.

It was addressed to: Mr. and Mrs. My Last Name.



No wonder our lovely hostess was so uneasy. She'd probably been the one, moments before our arrival, to write out our sweet little anniversary card and place it on the table.

She hastily put our menus down and ran off. Which is a good thing because I could not contain my laughter any longer.

"What?" April said.

I pushed the card toward her and her eyes got really really big.



"Oh my god. They are probably dying right now."

"Uh huh. Serves them right. They should just write 'Happy Anniversary' on the card and not assume who might be celebrating. I knew this would happen."

If only I could have been a fly on the wall back up at the hostess station....

This kind of thing happens all the time, though.

Like...when you get a new gynecologist and you're filling out the paperwork.

Are you sexually active? Yes.

Do you use protection? No.

You hand the paperwork to your doctor so he/she can review it with you. You know when they get to "that" portion of the questionnaire because their eyebrows shoot up and they start in immediately about how important condoms are against the spread of sexually transmitted diseases and unwanted pregnancy.

"Are you aware of those things?" he/she will ask.

"Yes."

"But you still feel like you don't need to protect yourself by using condoms?"

"Correct."

"Why?"

"I'm gay."

"Oh. OH. OHHH. Okay, well, um...Yes. Okay. Well, I'm just going to put these gloves on, if you'll move down to the end of the table..."

You have to laugh. You just do.

In fact, I was laughing the other day when I read a similar post by Hahn at Home re: her own little "moment" signing her kids up for school. Go HERE and scroll down to "Em had two mommies".

Two.

Today, April and I celebrate our 2-year anniversary and I am still a giddy girl when it comes to her.

Lookit that face - how could I NOT be?



I woke up this morning to find sticky notes all over the house - her way of making sure every where I turned, I knew she loved me. On the dog bowl; on my morning can of diet coke; on my computer (I work from home in the summer); on the mirror in the bathroom.

It's on days like this that I wish homophobic people could hear the beat of my heart - and dare to tell me what I have is not true, pure and healthy love.

What makes us so perfect is that we know we aren't perfect. We have issues, we argue - but we also have an incredible desire to walk through all of those things together. We've committed to not harbor negativity - rather, we sit at the dinner table and talk about it. We respect and care for each other enough to WANT to be better, to WANT to compromise.

I can't imagine holding anyone but her. Loving anyone but her. Ever.

We're hoping year three brings a new addition to the family - and I ain't talking a fourth dog....Can you imagine what my blogs about pregnancy will be like?! Lorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrd.





And because I'm celebrating "two" today, I've written TWO posts :) Second of the day is posted below...

PS: Brian (who commented on Vick post) - which website should I list for you? It appears as though you have many and I can't find a direct link to ask you! :)

Give me some credit, will ya...On second thought, don't.

If you have teeny-boppers heading off to college next year, please take a moment to gather them 'round the computer.

I have a VERY important message for them. One that my own parents tried desperately to relay to me only to be met with "mhmmm" and then the complete opposite of what they asked.

No. I didn't get pregnant - being gay helped. No, I didn't try drugs - unless you count Pot. Okay, I did try drugs a few times in college. And I inhaled. I'm not going to lie. But drugs are BAD BAD BAD (I don't want you parents sending your kids back to their Ipods before I get to my message).

What I DID do is get a damn credit card.

*slaps myself upside the head*

I got the long lecture right before I went off to attend Florida State University. It's not as if I hadn't been warned.

"Heather, your father and I have worked very hard to make sure that you and your brother can go to college without having to take out any loans. Our biggest gift to you will be that you can graduate debt free."

NOW I know exactly how fantabulous that is (er, would have been). But when I was 18, I had no real concept of debt or interest that multiplies faster than Paris Hilton's boyfriends.

So there I was, a college freshman who had all my basics paid for. My parents felt (rightly so) that I should appreciate having "fun money" and required that I get a job to cover anything other than school fees, room and board. I got a job in child care, but that hardly covered my beer bill.

Soooo, I did what ever other idiotic 18 year old freshman was doing. I walked over to the table in the student union to sign up for a credit card - plus, I got a free t-shirt. Most expensive fucking shirt I've ever purchased. I should have it dipped in platinum.

Here's where I hold credit card companies a weeeeeeeee bit responsible: On the application, I answered honestly that I was 18 years old. I even wrote that I had zero income. In less than one week, I had a shiny new credit card with a $5,000 limit.

Seriously?!

I felt like I had a new lease on life. My best friends Suzi and Laura were on financial aid and also received "free money." For four years in college, we took turns purchasing all the beer and food for the night. For all three of us.

The more I spent on my credit card, the more they "valued" my business and raised my limit.

Once I got out of college, I had too much pride to ask for money, so I charged car repairs, household items, clothes, vacations and yes, beer.

Year after year, I watched desperately as credit card interest ate up my paychecks. I even called Laura 8 years after we graduated college to let her know that she owed me $6,432.33 for the beer and pack of M&Ms I bought her in 1997. Why should I have to pay interest on something I bought for her? I'm still waiting for my money. Laura, I know you are reading this...don't give me that "but I'm a doctoral student" line any more. You just defended your thesis. Show me the money.

It's been 11 years and at one point, I found my self in $XX,XXX debt. I considered everything from bankruptcy to selling my platelets. I put myself on a painful budget and fortunately, I began to earn a bit more in salary, allowing me to pay it off, bit by bit. Being in a relationship and sharing the cost of living has also helped put a great dent in it.

I actually hope to have it paid off in the next several months.

Debt free for the first time in 11 years. I never thought I'd see the day.

So, to all you college kids who think you can get a credit card and "quit when you want to" - I'm telling you, no BEGGING you - don't do it. Because when you're 30, paying thousands of dollars for nights you can't even recall won't seem so attractive.

Trust me.

There's really not much more to say...

Okay, there is more to say...because E-Babe has just sent me this photo. And it MUST be included.

You'd never guess this, but...

What I'm about to say will probably surprise most of you. Dare I say it will shock the ever-loving stuffing out of you.

Ready?

Here goes.

On Friday night, April and I were not at a sweaty girl-bar dancing on table tops and telling in-e-propriate breeder jokes (translation for straight readers: breeders = you heteros).

Nope. We were much more wild and crazy.

We were at a discount clothing store combing the racks of $1 tank tops.

It's shocking, I know. But that's how we roll. Keeping up with us and our rokkstar life ain't easy.

After spending nearly two hours combing through clothes and shoppers with no teeth, we went to check out.

As we waited our turn, April said to me:

"Oh my God. How funny. Look!"

She pointed to a box set of beer glasses. Written on the glasses was the name PEARL.

Funny only because Pearl is my nickname for April.

Examples:

• "Um, Pearl, I know you hate to speed, but you CAN got the SPEED LIMIT."
  
  
• April: "Can you hand me my pocket book?"
  Me: "Sure, Pearl. You know, most people under the age of 75 call it a PURSE."
  
  
• April: (commenting on our friends 2 year old baby): "Isn't he such a cute little fellow?"
  Me: "Why Pearl, he most certainly is!"
  
  
• April: "I find her to be just lovely."
  Me: "Pearl. Pearl. Lovely makes me think of my granny. She's HOT. On Fire. A mc-babe. Anything but lovely."

I can't believe I'm at a loss for more examples...but you get the idea.

Of course, my reaction to the Pearl glasses was:

"Dude. We so have to buy those!"

And we did.

For the record, we spent $100 at this store (where most stuff costs a buck or two). Me and Pearl got clothes for the next 75 years. I ain't kidding.

She's done it again folks....

For those of you keeping up with my list of "April-isms," here's another...

As you know, April is goo-goo ga-ga over the start of Fantasy Football. As the commissioner of our league, she's responsible for emailing everyone the date of the online draft, blah blah blah.

But because she is the biggest cheese ball EVER, she took it one step further and decided to create her own "You Know You're Addicted To Fantasy Football If" lists.

She wanted me to proof it. "Funny" it up.

So, I'm reading and I get to #1 on her list.

I don't get past the first few words because they read:

You wanna open a can of whomp-ass....

"WHOMP-ASS?"

She knew she'd been busted. Again. She gave a half-embarrassed, half-"like i could care what you think," laugh.

Then asked:

"What is it supposed to be?"

and

"You're going to put this in your blog, aren't you?"

To which I replied:

"WHOOP Ass. You aren't allowed to speak again. Ever. And the answer to your question is absolutely."

Acutally, I love it when she speaks. She gives me great material. And she knows it. She refers to herself as not my "muse," by my "a-muse." You can see why I love her :)

If you've missed any part of my ongoing tally of April's massacre on the common phrase, you can find more of the same by clicking HERE or HERE.

I fell for it. Damn it.

To say I am not a morning person would be like saying Ann Coulter is a man in drag - both are very, very, clearly true.

April, on the other hand, should have been born a century ago when life required her to milk cows before walking a mile to school. She's one of those people...the ones who bounce out of bed when their alarm clock squeals at the butt crack of dawn.

After two years, she's finally stopped asking if I'll get up and go to the gym before work (clearly tired of hearing "fuck no"). She also no longer asks if I'll get up and walk the three dogs with her, tired of me grunting that we HAVE a backyard....complete with a fence and even grass!

But today, April used her trickery to get me out of bed. And damn it, I fell for it.

The morning started normally, with April cart-wheeling out of bed. She showered, dressed and took the big dawg, Stewart, out for his morning walk.

Next thing I know, she's bounding up the stairs, yelling my name.

"Heather! Heather! Get up. I found a turtle!"

"Um, what?"

"Get up! I need your help. There's a huge turtle stranded in the field behind our house. He needs water or he'll die."

See, she knows. She knows the ONLY thing that could come between me and my sleep is a critter in peril.

"What are we going to do with it when we catch it, Ape?"

"You can drive me to work and we'll drop it off in the marsh on our way."

"Okay. But I'm not getting out of my pajamas."

We grabbed a crate on the way out of the house and headed to the field. As we were walking, April pointed to the sign and said:

"He was right up there, by that sign."

We approached the sign and....no massive turtle.

"AAAAPPRILLLL. If this was a ploy to get me out of bed so that I'd drive you to work, I'll kick your ass."

"It wasn't! I swear. He had a brown and yellow shell. He was right here!"

"Mhm. And in the 4 minutes it took you to come and get me, this turtle grew go-go-gadget legs and sped away? It's a fucking turtle! How far could it have gone?"

"I don't know! Shut your lip and keep looking."

So we looked. And we looked. And still no turtle.

She swears there was really a turtle. I think she played on my weakness....I know her kind...

Me. After our fruitless turtle search:



PS!!!!

I am laughing my ass off. My friend CJ just ANIMATED my morning (using the characters from the cartoon "The Happiest Gay Couple"). YOU must go check out her site for the videos she's posted. I nearly peed my pants laughing. GO HERE! Here's the animation she just sent me:

This might explain A LOT...

My friend CJ's post about fishing with her father (read it HERE) made me think about my own dad.

I learned everything I know about "funny" from him.

If I'm honest, it was forced down my throat.

Here was a grown man who would wait an HOUR (I kid you not), hiding behind a corner, for someone in our family to walk down the hall so he could scare the shit out of us.

Or who STILL gets two inches from my face and waves his hands in front of my eyeballs, and says "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you!"

Let's not forget the time (last year) we were in a church pew at a wedding and he took out a pen and drew all over my arm. ALL OVER it. Nothing I could do in retaliation because at that point, my mother was staring daggers.

Oh, right. And the time we were at a restaurant and I wasn't paying him any attention (mistake). I took a sip of my diet coke and spit it right back out. Only then did I notice the salt and pepper shakers were empty.

Aside from the pranks, though, is the wit. If you can't respond with a comeback FAST, you'll get eaten alive. ALIVE.

I was actually a bit worried about introducing April to my family. Not because she was a girl, but because at the time, she hardly ever used sarcasm (I think it's against the therapist code book).

She had to go through some pretty rigorous training. I called her a S.P.I.T.

Sarcastic Person In Training.

I'd hurl insults at her and coach her responses. She fared pretty well during her first visit (but they also went pretty easy on her).

The best way to explain what I speak of is to give you an example.

Picture this:

I'm in college and all my money has been spent on beer and gas.

I call home.

Explain my desperation.

And that if I have to, I'll prostitute myself.

To which my dad said:

"Well, hell, if all you need is a quarter...."

oh, hardy har har.

The pisser is...he got me on that one. I had nothing to offer in return. I'm still bitter. And without a worthy response.

Sigh.

I'll Never Learn. Never.

Once again, my COMPLETE lack of attention to detail has marked me with a Scarlet "I" for idiot. If you haven't read my blog What's Mine Is Yours. Really, It Is., you might want to start there. It'll explain a lot about my knack for noticing ZERO detail about anything.

And by ZERO detail, I mean: if you were on fire, I might notice I get hotter when I stand next to you, but the blazing flames will be lost on me.

I give April a whole lotta grief about her idiosyncrasies, so when she can catch me making a fool of myself, she revels in it.

I made her day today.

But the story begins 2 months ago. My Tennessee license plate was expiring and I was being forced to take my spot in the monstrous line at the DMV. I waited for more than an hour before finally getting my new plate and driver's license.

In the parking lot of the DMV, I took my new plate out of the bag and secured it to the back of my car. I even put the stickers on it.

Pulling into our driveway, I honked and April met me outside. Rather than take my word that I was now a legally licensed driver in the state of Virginia, she walked to the back of my car to check out my handy work. Rolling my eyes, I started to walk into the house when I heard her call for me.

"Heather, where's the plate for the front of your car?"

"Um, what?"

"In the state of Virginia you have to have two plates. One for the back and one for the front. What did you do with the other plate?"

"They didn't give me one."

"Are you SURE?" (she said with that 'you lose EVERYTHING' tone).

"Yes, I'm sure!"

I DID think it odd that the DMV gave me two sets of expiration stickers. I just figured one was extra. Like a backup pair.

"Heather, you've lived in Virginia for a year. You haven't noticed that everyone has two plates? That didn't strike you as odd when you only had one plate?"

"Um. Nooooooo. Besides, the last two states I've lived in have only required one plate. How the hell was I supposed to know?."

"You have to go back to the DMV and get it fixed immediately. You know that."

"Mhmm."

A month went by. Then two months. Every time we drove my car, April would break out in hives and say a prayer when a cop passed us (she's such a rule follower).

I finally agreed to go back to the DMV today - as long as she went with me.

She made it a point to get home from a work a bit early and off we went.

We waited for about 45 minutes and finally got called to the desk.

I explained my problem and the DMV rep looked like she didn't believe that they'd issued me only one plate.

I was fixin' to get belligerent when she asked for my old plate.

I handed it to her.

She looked at it. Then she pulled the two plates a part. She handed them back to me and asked if there was anything else she could help us with.

In my defense, those plates were REALLY stuck together.

All the way home, all I heard from April was "Blog THAT, sister. Blog THAT. I swear, if I ever start a blog, all I'm going to talk about is how you never notice ANYTHING!"

yadda yadda yadda

So, you're dating a therapist....

Lots and lots of people have asked me:

"So, what's it like to date a therapist?"

Here's what it's like....

Let's say I've got my panties all in a wad over something. I'm mad. I'm ITCHING for a fight. I just wanna argue and get out all my aggression. I spend a few hours thinking about what I'll say, what she'll say, what I'll say to disprove what she says, etc.

By the time I'm ready to "discuss" whatever problem we're having, I'm good and ready. I'm more prepared than a Boy Scout.

I start my rant and she stops me immediately.

"Heather, before you get going, I want you to know something. I love you and no matter what, I want to work this out with you. There is nothing we can't work out or come to a mutual agreement on."

SHWWWWWWfffffffppp. That's the sound of the wind being let out of my anger-sail.

"You're tricking me right now," I'll say. "I know your therapizing kind. You know when you say that, all sweet-like, that I can't stay mad. It's not fair. It's not."

And then we work it out.

OR - if I'm not in full blown anger, but my tone is a bit catty, April will say:

"What I HEAR you saying, is...."

Therapists. At least I don't have to pay this one....

ps. Yes, I DO know how lucky I am.

Mind Games and Football? Only in MY House....

It's August, which means....

FOOTBALL is right around the corner.



We love us some football in our house. And Fantasy Football. We love Fantasy Football.

Last year, April and I were on the same FF team.

This year, we decided to field our own teams and try to take each other down (shocking I know....if you haven't read about our need to one up each other, check out my earlier blog "I Gotta Hand It To Her")

Last year, April poured over every detail, slowly (and painfully) picking the line up. Seriously...she'd consider everything from a player's mental health (hard to play well if you're grieving daddy) to the Almanac's prediction of a possible snow storm (which, of course means it's harder to catch the ball). Sometimes our players would do well, other times...eh. I'd argue that luck had just as much to do with it as statistics. I plan to prove that this year.

April is the "Commissioner" of our league (we play Fan Ball), so she's up to her pretty blue eyes in setting everything up right now.

Of course, I'm mostly concerned with making sure my team has the best name. Last year, our team was the Armchair Dollar-Backs (a witty little play on armchair quarterback...but we paid $80 to join the league, so we wanted our dollar backs. Didn't happen though, we lost. April's fault, of course).

Yesterday morning, I woke up and rolled over to snuggle April. I told her I wanted my team name to be "ASS MASTER" so that when I beat people every week, I can say "You've been SPANKED."

Sleepily, she said, "Hmmm. Sorry you'll never get to use that line."

"Oh really? We'll see about that. What is YOUR team name going to be?"

"Fluffy White Bunnies."

"Um, What?"

"Fluffy White Bunnies."

"Care to explain?"

"Sure. Psychological advantage. Who takes the Fluffy White Bunnies seriously? Any team playing against me will think I don't know my shit, or will be so taken with the image of sweet, soft bunnies, that it'll take their focus off the game. Watch, you'll see. How can you feel good about seeing ASS MASTER next to FLUFFY WHITE BUNNIES. You should be ashamed..."



PS - my good friend CJ commented that her money was on the Bunnies. Of course, I questioned her loyalty and she responded. In blog...check it out (it's WAY FUNNY)...Click HERE

Schooled by a Six Year Old

I have the cutest nephew on the planet.

Lookit this kid:



He calls me "Aunt Heddert".

Several years ago, Gage came to stay with me for a few days. AUNT CAMP!

I love children, so I had a big big weekend planned.

Saturday morning started with a trip to the YMCA pool, followed by a movie, followed by a trip to the amusement park.

Clearly, I've only babysat kids and never had my own. Otherwise I might have known I was asking for a meltdown.

This kid was worn the hell out. There, in the middle of Paramount's Carowinds, he threw himself down on the pavement and starting screaming at me.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want to go HOMMMMMMMEE!"

Calmly, I explained (through gritted teeth), that we had to go home because he was starting to get crabby and was clearly tired.

"NOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Other parents at the park walked by, shaking their heads, giving me the "I feel for you," look.

I tried several de-escalation techniques and none of them worked.

So I yelled.

"GAGE! Get up RIGHT now. We are going HOME."

My tone caught him off guard and he stopped crying.

He considered what I said. Then turned his back on me and said something under his breath.

If there's anything I hate, it's kids back talking - especially under their breath.

"What did you just say, Gage?"

"I SAID, Aunt Heddert, can you please stop talking so I can stop hearing you?"

Silence.

Then laughter. I couldn't help it. Seriously. How brilliant is that statement? This happened several years ago and I still use that phrase - regularly.

Can you please stop talking so I can stop hearing you.

It's courteous, direct and quite profound, I think, for a six year old.

Gage was momentarily confused by my evolution from "the most horrible aunt in the world" to cackling maniac, but he started to laugh with me and agreed to leave the park - after I bought him $25 worth of useless merchandise.

"Can you please stop talking so I can stop hearing you" wasn't the only thing he said worth noting that weekend.

The other:

"Aunt Heddert, I'm going to give you a kiss big enough to fill your heart."

I know. I know. AWWWWWWWWWW.

No Bleeding Zone

My post the other day about the hysterical EMT got me thinking about how funny it is that as a child I wanted to be a doctor or nurse.

It's funny because I faint at the sight of blood. When I was in high school I fainted just HEARING about the deep cut on my father's leg (note: never let your wife take up stained glass as a hobby. If she insists on taking up stained glass as a hobby, encourage her NOT to leave her 1/2 done masterpiece in the garage where someone might accidentally hang their calf up on it).

I can't tell you how many people assured me, after the ordeal with my dad's leg, that if I were the only person at the scene of an accident, I'd be amazed at my super-human ability to function without becoming nauseous and fainting. I was told that something in my being would trigger the "first-responder" in me, knowing that someone else's welfare depended on my quick thinking and ability to act.

Bulllllllllllllllll Shiiiiiiitttt. I got proof that's not true. It's not even a little true.

Back in 1996, I was working as a production assistant for Paramount Parks theme park. I worked in the corporate creative department and as you can imagine, we were a motley bunch. We themed roller coasters for God's sake.

Shortly after I began working for Paramount, I met Kym who I quickly (and privately) nicknamed Scary Kym. She was as Goth as Goth could be...black clothes, extreme MAC makeup, combat boots....even the license plate on her black Nissan said Wtchng Hr. I had just graduated from college and was Ellie Mae to her Elvira.

I steered clear of her for about six months until a work project forced us together and taught me the valuable lesson of never judging a book by its cover. After many great giggle fits and nights spent bonding over beverages, I told her about my initial aversion to her and the moniker I'd come up with. She thought it was hysterical and to this day, I refer to her as Scary Kym.

Halloween was Scary Kym's Christmas. She gave gifts, decorated, threw a massive party and baked like no one's business. Here's what her desk looked like the particular October in question (note: she had a meeting with legal the day this pic was taken, so she looks less Goth than normal):



Halloween also happened to be a big deal in our office. Every year, a week* before the actual holiday, we had a kickin' office party and everyone came in costume. Some of the best costumes I've ever seen were handmade by Paramount employees.

* remember that this party was a full week BEFORE Halloween. It will be important later in the story...

Welp, Scary Kym and I thought it would be hilarious if we came dressed as each other for the party. I bought a black wig and arranged to spend the night before the party at her house, knowing that there was NO way I could make myself up to look like her - she would need to handle my clothes and makeup. For her part, Scary Kym exaggerated my style, buying a frilly skirt, a blond wig and a big bow (which, for the record, I wouldn't be caught dead in).

I arrived at her apartment around 7pm and we decided to do a dry run of my costume. She put the black wig on me, teased it and braided parts of it; covered my face in white makeup and stenciled wacky designs; dressed me in black fishnet hose, black skirt, black shirt and black boots; painted my nails black and put a casket necklace around my neck.

Pleased with her efforts, she wanted to get some photos, but before we did so, needed my help making candy apples for the party.

Now, I'd never made candy apples before. Never even eaten one.

You have to heat that shit up to 350 degrees, people. 350 degrees.

We got to the last apple and she told me to take a spoon so I could get the last bit of HOT candy from the bottom of the pan and pour it on the apple she was HOLDING.

I started to pour and she started to turn the apple...and I'm not sure how it happened, but I ended up pouring the HOT candy on her hand. Her hand. 350 degree melted candy.

She started screaming immediately. Screaming like I've never heard before.

I was looking around wildly, still tyring to understand what was happening. I think I even laughed inappropriately at first.

She headed to the sink to put her hand under cold water. That's a NO NO people. It hardens the candy (the directions on the back of the box tells you this, but honestly...who reads that shit?)

As soon as she put her hand under the water, her skin started to come off. I WATCHED as her skin started to come off. I saw bone people, bone.

She kept screaming, asking what to do. I didn't know and was too busy concentrating on keeping the black and yellow spots I was seeing from closing in on me.

I kept telling myself, "Come on Heather! She needs you! You are the only person who can help her. Pull yourself together!"

Scary Kym was at the refrigerator, putting ice on her hand. Another NO NO.

She just kept yelling, asking what she should do.

Next thing I remember, Scary Kym is standing OVER ME, her hand wrapped in a kitchen towel, screaming, "HEATHER! HEATHER!"

Ya'll, I fainted. In her time of need, I fainted. Hit my head so damn hard I had crawl to the bathroom to throw up after I came to. All I could offer in the way of help was: "can you call your mom?"

SHE dialed the phone - because I was still throwing up - and in swooped her mom, in a pink housecoat and curlers, to take us to the hospital.

We got to the hospital and as soon as we entered, I noticed a sudden quiet come over the waiting room. I noticed people staring at me. A dad hugged his son a bit closer.

And then it hit me.

I LOOKED LIKE SCARY KYM! And it was a WEEK before Halloween! Nobody knew I was in costume!

She, of course, looked normal in her sweats and no makeup.

The nurses were scared to come close to me. If I hadn't been so delirious with the night's events, I would have found it hysterical.

Kym had severe burns on her hand and I had a concussion.

A concussion.



Friends, take note....I'm not your emergency phone-a-friend. I'm not.

Interestingly enough, the VERY hysterical Lisa (of OMYWORD blogging fame), has an EERILY similar burning hand story that she just posted. Ya'll check it out - HERE. Again, I laughed inappropriately. I think something is wrong with me...

Signs.

The sign reads:

We Create Our Tomorrows By What We Dream Today

It hung:

Over the twin bed in my guest room when I lived in Knoxville, TN

Why it's important:

The first weekend April drove from VA to TN to meet me, she slept under this sign. Recently she told me she wished on it that very first night. Wished that "we" would become an "us."

I melted when I heard that.

We celebrate our two year anniversary on August 14th.

This same sign hangs prominently in our living room now - a daily reminder that wishes aren't just for kids and birthdays and signs exist to help guide our way.

I smile every time I walk past that sign...

*Mom, I hope you took note that April slept in the guest bedroom the first weekend we met. See, I told you I'm no hussy.

So wrong, but so funny...

This is a twisted story, but it made me laugh. Out loud, snorty-laugh. So of course I had to share.

Our friend J. is an EMT in Jersey and as most EMTs can attest to, she's seen some CRAZY shit. Often the best way to deal with all the trauma and horrible-ness that she's sees is to find a bit of humor in it.

J. and her EMT partner (I don't know his name. Let's call him Jim) are out on call.

Apparently, there's been a hit and run.

They get to the site of the accident and there's a grown man lying on the pavement. Appears a car has run over his head, splitting it open and spilling the contents.

Jim radios the accident in, claiming the victim was dead when they arrived.

Whoever was on the other end of Jim's radio called asked him if he was sure the victim was dead.

To which he replied:

"Um, yes. It's a no brainer."

J.'s response: "Jim, you are a sick fuck."

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Come on, you know you laughed. I did. And then I felt bad about it. But I laughed again.

*hangs head*

Total change of subject. Brains to Babes. Look what I walked in on this afternoon :)

In case you thought I exaggerated...

April's inability to get ANY phrase right (see my blog "um, what?"), here's the latest addition to the list:

Last night she was talking about how scared one of her teenage kids was to participate in an activity (clarification: April is a therapist running a summer outdoor program - she's not a pervert asking a teenage boy to do something in-e-propriate).

She went on and on about how scared this kid was to do a particular element and finished up her story by saying:

"He finally did it, though. It was because I handled him with baby hands."

"Um, What?"

"Baby hands."

"APRIL! You mean KID GLOVES. Jesus, honey!"