A Piece of Perfection.

I've always loved art and been smart enough to befriend creative types so that they feel obligated to give me one of their pieces at birthdays or holidays.

I ain't dumb.

Thanks to the invention of the Internet and MySpace, I've been able to widen my web and snare even more artists in hopes of growing my gallery of "friend art."

Enter Alana, who I've actually never met (but who I adore).

Alana lives in the great state of Texas and is an absolutely amazing artist. I used to spend what seemed like hours pouring over pictures of her work, drowning in her usage of vibrant colors and bold strokes.

She and I struck up an online friendship and it wasn't long before I folded and asked how much she sold her artwork for (I didn't know her well enough to beg her to give it to me for free).

Instead of quoting me a price, she bartered with me.

She knew I was going to Nicaragua for work and told me if I'd bring her back a piece of art, she'd paint me my very own picture.

I was speechless.

And sold.

Before I left for my trip, she asked me to take pictures of the art in my home so she could get a better sense of "me" and the colors I liked.

Here's what I sent her:













I left for my trip and while in Nicaragua, I searched all the markets for the right piece for Alana. The native artwork was stunning and I finally decided on a painting that I thought would be perfect for her.

When I got back to the states, I shipped the art to Texas and waited patiently for Alana to receive it.

I was thrilled that she loved it.

And that she was working on my masterpiece.

I had no idea what it would look like, but I knew in my heart it would be perfect.

And it was.

She captured my love of colors, words and critters.

Look for yourself:



Alana, you are the best. Thank you for this gift.

You call it Dog Heaven.

I call it a Piece of Perfection.

Thank You from a Pimp

First things first - the Thank You part.

I owe Tria over at Inside Tria's Brain, a big fat thank you for selecting one of my posts as her weekly Monday Morning Blah Buster.

Tria promotes several humorous blogs every Monday and doesn't even request a reciprocal link, a pair of underwear, your firstborn or even proof that you are the person who really wrote it.

She accepts submissions, so not ONE of you has an excuse for not pimping yourself out to her.

Speaking of pimping...

My pal Lori over Hahn at Home has absolutely NO shame and is begging everyone (who breathes) to vote for her.

She's not in a wet t-shirt contest (this time).

She is, however, in very close contention for a monetary award at the bloginterviewer.com website and if she wins, is planning on donating the money to the Sacramento Children's Receiving Home.

How can you NOT vote for her after that?

Seriously.

You know if you people won, the only thing you'd be donating was a tip to the bartender.

You can vote every 24 hours. Do it. Help her out. Click on the thingy below.



It's been a long day kiddos, so I don't have anything new to post.

Here's a throwback to one of my oldies: She Had Us In Stiches...No Really...

Hopefully something interesting will happen to me tomorrow. If not, I'll make it up.

We Don't Have Fun....Much.

Lord.

Yesterday Apes, myself and our buddies Heather and Terri made the trek to Belvedere Plantation....more commonly known as the Punkin' Patch.

This blog is definitely best told in pictures, but there IS one story ya'll need to know.

It involves April being...well, April.

She's the biggest kid on the planet and once she gets excited about something, there's no reasoning with her...or stopping her.

As soon as we arrived at the plantation, she zeroed in on the General Lee (for all my overseas pals, this is a car from the popular TV show, the Dukes of Hazard).

Immediately, she began running and yelled over her back, "Heather! Get out the camera!"

Within seconds, she was diving through the driver's side window, nothing but her butt sticking out of the car.

My fumbling for the camera was cut short by the screaming coming from the guy serving funnel cakes at the booth right next to the General Lee.

"DUDE! What are you DOING?! That car is NOT a toy!"

By the time he got to "toy," he was on the other side of the car, staring at April through the passenger window.

Me, Terri and Heather stood frozen, staring at April's ass sticking out of the car.

"Um..." April said.

"GET OUT! You are going to scratch the car!"

She still didn't move.

Instead, she said:

"What? I'm just trying to get a picture and I'm not touching it....much."

Jesus God.

"GET OUT!"

"Okay, okay," she muttered as she shimmied out of the car.

We walked away sheepishly as Mr. Funnel Cake cursed us under his breath.

"Did you at least get the photo?!"

"No. I was too busy watching you not touch the car...much."

The day only got better.

See for yourself:

The obligatory hay pose:


Ape makes friends fast:


Such a lady coming down the slide:


I did say she's a big kid, right?


Look ma, no hands!


If only it were an Olympic sport:


Goof balls:


We're just a TAD competitive:


I'm not gonna lie. I fell off the baby climbing thing:


I love me some critters:


Terri and Ape juggling baby pumpkins:


Terri and Heather takin' a roll in the hay:


The carving begins:


My masterpiece!


And yes...I'm aware my pumpkin reads: Appy Hallow-unintelligible

Clearly I did not finish my pumpkin carving apprenticeship...

Appy Hallow, people!

Letting Go.

Chapstick, Diet Coke, my cell phone, TiVo, the Internet, electric blankets, rubber bands, my hairdresser, fried chicken, Carl's milkshakes, perezhilton.com...all are things I can not live without.

Things I refuse to let go of.

I need them.

And to be honest, my list of needs could (and does) go on and on and on.

But, according to Alcoment, who tagged me for the latest meme making it's blogger rounds, I can only pick three things I can't let go of.

Yes, I said meme.

And no, you don't have to run screaming from my post because I'm not going to tag anyone at the end. You are safe to read at your leisure without fearing you'll see your name in big, bold print.

Of course, I can(and do) talk about myself all the flippin' time, so I welcomed Alcoment's tag and another opportunity to relay completely random and useless information to ya'll.

That being said, I spent a painstaking morning trying to whittle my list down to just three things.

Difficult, but done.

Here's my list:

1) My dad's high school football jersey.

It's bee-yellow and made out of the most horribly uncomfortable fabric imaginable. I'm sure when it was crafted, the thought was that the jersey would be used in tandem with a bunch of padding and not as a young girl's nightgown.

But still....I have scars from chafing.

My dad's number, 17, is in forest green lettering on the front and back of the jersey. He played football for a school in Springfield, Tennessee and later went on to play for the Air Force Academy. He still has a bunch of tiny little scars on his hands from people stepping on them with metal cleats.

But back to the jersey.

I don't remember when I inherited it, but it was sometime in high school. It immediately became my nightgown.

In fact, I still wear it in the winter (I'd post a picture, but we haven't changed out our summer/fall wardrobes yet, so it's packed up).

I whine about how irritating the fabric is every time I wear it, but I still wear it.

Something special about being daddy's little girl.

2) Perfectionism

A little bit of this is a great thing. Too much of it can be debilitating.

At least, that's what my therapist told me.

My expectations can, at times, be unreasonable.

For myself and for others.

I know this.

I'm working on this.

I'd love to let it go.

But it still creeps up on me.

I can be given a "simple project" that should take an hour, but my need to do it perfectly means I spend all weekend on it.

I get nervous if I don't know how to do something. Even if it's something I've never done before and there's no way I SHOULD know how to do it. Doesn't matter. I'll beat myself up over it.

Me starting a new job is painful. I want to know everything immediately.

Learning curves are not my friends.

I try to let myself (and others) off the hook when I catch myself doing this.

But it ain't easy.

3) Dreams

I won't let them go.

I dream of being a mother.

Sharing that with April. Staring down at the faces of our children. Playing tooth fairy. Wiping tears. Giving big bear hugs. Advising. Loving. Laughing. Believing. Putting bicycles together. Setting curfews. Cheering from the sidelines.

Cheering their whole lives. Every minute. Always proud. Always parents.

I dream of being a writer.

Seeing published work. Fulfilled. Successful. Making money. More newspapers. More magazines. My own column. A TV show. An advocate.

....

So, there you have it. I'm a jersey wearin' perfectionist who hasn't written a novel because she's skerred it will be terrible.

Good thing I date a therapist....

PEE-ka-boo.

The bathroom situation at work is causing me some anxiety.

Whenever I feel the need to tinkle (or worse), I have to leave the school and enter the main part of the psychiatric hospital to use the restroom.

I *could* choose to stay and use one of the two toilets we have inside the school, but the kids use them and they are covered in urine (or worse) and God knows what else.

I'm not joking when I say that if I had to choose between losing a family member or using one of those restrooms, I'd be hard pressed to make a decision.

I'm the least germ-a-phobic person on the planet and even I won't touch the handle on the OUTSIDE of the bathroom. I make the kids do it.

I always, always, walk down the hallway to use the restroom.

It's one toilet in one bathroom.

With a bit of a faulty lock.

The faulty lock is responsible for the sign that hangs on the door that reads:

"Please knock before entering."

Cue my anxiety.

I hate being on either side of this damn sign.

When I'm the one peeing (or worse) and I hear a knock on the door, it's unsettling.

Honestly. You feel like you have to answer the knock.

Like you're at home.

"Just a minute!" or "There's someone in here!"

And you have to do it in the right tone.

You don't want to sound offensive or offended.

After all, there is a sign instructing them to knock.

They aren't arbitrarily intending to hone in on your vulnerable potty moment.

I usually freeze (my pee) the moment I hear a knock and eek out a response.

You never hear anything back. Ever.

And when you walk out, the hallway is always empty. Always.

Because I know how anxiety producing it is to be the one doing your business when someone knocks on the door, I hate to be the one faced with knocking.

I feel myself getting uncomfortable about 12 steps from the restroom.

I see the sign.

I read the sign.

But I don't ever want to knock.

Today, I didn't.

I just took a deep breath and tried the handle.

The lock held, but from inside I heard:

"JUST A MINUTE! THERE'S SOMEONE IN HERE!"

She was not happy.

I'm sure she felt violated.

I rolled my head around my shoulders and looked to see if anyone witnessed my predicament.

Thankfully the gods were on my side and no one was around to see my face turn bright red.



I beat myself up, but came to the conclusion that had I knocked, I probably would have gotten the very same response.

I hid around the corner all stealth like until I heard the door open.

Then I started to walk as though I had just entered the hallway, with no plan on using the bathroom.

"Oh, hey Heather," she said, oblivious to the fact it was I who tried to barge in on her pee pee party.

"Hey," I said as she walked away, hoping she didn't see the discomfort in my eyes. I couldn't help but picture her with her granny skirt hiked up around her waist.

The thought made me nauseous as I walked into the rest room.

In fact, I was so busy trying to occupy my mind with something, ANYTHING else, that I forgot all about my bathroom door anxiety.

That is, until the faulty lock became faulty again and some guy walked in on me.

"HOLD ON!" I yelped! "Don't you knock?!! Sheesh!"

I know. Pot. Kettle. Me.

And no, there isn't another bathroom that's convenient for me to use.

But I am considering digging a hole outside.

More privacy.

Crushed Out.

First, thank you ALL for your support and comments re: the printing of one of my blogs in the Washington Post.

Ya'll sure know how to make a girl get a big head (okay....a bigger head...).

In fact, I went to Borders Bookstore last night to let them know what a big deal I was and oddly, they weren't impressed. Not even a little bit. I even brought my own table, chair, head shots and photographer (April) for an impromptu signing - that I was willing to do FREE of charge.

I'm sure the staff at Border's will be kicking themselves once they realize who I am.

It's okay though.

I don't think the security guard REALLY meant I was NEVER welcome again.

Besides, I accidentally left a box of brand new Sharpes in the store and I'll need them for my next appearance.

I'm thinking Leno would love to have me.

But enough about my new found fame...onto less important matters.

I have a new crush.

This new crush in no way replaces the lust and loin longing that Mariska Hargitay ignites (she'll always be my number uno).

But I do have a "thingy" for Kathy Griffin.

I've loved her comedy for years and am finally ready to acknowledge that those feelings have blossomed to include her as a person.

I think we might be kindred spirits (come on...she drops the F-bomb more than I do).

After watching last night's E! True Hollywood Story about Kathy, I made a very, very important decision.

I bumped Jessica Biel off my "I'd totally do her" list and slid Kathy right into her top-three spot.

Sure, Jessica is smokin' hot and um, well, yeah...she's hot...but ever since she began dating Justin Timberlake, she's been a total bore.

Kathy is hysterical, doesn't care that Whitney Houston wants to kick her ass and despite the fact her hair can be a nightmare sometimes, she is quirckily (i just made that word up) cute.

Oh...and I find the fact that she wears the same outfit to every stand up gig somehow comforting. Like...I know her so well that I already know what she's going to wear.

It's that kind of connection.

It's possible April might become alarmed at the intensity of my feelings for the red haired comedian, but I just learned that Kathy is dating one of the co-founders of Apple computers and isn't looking to turn gay anytime soon.

What a shame.

But at least Ape's can sleep well at night.

Unexpected. Awesome.

There I was, all curled up in bed with a People magazine and kettle corn when my phone buzzed last night.

It was a little bit after 9:30.

I stretched across my sea of dogs and snatched the phone off the side table.

A text message.

It read:

"I was just reading the newspaper. And there you were on Page 3. Nice!!!"

I just stared at my phone.

First thought: "Huh?"

Second thought: "What paper?"

Third thought: "Who is this? I don't recognize the number."

Fourth thought: "Where else did I submit my work for publishing?"

Fifth thought: "You should probably send a text message back..."

So I did.

It read:

"What??? Which newspaper? I don't have this number logged into my cell - who is this?"

I pressed SEND and then waited.

I stared at my phone until I got a response:

"It's Debra. Wash Post metro section. :)"

Everything stopped for just a moment as I repeated my friend Debra's words in my head.

The Washington Post. The Washington Post.

Then I remembered.

Several months ago, my friend Heidi told me she thought some of my blogs would be perfect for the Metro section of the Post (which publishes slice-of-life submissions).

On a whim, I submitted the following post about my granny, my favorite person on earth:

Repeat Yearly. Please. Repeat Yearly.

I got a new Palm Pilot Treo (700wx if anyone is interested in specifics).

It's taken me days to learn how to use it. I like it.

Tonight I was transferring all my social engagements from my paper calendar to my new electronic brain that will urinate for me if I schedule a time for it to do so.

And birthdays. I was entering birthdays.

January 29.

My electronic brain asked me if I'd like to repeat the entry yearly or just one time.

My heart stopped for a moment before I over-aggressively entered YEARLY.

And then I thought it.

How many more years would she really be here for? Would just entering yearly in my Palm Pilot over-ride nature's plan?

She's done so much. Loved so greatly.

My granny. Betty Ruth.

Countless siblings
One husband
Six kids
12 grandkids
2,352 scraped knees
342,234,212 tear drops wiped

Infinite love.

YEARLY damnit. YEARLY.

I couldn't believe the paper ran it.

I'm still like a kid at Christmas when I learn something of mine has been published. And this is extra special because it's something I can share with my grandmother.

To prove I am nothing but a child, I threw my bedspread off the bed and began jumping up and down like a mad woman.

I screamed downstairs to April (who was engrossed in the football game), "I'm in the Washington Post!!!!"

To which she replied (from the recliner), "The score is 14-3." (or something like that).

"I didn't ask for the score!" I yelled. "I'm in the POST!!!"

I heard her hoot and holler (that's what we do here in Virginia) as I threw on some sweats and grabbed my wallet.

After a fly by kiss from my girl, I jumped in my car and headed straight to the 7-11 and bought the last four remaining copies of the Post (but not before I opened them all, right there in the store, to make sure it was really, really true).

I can't wait to send a copy to my granny.

She has no idea that I've ever even written about her.

I can't think of any other way to honor her than to let her know that all of Washington DC now knows that she is a true gift to our family.

Click HERE to read another post I wrote about my granny (pictured below).

Playing God.

I just received this email from my friend Del.

Not surprisingly, I've added my um, comments, at the end of this post. Trust me, you'll know where the email ends and my comments begin.

......

Below is Mike Heath, Executive Director of The Christian Civic League's most recent blog entry.

On my way to the Hilton from the Dupont Circle Metro stop I came across a store front for a Human Rights Campaign gift store. Behind the window glass were two flat screen televisions. The images were accompanied by audio that must have been amplified by speakers on the outside of the glass. I only hung around for half-a-minute. Pictures of blacks and Martin Luther King flitted across the screen while a voice sermonized about the immorality of civil rights abuses. More propaganda promoting homosexuality as if it is a characteristic worthy of legal protections. I suppose this messaging blasts out that store front 24/7. Welcome to Washington D.C.

Martin Luther King Jr's niece came to Maine in 1998 and told us the truth. She told us that homosexuality has nothing to do with civil rights. Alveda King told the truth. The Human Rights Campaign is deceiving people, and leading many people down a dark and dangerous path. Pray that they will fail in their mission.

Tomorrow it's a day's worth of meeting with my colleagues, and then on Friday the Republican candidates for President show up. The Democrats aren't coming. Apparently they are more interested in killing vulnerable babies in the womb than in saving them.

I read this, in disbelief, and muttered a string of expletives (that I won't include here out of respect for my mother who called last week over her concern about my seemingly gratuitous use of the F-word).

But I said it... a lot. (sorry mom).

Seriously? THIS is who we're supposed to believe God has sent to spread his love and Word?

I thought about it some more, and all my expletives boiled down to just two thoughts:

1) Mr. Heath, since you have such respect for Alveda King, you should probably refer to her as AFRICAN AMERICAN and not a "black"

and

2) I give it two years before we hear about your arrest in a bathroom stall

Angels.

So, I'm not an overly religious person, but I do believe in God and that there are spirits and angels sent to watch over our crazy asses.

Who knows exactly what hell my angel caused in her past life that warranted getting stuck with me, but I'm pretty sure she is really sorry and regrets it....I've kept that bitch on her toes.

But I really, really appreciate her efforts.

Angels weren't on my radar until a couple of years ago.

I'd just met my mother's friend Marie for the first time and instantly felt a connection with her. She's such a warm, giving person that the moment I met her, I felt like I'd known her forever.

Marie is a big fan of angels and actually has one for everything.

Really.

Her parking angel is my favorite (and one I've adopted).

Here's how this particular angel works:

You drive into a crowded lot and for whatever reason, your ass is in a big hurry. A quick prayer could help. Something like:

"Okay, parking angel. I'm about to lose my shit if I can't park right now. If no one needs a spot more than I do, please let me have one up close. Thank you, God Bless, Peace and Word to your Mother."

*Note - my version of the prayer is slightly different than Marie's.

You'd be shocked at how often this works. Try it.

A few years ago, I got a package from my mother and in it was a little something from Marie.

It was a laminated prayer card with a little gold angel stuck to it.

A note from my mother told me that Marie asked her to send it to me and that I should keep the angel with me always.

Marie had no way of knowing it, but I needed that card and that angel more than ever at that point.

I was so lost personally and professionally.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say I was depressed.

I put the prayer card behind my license and the little angel in my wallet's change compartment.

I referenced that prayer often and I know it sounds hokey, but I felt less alone.

Many times, I retrieved the golden angel out from under my quarters and dimes to simply hold her in my hands and rub her wings.

I quickly became very superstitious about my angel and feared losing her.

Ya'll know I'm a slob and have pretty much lost everything I own at least once.

My angel refuses to be lost.

I've moved her from purse to purse; she's sat on dressers; been packed in boxes and survived two moves; been carried off by my dog Rosie; lived on my spice rack for a few months and even hung out in my car's cup holder.

This angel has had her work cut out for her.

I haven't thought about her for several months.

But yesterday, there she was, in a corner on the floor.

I have no idea how she got there, but I picked her up, rubbed her wings and said a quick thank you that I hadn't lost her.

Again.

God love this little angel. She's now more tarnished than she is gold, but that makes her perfect for me.

My Saab Story

I am fucking bleeding money, ya'll.

I just took my car (a Saab) into the shop because the air conditioner broke and it's still 900 frickin' degrees outside.

We dropped the car off on Monday and the mechanic called me at school yesterday to give me the quote.

I recognized the number as being from the shop, excused myself from the classroom and walked outside to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey Heather, this is Steve from the auto shop. Are you sitting down?"

"Uh oh."

"Yeah, it's not good. The other shop you took your car to was correct. You do need an evaporator cord and a receiving fan. The problem is, you have to order those parts directly from Saab and they ain't cheap."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And then we have quite a bit of labor because we actually have to pull out your dashboard to get to the thing. Them Saabs are purty cars, but they're the devil to fix."

"So, how much are we talking?" I asked, mentally trying to prepare myself for what I thought might be coming.

"We're looking at $1,960.00."

"JESUS CHRIST!" I yelled, drawing stares from the high schoolers who were across the campus participating in PE.

"Yeah, I know it's high, but the parts are killing you."

"Unbelievable," I said, cognisant of my upcoming 2-week vacation whittling itself down to one week so I could pay for the repairs without prostituting myself or selling an organ.

I hung up with the shop and immediately tried to dial my father to see if the estimate was reasonable or if I was getting jacked.

He didn't answer.

I walked back into the school and past a kid who was escalating into a rage and crying at the same time.

I looked at him and said:

"Listen. You have NOTHING to be crying about. If ANYONE in this hallway has anything to be angry about, it's ME. My car is costing me $2,000.00 and I am NOT happy. You hear me?!"

He stopped slamming a chair against the wall and stared at me as if I were the person acting all out of my head.

I stomped past him and into the office to call the shop back. I told them to go ahead and get started. I'd figure out how to sell my soul to pay for the goods.

After I hung up, I called a Saab dealer to inquire about the cost of the parts - just to do my own homework on the estimate I was given.

Wholesale cost of the parts I needed totaled $1,345.00.

The dealer told me the shop's estimate seemed fair. I thanked him, and with a heavy heart, lowered the phone.

For $2,000.00, they better put a fucking mint on my seat.

Hang Ups.

First it was socks.

Now it's hangers.

Hangers have threatened to ruin our domestic bliss.

When I moved to Virginia more than a year ago to be with April, I knew there were some differences in our approach to, um, life.

I mean, I knew she liked order.

By "order," I didn't realize she meant: shorts and pants must be organized by size, color, length, activity and material type.

I knew she liked to keep things picked up.

By "picked up," I had no idea that there was a 25 second rule. I can't put my Diet Coke down and go to the bathroom. It won't be there when I get back. I have to retrieve it from the refrigerator.

She did tell me she preferred to keep "like" things together.

Who knew "like things" meant that we'd have a "technology drawer" where all our gadgets and their respective cords would be kept in separate plastic baggies.

"Relationships are all about compromise," my mother told me after I called to discuss (complain about) April's freak of nature need for order.

"Right. So she should compromise and leave at least 50% of my shit where I left it."

"And where would that be?"

"In the middle of the floor. I admit it. But if she shouldn't have to apologize for being a neat freak, why do I have to feel guilty for being a slob? That doesn't seem fair."

Just as I suspected, my mother had no good answer.

For a year, Apes and I have worked on compromising.

Some examples:

April grimaces, but keeps her mouth shut, when she sees 5 days of work clothes piled up on our red chair. On Saturday's, I agree to hang everything up.



My cereal bowl can be left in the sink IF I wash it out so any remaining bits of cereal don't "turn to cement and stick to the bowl."

You get the idea.

Several months ago, I noticed a look on April's face that I know well. It was the look of suppressed "Heather is a damn slob" disgruntledness.

She tried to down play it, but it's always clearly visible.

"What?"

"What, what?"

"What is it that you want to tell me, but aren't?"

"Well, we have NO room in this closet. Everything is jammed packed in here and it would be nice if it could be more organized so we could find things."

Then she went into therapy talk. She said,

"I feel like it would really help me, and my sense of order, if after you took a shirt off the hanger, you'd put the empty hanger at the front of the row of clothes. That way, when I need to hang something up, I don't have to struggle to find a hanger. That's all."

"Okay. I'll try to remember. And I feel like it would really help me if you'd leave your mits off my diet coke, woman."

"Fine."

"Fine."

So, I've really, really been trying to remember the whole hanger thing. It's a totally foreign concept, so I don't always get it right.



Cut to last Friday morning.

April was in the other room, in our closet.

"AHA! Heather, come here."

I was still in bed and seriously considering catching the flu so I wouldn't have to go into work.

"Murmph?"

"Get out of bed and come here. I want to show you something."

"No. Just tell me."

"I just had to look in the back of the closet - for shoes I'm certain you misplaced - and you'll never guess what I found."

"The shoes you thought I misplaced but really put back in the closet?"

"No. The shoes are still missing. But I DID find some 15 hangers on the floor. 15 hangers! You rip your clothes off the hanger so fast that they are falling to the floor. No wonder we're running out of hangers! You are supposed to be moving the empty hangers to the front of the row of clothes. You promised you'd try. Do you not realize, after you take your shirt off, that you don't have a hanger to move to the front of the row of clothes?"

"Could you say 'front of the row of clothes' ONE more time? Sheesh. I HAVE been trying. Sometimes I forget. I'll get 'em later."

"No, get them now. You'll never do it if you don't get them now. I know you."

"I'll do it tonight. Let me sleep for five more minutes. I'll do it when we get home from work."

"You won't do it. I know you."

"Yes I will. I'm not talking about hangers anymore."

I rolled over and closed my eyes as a vision of Joan Crawford screaming "no more wire hangers!" danced through my head.

Fast forward to the next morning.

April was getting dressed (again).

I was still in bed (again).

"AHA! I knew it. You didn't pick up the hangers! I knew it!"

"WHAT is the big deal with the hangers?" I hollered from under the covers.

"I'm just making a point. I knew you wouldn't do it and you didn't."

"April, do you NEED a hanger right now? RIGHT now?"

"No, I'm just making a point."

"Fine. You're right. I forgot about the hangers. Call me crazy, it wasn't top of mind. But if you don't NEED a hanger right now, what is the big deal?"

"Because I'm going to NEED a hanger after I do laundry."

"Okay, so when you DO laundry, holler at me and I'll get you the hangers. All 15 of them. Problem solved. C O M P R O M I S E."

"That's not the point."

"It's mine."

We argued about those damn hangers for another 15 minutes before we realized the ridiculousness of it all and came to an agreement.

The hangers can stay on the floor (they are still there) until April does laundry - as long as I never ever let it happen again.



When mom told me relationships were work, she was tellin' the truf.

AGM - Take Two

If you found my first AGM (awkward gay moment) post to be humorous, you'll pee your fucking pants over the update.

Need to catch up? You can read my first post HERE.

April and I had another set of softball games on Friday night.

As we piled into the car, I threw my feet up on the dashboard, popped open a diet coke and wondered aloud about our coach's 7-year-old daughter.

"Kids have short memory spans, right? I mean, surely she'll move on to embarrassing other people...? Maybe someone will play like ass or smell like one, right? Tell me that's true and she won't target us again. Tell me."

"Ew, Heather. Smell like ass?"

"You have no right to question my hope for other people's foulness, April. YOU were on the field last week while I withstood her gay inquisition. You weren't the one hoping to be knocked unconscious by a pop fly just so you could escape a seven year old. You have no right to talk. None. The end. Period."

Silence.

"Well?!" I asked.

Silence.

"Do you think she'll move on from us?"

Silence.

I stared at her.

Slowly she said:

"I'm not to talk. The end. Period."

"I hate it when you use my words against me."

"If this ends up in a blog, I just want to make sure you note that you are a walking contradiction. You silence me, but expect for me to know when I should speak. Your mixed messages are exhausting."

"Not more exhausting than a 7 year old taunting you in front of the whole softball team. Trust me."

At that moment we pulled into the ball park.

There she was.

Standing on top of a bench, in the parking lot, waiting for us.

I know she was waiting for us because the moment she saw us, she began pointing and yelling.

"It don't look good, babes," April said with a grin.

I felt my stomach drop.

"Mother of God."

The MOMENT we stepped out of the car, she began yelling something we couldn't hear and collapsing into giggling fits.

This is probably a good time to interject that she really is a good kid. She has a significant need for attention and never, ever stops....never stops moving, talking and in this case, screaming.

She didn't actually come up to our car, but she ran circles around it.

We drew a lot of stares as we put on our cleats.

We pretended not to notice.

"La te da. La te da. Shoooot me nowwwww." I sang.

Singing helped me NOT try to understand what she was yelling.

Once we were all laced up, April and I headed to the field.

She ran alongside us.

Still screaming and laughing.

I knew it was going to be bad.

I don't know how I knew, I just did.

Gay Intuition.

Doing our best to ignore her and the friend she'd picked up along the way, we jogged onto the field and pretended like we weren't the subject of their laughter.

THWACK!

THWACK!

THWACK!

For several throws, the sound of the ball hitting our mitts was the only thing I heard.

Then their screams turned into words.

Words we could not mistake.

Jesus God. Please, I prayed, PLEASE tell me I am not hearing what I am hearing.

One look at April and I knew I'd heard correctly.

Because I laugh when I am nervous, or when it is completely inappropriate, I giggled as they started screaming their little diddy from the beginning:

"HEATHER AND APPPPPPPPRILLLLLLLLL LOOOOOOOOOOVEEEEEE EACH OTHEEEEEEEEER!!!! . HEATHER AND APPPPPPPPPRILLLLLLL LOOOOOOVEEE EACH OTHEEEEER!!! THEYYYYYYY LIIIKKE TOOOOOOOOO KIIIISSSSSSSSS EACHHHHHHH OTHEEEEEER!!! ."

I giggled, but I wanted to die.

April looked like she was ready to join me.

She stopped mid pitch and mouthed:

"Did they just say what I think they said?"

I numbly shook my head and looked past hers, trying to see what our team mates were making of it.

They HAD to hear it. HAD to.

But they were being polite heterosexuals and pretended not to hear the girls or notice our discomfort.

Her parents (our coaches) were chatting up the opposing team and I'm certain they had no idea what was happening. I know if they had heard it, they'd have stopped her and put us out of our misery.

But since they had no idea, it would have been more embarrasing to approach them and say, "excuse me, but could you stop your daughter from singing, loudly, a big ol' lesbian song about me and April? K, thanks."

After another round of giggles, the song started over again.

And then again.

The time came and we needed to head to the bench.

I didn't want to walk past them.

I seriously considered walking around the other way, past 2 other ball fields, to get to our bench.

But I wouldn't be beaten down by a 7 year old.

No siree bob.

I walked right past them, with my head held high, and I ....

stuck my tongue out.

then I smiled.

That's how I roll.

post script:

Not two seconds after I sat down on the bench, she was on my lap and talking about ice skating and soccer practice and everything else in the world except for my love for April.

Perhaps my tongue lashing worked?

pss: hell, maybe she's on to something...kids are incredibly accepting....perhaps I should work with her on fine tuning her little song...

Promises, promises.

I. Am. Exhausted.

But I have two very funny blogs in the works.

At least, I think they are funny.

However, I'm coming to realize that often what I think is funny....actually isn't.

At least not to sane people.

Which makes it funny. And awkward.

At least to me. And for me.

Follow?

I surprised Apes with tickets to the Redskins game tomorrow, so I'll post when we get home.

It WILL (or will not be) funny.

Promise.

Socks.

So, for the most part, I can dress myself.

I do fine.

Tan and black match.

Pretty much everything goes with jeans.

Silver jewelry = silver belt buckle.

Check. Check. Check.

According to Apes, it's the small stuff that needs my attention.

Like socks.

Apparently, my choice of socks tends to be heinous and unbearable should you happen to look at my ankles and catch a glimpse.

A few weeks ago, I was headed downstairs and completely unaware I was the subject of a "search-yer-socks" review.

"Heather. You can't go out like that!"

"Like what?"

"Wearing white ankle socks with those shoes! You can only wear white ankle socks with TENNIS SHOES. Really. Go change."

"Seriously? I work with 7-year-olds who spit on me."

"Go change."

"Who says you can only wear them with tennis shoes?"

"Only EVERYONE. Go change."

Since I couldn't argue with EVERYONE, I went and changed.

I admit, I have a bit of sock anxiety now.

So yesterday morning I pulled out my tan cargo pants and a black top. For my feet, I retrieved my black and red pumas and headed to the sock drawer.

This is the actual conversation I had with myself:

"Okay. I'm not wearing tennis shoes. So I can't wear white ankle socks.

Therefore, I should wear socks that match my top and my shoes.

Black. I should be good with black socks."

I threaded my feet through the socks, laced up my pumas and hopped into the passenger seat of the car so Ape could drive us to work (she's a therapist at the therapeutic school where I collect my paycheck).

The moment we hit the road, I did what I always do - I threw my feet up on the dashboard.

"Oh my God. Heather!"

"What?"

"Your SOCKS!"

"You can't possibly have ANYTHING to say about my socks."

"Honey, you need to be wearing WHITE ankle socks with that outfit and those shoes," she said, cringing visibly.

"Now wait a minute. The last time I wore white, ankle socks, you told me I could only wear them with tennis shoes. I PURPOSELY didn't wear them this morning, even though they would have been more comfortable, because I am wearing these fancy Pumas."

"But Puma's count as tennis shoes and you're wearing dressy black socks. It doesn't work."

I slammed my feet on the floorboard, looked at April, and defiantly muttered:

"Put a frickin' sock it in, will ya?"

I'm never wearing socks again. Too much work.

Crazy Talk.

Okay, I never get political on this blog (other than to make fun of Ann Coulter's man-hands and adams apple), but I feel the need to for a hot minute.

A few weekends ago, Apes and I were at dinner with a bunch of friends.

This guy we barely knew sat down across from us.

Immediately, he started in on politics.

I groaned inwardly as I could tell by his clothes and his hair cut that we were probably going to be on more than just opposite ends of the table from him.

I nodded politely and kept quiet during most of his soap box speech, until he said:

"There's only one way to look at politics. There are the Republicans who are very logical thinkers and then there are the Democrats who are bleeding hearts."

Oh. No. He. Didn't.

"Really?" I said. "See, the way *I* look at it...logic and political affiliation are not mutually exclusive. Being a Democrat doesn't mean you are unable to connect the dots or need color by numbers."

He went unphased, so certain that HIS viewpoint was the ONLY viewpoint....and acted as if he expected such a statement from a "bleeding heart."

I was simply letting my passion get in the way of any logic or reason.

The truth is, while I vote democratic, I truly am a middle-grounder. I can be quite conservative on many issues.

I think lots and lots of people camp out in the middle ground area.

It's the far lefters and the far right "logical thinkers" that create chaos.

But what do I know.

I spend my life giving all the taxpayers money to crack addicts on the street AFTER I provide free nursery care for their 18 babies.

It's what I do.

Words Matter.

Every once in a while, I'll be lost in my own little world and the smallest thing will trigger a memory.

More times than not, the memories are funny.

Sometimes they are sad.

Other times, they are reminders that I'm a flawed individual capable of hurting other people.

I had one of THOSE memories this past Saturday.

April and I were in Roanoke visiting with some of her family.

We ended up at a beautiful park that circled a pond. The water fountain in the pond's middle arched toward a cloudless sky and several sets of young parents pushed strollers across the cobble stone bridge.

We'd been at the park for a half hour or so when we began to notice young high school students and their parents descend upon the park. Moms carried corsages, dads the cameras.

Ah, yes. The homecoming dance.

I watched in silence as the young girls rocked in heels they weren't comfortable wearing. Those in strapless dresses tried not to be seen as they hoisted their gowns up toward their chins. Several of the boys swatted their dad's hands away, pretending they knew how to straighten their own ties.

I'm not sure which part triggered my memory, but it was one that I haven't thought of since...well, probably since it happened.

I was 17 and a senior in high school. I wasn't the most popular girl in school, but it's fair to say I ran with the popular crowd.



For the most part, I had friends from all walks of life and managed to stay out of the high school drama. I truly tried to be friendly to everyone.

But occasionally I got caught up in myself.

I remember the Monday after the senior prom. I was part of a huge group of students waiting to enter the school that morning and of course, everyone was talking about the dance.

I have no idea why, but all of the sudden I blurted:

"Did you see that awful dress that Debbie was wearing? Seriously, I was embarrassed FOR her. Honestly, if I couldn't do better than that, I would have stayed home."

Hateful, I know.

And pretty uncharacteristic of me. But I don't deny I said it.

The gang surrounding me grew pretty quiet.

I turned around, and there was Debbie, standing right behind me.

She had the most pained and hurt look I've ever seen on anyone's face. Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran.

I had never felt so ashamed of myself.

Debbie was in my home room class - had been for several years. I knew she was hurt not only by what I said, but also because I was someone who I'm sure she thought was at the very least, a friendly acquaintance (since we chatted nearly every morning in home room).

I knew Debbie lived with her mom and her grandmother.

I knew they lived in a trailer.

I knew money was tight.

I KNEW BETTER.

I still have no idea why I said what I said. Showing off. Being a Mean Girl. Being a teenager.

I do know that I could not look her in the eye for the rest of the year.

I was too ashamed.

Sitting in that park on Saturday, watching the glammed-up high schoolers, I cringed at this memory and actually felt the raw guilt.

I wish I had been a grown up about my shame and apologized....somehow let her know that I was the one with something to be embarrassed about.

I'd change that if I could.

Fix it.

Since I can't, I'm left with the reminder that I need to be mindful of my words.

I need to think twice before being catty just for the sake of being catty.

Because:

Words matter.

What's Yours is Mine. Really. It is.

Today is gonna be a bit crazy for me, so I'm dusting off one of my really, really old posts.

I may have written it a year ago, but all character flaws still apply.

Sunday, August 20, 2006 (original post date)

Lock up your shit. Seriously. If you don't want me to use it, make sure it's not within my reach.

I'm not gonna go digging for your stuff, but if I need it and it's perched on a counter or more convenient for me to use yours rather than go to my local CVS, it's communal property.

Possession is 9/10ths of the law.

Not only will I not have any regard for your belongings, but I pretty much walk through life with blinders on when it comes to noticing details. I may walk through your front door a million times and not notice the day you put two massive potted plants on either side of the door (true story). I won't notice if you are my boss and spend your weekend painting my large wooden desk the color black (true story). You painted your living room a new color? Forget me noticing (true story).

I try. I really try. Because I know this is one of my shortcomings. Too many times I've looked into the expectant eyes of family, friends or April as they wait with baited breath for me to notice "something." My heart beats fast, my eyes scan everything from haircuts to the walls to the car parked in the driveway, desperate to pick up on "the change" before I have to throw my hands in the air and say in my whiniest voice, "awww, you KNOW how I am!"

I know dealing with these quirks is full time work for April. She couldn't be more my opposite. If it's not hers, she's not going to use it. If it's new, she's going to notice it. If I throw it on the floor, she's going to pick it up. And put it away. If it's a tank top, it goes in the first drawer, on the left, and gets color coordinated with the rest of the tank tops. If its shorts (not water shorts, those go in a different drawer), they go in the third drawer and get color coordinated. Me...I am happy leaving them on the floor in all their un-color-coordinated glory. She breaks out in hives at the mere thought.

These two character flaws of mine (my communal property mindset and lack of attention to detail) are forever creating "that could only happen to ME" scenarios.

Normally my blogs are full of "April cut the dog" and "Guess what happened when we waxed our lips" moments, but this one, this one is all mine.

April and I spent all last week in Bristol, TN visiting her mom, mamaw and sister. Because I haphazardly pack, I forgot my toothbrush and had to borrow hers.

The first time I mentioned my oversight, I heard "Ughhh, really? You forgot your toothbrush? Fine, ok, sure, you can use mine."

She's frustrated. I know it. She's thinking "If she'd take the time to pack CAREFULLY, like I do, this wouldn't be an issue." April also has a thing with germs and cleanliness, so I was pushing all her buttons with my one act of non-tooth-brush-ness.

That first morning, I had to ask where her toothbrush was and she said, in a very mommy-like voice, "in my overnight bag, where the toothbrush and toothpaste BELONG." Yeah, yeah. whatever. When I remember to pack my toothbrush I just throw it in the bag - no case, no nothing.

So, for a solid week, twice a day, I went into April's yellow overnight bag, getting her toothpaste and yellow toothbrush (it has to match her bag). To show that I DO make an effort to meet her in the middle, I made sure to put April's toothbrush and toothpaste back in the bag every time I was done with it. You'd think this would have become routine for me. Muscle memory. SOMETHING.

After a week of family fun in Bristol, we drove to Knoxville for the weekend. We spent the night at our friends Sue and Diana's. They live out in the country and have a large cabin-like home. This is good, given that Sue's 3 sisters were in town and they had a full house. So much so that April and I slept on a mattress on their beautiful wrap around porch.

At around midnight on Friday, the few of us that were still up began to get ready for bed.

April and I tip-toed past Sue's sisters who were sleeping on the pull out couch. We changed into our pajamas and started our bathroom routines.

I'm getting my brush on, working the toothbrush side to side, up and down, producing a good lather.

I turned to look at April and her eyes were huge. She had a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth and was making a gagging noise...as if she was trying to speak, but the toothbrush and desire to let out a big belly laugh prohibited anything other than garlbydy-gook. She managed to get out something that sounded like "where did you get that toothbrush?!!!"

Silence. Then silent laughter. Because we couldn't be loud. Sue's sisters were asleep right outside the door and OBVIOUSLY I was using one of THEIR toothbrushes.

DAMN IT.

April was bent over, toothpaste lather spewing from her mouth. Tears were streaming down my face, mixing with my toothpaste lather. Wait...make that Sue's sister's toothpaste lather. OH MY GOD.

I was shaking with laughter, saying "shhhhhh!!!!!" I started rinsing the toothbrush under the sink and pulled the towel down off the door in an effort to dry it...praying it would be as it was before its rightful owner went to use it again.

April was staring at the toothbrush saying, "WHERE did you get that toothbrush from? It wasn't in my bag...where you've been getting my toothbrush from ALL WEEK! Not to mention it's BLUE Heather! Mine is yellow!"

We both turned to the counter behind us where April's bag was lying. It was right next to Sue's sisters bathroom stuff.

Now, I'll cut myself some slack for not noticing the color of the toothbrush. However, (ok, this is embarrassing) in order to GET to this toothbrush I was using, I had to UNSCREW this purple travel contraption. I'm not lying. I had to UNSCREW it to get to the toothbrush. And that STILL did not register with me. No light bulb went off saying "Heather, you've brushed your teeth ALL week, twice a day, with a yellow toothbrush you got out of April's bag. This one is blue and in order to get to it, you have to go through purple Fort Knox." Never one time.

Again. Peals of laughter. Silent laughter.

Thinking I'd done my best, I screwed the toothbrush BACK into its container and left it exactly as it was before I defiled it.

We packed up and as we headed out of the bathroom, I picked up the toothpaste, thinking April forgot it, and said "Hey, don't forget this." She looked at me to see if I was kidding. I wasn't.

"Heather," she whispered, "THAT's not MINE either!"

Dear bald-headed Baby Jesus. Help Me.
For I ain't right.