The heaviness on my chest convinced me I was having a heart attack. I knew I wasn’t too far gone because I had enough energy to Google “symptoms of a heart attack.” I didn’t have a tingling sensation down my arm, but maybe I was already too far gone. But really? Do people have heart attacks at my age?
“What is the earliest age reported of a heart a-t-t-a-c-k?”
Crap. Google says yes.
Maybe I am having a heart attack. I did eat three hotdogs at the football game on Sunday. I better take an aspirin.
I continued to study site after site on what could possibility be wrong with me and why I was having a hard time catching my breath. At one point I resorted to some Lamaze-like breathing just so I could get some air in my lungs. I couldn’t concentrate on the breathing. I just kept losing focus on the make-believe anvil sitting on top of me.
According to Dr. Google, I was apparently having a panic attack – a FULL BLOWN panic attack. Google said they were painful. Google said people think they are having heart attack, even when they aren’t. Google said the good news is – people don’t die from panic attacks.
Hell, I’m taking another aspirin. Google might be wrong.
I stretched out on the office floor wondering if there was a chance I was an alien and how many times I’d need to wash my hair to get out whatever I just got in it off of the disgusting carpet. Ahhh…the anvil was so heavy. My breathing was so labored. I rolled over and grabbed my phone. Someone send help.
*******************************
Text: So I’m really having a rough time.
Response: Me too. My stylist is out for two weeks for vacation. OMG. My hair is going to be sooooo ridiculous by the time she gets back.
*******************************
Text: So I’m really having a rough time.
Response: I don’t understand.
*******************************
Text: So I’m really having a rough time.
Response: Waa waa
*******************************
This is why I feel like I’m from outer space. Despite the countless hours I’ve sat and listened about broken relationships and crappy jobs and unmet needs and endless worries and on and on and on and on………..when I put out the S.O.S. flares, I get a “waa waa.” Guess what? There are things that stress me out – jobs…relationships…finances….hopes….dreams….failures….what-ifs. How is it possible that I’m surrounded by so many people and feel so alone sometimes? Maybe I am an alien.
Over the weekend I asked Manfriend, “Do you think it is weird that I don’t feel like anyone ‘gets’ me?”
Sometimes I like to remove myself from the situation and watch that uneasy look come over his face as he carefully thinks through his answer before he speaks, just in case the question is a set up and he is walking into a trap. Sometimes I like to watch him squirm.
This time I saved him.
“This isn’t a trap. I’m being serious. At my age is it uncommon to have so many acquaintances, but so few people who understand who you are, what you’re going through, and will save you when you need it?” I continued to tell him the hours I’ve spent wishing that someone understood how my brain functions.
Manfriend responded, “I think it’s common to have ninety-nine percent of people in your life who don’t really know you, but one percent who are there when you really need them. Try not to look at it as a bad thing. Look at it as “Occupy Heidi’s Head” where the one-percenters rule.”
Hmmmm… It was deep. He knew I’d run with it. It was like one of those raw hide bones that a dog chews on for days before he loses interest. Smart man.
I started giving it a lot of thought. It isn’t like the 99% are wrong. They are my friends. They show up at my parties, laugh at my stories, like to go shopping with me, and enjoy gossiping about what’s going on around town. However, they don’t “get” me. They have no idea how to deal with me, or how my brain works, or show up when I send them a text saying “911.” It’s all a joke. Everything is a joke. It is the 99% who when we get past the generic façade of every day gibbly-gop, that the looks on their faces glaze over when I try to tell them that there are some days when I just want to run away from home. They give me the awkward laugh. They don’t “get” that I have “heart attacks” in the middle of the day on my office floor. It’s almost like I can read their thoughts: “Heidi must have forgotten to take her meds today.”
The temper tantrums of “no one understands me” most often overshadow the heroes of the one-percent. The one-percenters are beyond friends. You’d think I’d respect that more than I do. I admit. I take the one-percenters for granted. More often than not, they are the ones who are “lucky” enough to get the backstage passes of my life, and not like VIP tickets to a Justin Bieber concert, but more like a dreaded look beyond the privacy door… at a butcher shop… where they make sausage. It ain’t pretty.
I really shouldn’t have eaten those hotdogs on Sunday.
“No one understands me,” I cry as they sit there patiently listening, being an objective observer, trying their best to work with what I’m giving them. I overlook the fact that they “get” me. They sit there and take it, never once reminding me that they’ve always been there. They always will be there.
************************************
Text: So I’m really having a rough time.
Response: Where are you? Stay put. I’m on my way.
***********************************
And yet, it is the one-percenters that always come through when I really need them.
***********************************
Text: An alien is having a heart attack on my office floor.
Response: Give it some vodka, a few Swedish Fish, and wrap it up in your Hello Kitty blanket.
************************************
They might not be large in number, but they are still the one-percent, and that’s more than nothing. It’s everything.
Love, Heidi
xoxo
“Some people just aren’t going to change!” I slammed my handbag on the table and went to my empty fridge wondering how long that bottle of wine had been sitting in there. At this point, I’m pretty sure it would make a better salad dressing than beverage.
“I let the job get me allllllll spun up today. I know I’m not doing anything fun tonight DESPITE the lengthy discussion yesterday scheduling something. I owe BerBer fifty effing dollars because she told me so-and-so would copy my idea and guess what? It happened.” I hope she takes a check. “Typical. Why did I bet BerBer? And…And…I broke down and ate french fries at lunch so me getting up early this morning and running three miles was a big fat waste of time. Did you hear me? Big…fat…waste…of…time.”
I spit the wine in the sink. It did taste like vinegar.
“And you know what else? I’m sick of spending money on allllll this therapy trying to make alllllll these changes. I’m not really changing. I’m still miserable with the same routine. I’m sick of hearing about how everyone else is going to make allllll these changes. People stay the same. No one makes changes. You know why? Change sucks. I’m done! Did you hear me? I’m…done…”
I threw the empty wine bottle in the recycling bin. Ok. Maybe I have made a few changes. The old me would have thrown it in the trash can and said “Screw the environment. I heart landfills.”
They sat there staring up at me. It isn’t like I expected them to give me any moral support. At this point in the day, they just wanted me to grab their leashes and take them outside to pee.
I have two dogs: a smart one and a dumb one. I call them Frito Lay and Jolly Rancher. Clearly their names are a sign of my never ending unhealthy obsession with food. Jolly is the dumb one. But I cut him some slack. He is only five pounds and his brain is probably the size of an acorn. I’m pretty impressed when he can make it an entire day without falling into the toilet. Frito, on the other hand, is a genius dog. He has quite a personality. He’s moody. He knows when to hide under the bed. He knows to get excited when I ask if he is “hungee hungee hungee.” He sits. He speaks. He sings on demand. But the time has long passed for me to teach him any new tricks or break any of his current behavior. Despite my belief that he is the smartest dog in the world, when I try to teach him something new or scold him for something rude, like snatching my panties out of the clothes hamper, he just gives me a blank stare….rolls over on his back….and licks himself.
Several months ago I started a quest to be a more holistic, well rounded, open-to-change individual. I don’t know if it was the bumper sticker that read “Be the change you wish to see in the world” or the fact that I noticed how many times a day I say outloud “Stop it!” to my ridiculous antics, but something got me revved up to make some serious changes. I want to stop my yo-yo dieting. I want to stop fearing my own shadow. I want to stop being a bitch in relationships. I want to stop overcommitting and under-producing. I want to stop overanalyzing. I want to stop other people’s idiotic actions from ruining my day. I want to stop eating random meat sandwiches from street vendors. I want to stop waking up at 2:00 a.m. and wondering if I have a plan for the zombie apocalypse. I want to stop biting my nails. Come on. That’s gross.
But none of that is coming easy and after days like today I wonder if people really can change. I can want it. Other people can want it. But is it possible? The question becomes – are we like old dogs? Is it possible for us to learn something new or make changes? Or when the time comes, are we just always going to give blank stares, roll on our backs, and lick our own balls?
Why are we worrying so much about change anyway? What is putting this change in motion? Is it the fact we wake up, look in the mirror and realize what we are doing is stupid? Hello Stupid. Why are you so stupid? Is someone else motivating our change? This situation would be a whole lot better if you’d just make some changes. Are we motivating someone else’s change? Jerkface – this situation would be a whole lot better if you’d just make some changes. Is change for good? For evil? For something else to bitch about? Why am I the only one making all these changes? Are we not changing because it is too difficult? Or are we just too lazy? Do we even want to change? If we really really really wanted to, wouldn’t we just do it? Just do it…stupid…just do it.
Because I’m constantly experimenting with the human brain, I put the theory to a test. Is it possible to “just do it” when it comes to change.
For years I’ve said that I’m dying my hair dark. I’ve been blonde for a very long time. But the routine is always the same. “I’m going to the spa this evening to do something with my hair. I think I’ll go dark.” Anytime I say it, people just roll their eyes. You can only “cry wolf” so many times.
This time I jumped up in the chair, looked at the stylist and said, “Today is the day I stop licking my balls. Do it.”
She looked at me, pulled on her gloves and said, “I’m scared.”
Then it hit me. Maybe we’re scared. Heck, I know I’m scared. We are all scared to make changes. We are scared to sacrifice that security blanket of our habits and routines because it’s comfy. Everyone likes comfy. If it takes twenty-one days to form a habit, how long does it take to get rid of years of a flawed personality trait or an obsession or a freak-show and somehow make it comfy?
I’m hating the process of making changes almost as much as I’m hating the dark hair. But I’m learning that maybe it is just time to start doing it. It’s time to throw out the security blanket that I’ve been dragging around and just change.
What is the worst thing that could happen? I won’t be blonde or comfy…that’s what.
To be continued…
Love, Heidi
xoxo
“Your hair looks nice.”
I looked at them across the table. My hair doesn’t look nice. I don’t remember the last time I washed it or even brushed it for that matter. It feels like hay and sort-of smells like french fries since I was eating them last night when I fell asleep on the couch. But that is what friends say when they don’t want to tell you the truth. The truth being… “You look like shit.”
“I think I need an ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ experience. You know, go somewhere and get fat, then go somewhere else and get anorexia, and then go somewhere else and have foreigners tell me I’m beautiful.”
The moment of awkward silence was getting stale.
“Well, I think your hair looks really nice.”
*****************************************
I woke up this morning wondering if I was in purgatory. I think I’m too young to be having a mid-life crisis and too old to be on a journey to “find myself.” So what is the explanation of why I’ve reached this point in my life when I have no idea who I am and what I want? I’m in purgatory.
There was a certain combination of confidence and stupidity that I had in my twenties that made me feel like I had the world by a string and could conquer anything I set my heart to accomplish. In our twenties, we are able to learn new things, make stupid mistakes, be idealistic about our future; after all, we are babies…in our twenties. But something happens as time progresses. Patience wears thin. Our vision for our future gets blurry. Time becomes “of the essence”. All of a sudden we aren’t really sure what “success” even means to us anymore. I think there was something pleasant about the twenty-something stupidity. We didn’t “think” then. We just “did.”
When I finally woke up post-twenties and had swallowed a big dose of reality and graduated from the school of hard knocks, I decided that “thinking” is the enemy. When I realized that I was stuck with “thinking” like a bad tattoo, I decided I would search out a very holistic approach to life. It seemed simple. Be spiritually centered. Be well rounded. Don’t focus all of your time and attention to one thing. Live a fulfilled life. Go to church. Help others. Be healthy. Go to therapy…twice a week.
Yet, with all of the holistic-ballistic-mumbo-jumbo, I’m still torturing myself with this quest and understanding of what I want out of life. What is really going to make me happy?
What happens if I’m never really happy? What happens if I really do find happiness? When can I just breathe? When can I stop being scared? Should I ever really stop being scared when being scared motivates me? When is the “other shoe going to drop?” What do I do when the “other shoe drops.” Where did these shoes come from anyway? What do I want out of career? Can I have career and not really love it? Do I just want to dedicate everything to a career? Can you have a career and a relationship? Can both be solid? What do I want in a relationship? Do I want some sort of dependency? Do I want to be independent? What if a couple is too independent? Do you fall out of love when you’re too independent? Doesn’t every relationship need a portion of “need” and a portion of “want?” Is it ok for a woman in 2012 to want to feel needed? Wanted? And what about kids? I’m too old for kids. I’m certain my eggs are shriveling up as I’m thinking about this. They are probably already old and moldy. Who wants to be the oldest mom in preschool? But what if I don’t have children? Have I let down the female gender? What happens when I’m 80 years old? Who will have Thanksgiving dinner with me? Will I be stuck in some old folks home unloved and alone? Will I be eating fake turkey off a cafeteria tray? What will happen when I’m 80?
Whew.
I explained this to one of my guy friends over breakfast this past weekend. “Is this seriously what women think about?” he asked.
“That’s just what I thought about this morning,” I replied. “What did you think about this morning?”
“Eggs,” he smirked.
I’m almost wondering if I need to write a manual. Not a manual on how to survive life, but a manual to anyone that needs to interact with me right now. I could wear it like a scarlet letter. It could be entitled, “Warning: Contents Under Pressure.” It is like taking a trip to Egypt to find the meaning of life, only to arrive at the spot and realize the entire message is in hieroglyphics and you don’t have internet connection to Google it on Wikipedia. Crap. Trash.
It is such a disappointment to know it took so long to get here. Now I’m here. Now what?
“You can’t go to anymore therapy, H, or you’ll have to quit your job.” Well said…
**************************************************
Maybe I’ll start by washing my hair.
Love, Heidi
xoxo
Relationships. Grrrrrrrr.
Manfriend and I are engaged. I love him. I’m pretty confident he loves me too. When things are good, they are really good. When things are bad, we are reminded that we are relationship-retarded. We have been alone for a long time. We certainly aren’t spring chickens. We don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of issues. We are pretty set in our ways. We have issues. When you put former military with a former lawyer in a debate, you are never really sure who is going to come out the winner. Sometimes after several hours of debating, we realize we are on the same side. But we continue, until we are exhausted and call a truce. I seriously doubt it is a coincidence that I’ve dreamed more than once that I was wrestling with him on the 14th Street Bridge and we both fell over the side.
This weekend we both seemed to be in one of our moods. We couldn’t agree on anything. We reminded each other of all our inadequacies. We compared our compromises for the benefit of the relationship. We complained. We yelled. I cried. At one point, one of us said, “some days I can’t stand you.” Later that night we went to a baseball game and I sat through the entire game wondering if he was going to dump me on the jumbotron. Heidi, we’re over. You suck.
By the end of the weekend, we were back to “I love you”s but I had to ask “why can’t this just be easy?”
I carried the question over to my shrink the next morning. I figured since I’m paying almost five dollars a minute, I can ask whatever I want.
“Relationships aren’t easy, whether they are romantic or friendships. They take work. They take compromise. They take adjustments. Both people give up things to gain new things. To make matters worse, everyone brings their own issues to the table that have nothing to do with the relationship but affect the relationship. In fact, one in four individuals will experience some sort of emotional issue in a given year that warrants medical diagnosis.”
What I heard: Not easy. Work. Compromise. Adjustments. Everyone is messed up.
I think my brain was warped as a small child to think that relationships are supposed to be easy. My bedtime stories always ended up with the princess marrying the knight in shining armor. Ken and Barbie never had a prenup. The Care Bears never got in a fight.
I presumed that my very first childhood friend would grow up with me, be my maid of honor and my next door neighbor forever. Until one day, she deliberately chopped off the hair of my favorite doll. I don’t remember having a play date with her after that incident.
It’s never been easy. From school age to adulthood, I think we can all agree that relationships have always taken work, and yet, despite our first hand experiences, we still make our brains believe that THIS relationship, whether it is a friend or a lover, is somehow going to be all roses, gumdrops, and rainbows. Cue Bon Jovi – I’ll Be There for You.
A few years ago, I got on one of those dating sites so I could complete the questionnaire, a “scientifically proven matchmaking tool.” Halfway through answering questions about things I like and dislike and how I would describe my perfect date, I kept looking for the questions that really get to the heart of the matter. After all, I seriously doubt that a major deal breaker to the “perfect relationship” is whether or not I enjoy long walks on the beach or vigorous hikes up the side of mountain. I kept looking for the real doozies. Where were the questions labeled: THINGS THAT HAVE ME REALLY F@$KED UP IN THE HEAD? Where were the questions asking, “how many times have you been cheated on?” “what types of trauma have you endured?” “what issues have distorted your trust in others?” “how loudly is your biological clock ticking?” “how many prescription drugs do you have prescribed to you in your medicine cabinet?” “how many prescription drugs do you have not prescribed to you in your medicine cabinet?”
Social media hasn’t helped. Somehow we think we have strong relationships that require no work based upon the number of “friends” on Facebook, our “followers” on Twitter, our “connections” on LinkedIn or the several hundred people subscribing to our blog.
By the way, who are all of you people actually reading this crap?
When we finally get the relationship, we want it to be easy because we all love easy. God bless the microwave, online banking and pizza delivery. When it isn’t easy and we see the first sign of trauma, we do the next best thing. We make getting OUT of the relationship easy…we bail…block…delete…pull a Kim Kardashian…run for the hills.
We automatically think we are on the sinking Titantic, when maybe, just maybe, we are weathering a storm? So why are we so quick to jump overboard?
Why aren’t we having real discussions about relationships not being easy while we are still in the relationship? I mean really…what do we accomplish talking about relationships once they are dead besides six months of reading passive-aggressive Facebook statuses explaining why you aren’t together or why you ditched your friend? I get it. You were perfect. He sucked.
Instead of having real discussions, we are too busy faking it. On the outside we are all telling one another that it is easy. We make it look easy. We talk about how easy it is. Hello world. We are together and everything is perfect. It’s like those fake handbags on the side of the street. For years I used to buy them because they looked so perfect on the outside. It wasn’t until I got them home that I realized they smiled like cat piss on the inside. Why wasn’t I told that I’d have to spray those things with a bottle of Frebreze for two months and store them outside?
Where are the conversations from you folks who have the relationship thing figured out? Instead of flashing your photos with your Colgate smiles, hosting the parties, celebrating your double digit years together, do us all a favor. Tell us how even though you’re wearing the BFF necklaces, there were moments where you tried to strangle each other with them and didn’t stop until one of you turned blue. Explain to us how you’ve been with the same partner for over 20 years and at least once a week one of you spent the night in the dog house. Send out the memo that says, “Relationships aren’t easy. In fact, some days they are miserable and most days they are tough.” Describe how you made the compromises but didn’t lose yourself. But most importantly, show us that it’s the tough times that make the relationship real, and real is what makes it worth it. If you can easily walk away, it just isn’t real.
When can we just be real?
All the fake handbags I ever purchased ended up in the trash. The handles broke within the first few weeks. My relationships that weren’t solid always ended up the same way…always great at first until the first sign of conflict. It’s the handful of relationships that have endured my mood swings, hung up on me during telephone calls, argued with me for hours, but have come to my aide when I’ve needed them, that will be with me my entire life.
I remember the first time I bought a real designer handbag. The sales person could see the hesitancy in my face. “It’s going to make you cry at the register, but I promise you it will last forever. The real thing isn’t always going to feel new, and it’s going to get some scratches, but it is going to be just as wonderful when it’s vintage.”
I’m going to start looking at relationships the same way. When they are tough and require a lot of work and sometimes make me want to scream, I’m going to remind myself to weather the storm because we are on our way to vintage….
…and that is what I want.
Love Heidi
xoxo
I woke up at 4:30 a.m.
Starving.
If you would drop strangers in my kitchen and let them snoop around, they would swear they were in some dude’s house. The fridge has an empty pizza box, bottled water, a few Gatorades, some cactus juice that I ordered from an infomercial at 2:00 o’clock one morning, a few soy sauce packets from my last delivery at China King, fat free milk, and some sort of orange cheese. The cupboards are just as bad – a couple boxes of stale crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup for the next time I feel crappy, several hundred tea bags which makes it look like I’m preparing for a royal tea party, some random containers of pasta, and a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
I did what any Girl Scout would do with that random selection. I baked mac and cheese…and I added a soy sauce packet.
Before anyone sends me an email – no, I’m not preggers.
I can tell that I’m entering that late summer funk. It always starts creeping up on me around the beginning of August. My already messed up sleep cycle gets worse and I have no shame for the trash I eat. In fact, I’ve been secretly ordering Whopper Juniors with cheese and having Burger King deliver them to my apartment late at night.
I used to blame the funk on the fact that I was getting ready to go back to school. Vacations were ending. I had to get motivated for a new semester. Change was inevitable. The unknown was nightmarish. Usually the funk wouldn’t go away until I had purchased all of my school supplies, had watched the first home football game, and had my first encounter with the “mean girls” who I would dream about tripping in the hallway.
As an adult, I still get the funk and I’m constantly looking for some magical unicorn that is going to lead me out of it. Since the days of school supplies and home football games are over, I have found I can usually shake it off with a few weeks of eating junk, wearing something leopard print every day and talking it out.
Me: “I’m entering that late summer funk.”
Manfriend: [Silence]
Me: “I just feel really unmotivated. Kind of depressed, but not really depressed. I want to feel more organized. I want to feel like I’m accomplishing something. I’m so afraid of change, but I also want change. I want to stop eating crap in the middle of the night and maybe, just maybe, I need to get a hobby.”
Manfriend: [Silence]
He doesn’t understand me. He just sits there and looks at me. Grrrrrrrr. [Stomp Stomp Stomp to another room. Slam door. Pout.]
When I don’t feel better talking to Manfriend, I go and talk to my other friend. When I say my “other friend”, I really mean my “shrink”.
Me: “I’m entering that late summer funk.”
Shrink: [Silence]
Me: “I just feel really unmotivated. Kind of depressed, but not really depressed. I want to feel more organized. I want to feel like I’m accomplishing something. I’m so afraid of change, but I also want change. I want to stop eating crap in the middle of the night and maybe, just maybe, I need to get a hobby.”
Shrink: [Silence]
Whew. I feel so much better. My psychologist really gets me. [Dig dig dig in handbag. Find checkbook. Write $300 check.]
Sometimes I leave Shrink’s office wondering if my money would have been better spent on a new pair of Manolos, but I feel significant comfort in knowing that if I pay for a friend, my conversations won’t end up as someone’s Facebook status.
STATUS UPDATE: “My friend H is in a funk. She looks suicidal…and fat. I wonder if she’s pregnant. Pray for her.”
Hello Friend. I can read your FB statuses. The fact that you posted this update beside of our self-portrait that we took at Dairy Queen makes people think you are talking about me.
I think if we were all a little more honest with each other, we’d learn that we all face the funk on occasion. Even those liars who try to make everyone think they’ve got it all together, I know they too go through spells where they are questioning their choices in employment, relationships, and future plans. I bet a few of them are even having greasy burgers delivered while they tell everyone they are vegan.
Isn’t it natural for all of us to feel uncomfortable once in a while?
Isn’t it completely acceptable that the very things we want also scare us to death?
One day I’m going to find the answers to my random questions. In the meantime, I’m going to ride this funk wave out, fully loaded with carbs and wearing my favorite leopard print outfits.
Lady on the metro: “I really like your dress.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Clearly everyone loves leopard print.
Lady on the metro: “I bet you get a lot of compliments when you’re wearing an outfit that looks like a bird.”
Love, Heidi
xoxo
“Miss? Miss? Do you want to go to work today?”
I opened my eyes, rubbed away the sleepys, and then it hit me. Oh (enter expletive)! I fell asleep in the back of a cab.
My cab fare was triple the usual cost. I’m guessing he drove around like I was some wailing baby who was finally taking a nap. It could have been one of those bad stories in a made-for-tv-movie. You know the one…where the evil cab driver takes a dozing idiot for a wild ride around the city, steals all her money and throws her in the river. I can see the headlines now. GIRL FOUND SLEEPING ON SHORE BY FISH MARKET. TWENTY TWO CENTS MISSING FROM HER HELLO KITTY CHANGE PURSE.
It isn’t like I haven’t had awkward moments before. I’m quite the expert at handling them. I gave him the ole thumbs up, got out of the cab, thanked him profusely, handed him all my cash, and waltzed into the small grocery store that I go to every day.
“Heddy, were you sleeping in the back of that cab? Ha ha ha ha.”
It’s amazing when I tell the store owner that I want to use my debit card that he acts like he doesn’t understand any English. However, on the days he wants to bust my chops, he seems quite fluent. I snarled at him, threw three bags of gummy bears, two packs of pixie sticks and a Red Bull on the counter and said, “No. Heddy has low blood sugar.”
I wish I could say I was sleeping in the back of a cab because I had a wild adventurous night, but sadly enough, I left work at 2:30 a.m. and had to return at 7:00 this morning.
I warned my co-workers that I wouldn’t be following the dress code today. Nothing says professionalism like the stretchy pants, tank top, and wet jersey hair that I have wrapped up on the top of my head. It is always days when I’m dressed like this that either Manfriend calls and asks me to join him for an important business function, a client wants to negotiate a contract in person, or I see a celebrity.
I think I just saw Snoop Doggy Dogg.
Last week I was on a much needed vacation, but after working the 38 hours in the past two days, the only thing remaining from that trip is the chipped hot pink polish that is still lingering on my nails.
Last week I was wondering how Manfriend could throw on a swimsuit, spray on some sunscreen, and be ready for the beach, all in the time that I was still standing in front of the mirror trying to get the left breast to look at perky as the right breast in my bikini. In my post-29 years, I’m realizing that bikini has quite the task. By the time I’d be finished getting on the swimsuit, putting on my face sunscreen, putting on my body sunscreen, powdering with some bronzer, positioning a flower in my hair, folding my two beach towels, organizing my smut novels and gossip magazines, color coordinating my flip flops, doing an inventory check of my beach bag, and readjusting my breasts, Manfriend would be curled up on the bed in a deep sleep. Great. More time to readjust.
I swear that is Snoop Doggy Dogg.
This week I’m wondering why we even take vacations if we return to work the following week only to run ourselves down. But as in everything, I guess it is always about “give” and “take”. Last week it was about taking vacation. This week it is about giving every waking moment to work.
Manfriend just sent a text: “Ughhh. Three days back and you’re already stressed. Not good. I’ll take care of you tonight.”
…and that I’ll take.
TAXI!
Love,
Heidi
xoxo
Sometimes I wonder what people are doing at 3:00 o’clock in the morning. Sleeping? Bathroom break? Snack? Saying “no” while their partner is cozying up next to them? For me, 3:00 o’clock in the morning is when I hear that never ending ticking in my brain. I’m pretty sure that crazy dude in Tell-Tale Heart has nothing on me. Phbbtt! The ticking is my alarm saying, “Wake up, H! Let’s worry about something.” Hurray! I…can’t…wait…to get all worked up over nothing. Fun!
Last fall someone talked me into going with them to see a psychic. She was hoping for insight. What she needed was a reality check. I could have told her some things for free, but I digress.
“The cards are telling me that you have your own psychic powers. I’m feeling a lot of energy coming from your brain.” Yes, you do. That’s me wondering how you are affording this spot in Georgetown and wondering if I should clean my bathroom tonight or wait until tomorrow morning. I swear I saw something growing on the tile this morning.
I’m pretty sure my twenty dollars would have been better spent buying a ticket at the carnival to see the donkey with the two heads. I was very disappointed when I didn’t see a crystal ball.
Psychic? No. What I am is an expert at taking any subject and analyzing it to death and then analyzing it some more in case I missed anything during the first few hours of thinking about it. The domino effect in my brain usually starts with one thing and ends up with my own demise. This morning, it went a little something like this….
“I hope Manfriend doesn’t forget that he said he’ll pick me up for work in the morning. I need to get to work early. What if he forgets? I have to get to work early and finish those teaming agreements. I bet he forgets. What if the partners back out of the teaming agreements? They gave me a weird look yesterday. Then who is going to help write the proposal? If we don’t have someone to help write the proposal, the boss is going to be very mad. What if he gets so mad, I lose my job? If I lose my job, how will I buy food for the dogs? If the dogs don’t have food, they’ll be taken by dog-protective-services. If the dogs are taken, I’ll be so sad. If I’m so sad, I won’t be energized to find a new job. If I don’t find a new job, I might end up homeless. If I end up homeless, I won’t be able to survive. I couldn’t even survive one year of Girl Scouts! Wonder why I never got that scout badge for building that birdhouse. Dad did a good job on that birdhouse. I will probably end up homeless in a bad part of town. Then someone will probably stab me for my grocery cart and I’ll be dead.”
Usually this is when I play cellphone roulette. I find a number and send a text. “I feel anxious 😦” None of you jerks ever text me back. My shrink swears there is medicine for this. However, anytime she prescribes something, I always read the label about the side effects, and then I worry I’ll end up dead.
Eventually, reasoning makes an appearance. The dogs will never go hungry. Mom would never let that happen.
Then it leaves. I didn’t give her grandkids…just granddogs. Wonder if she’s mad about that?
No wonder I’m always exhausted.
By the way, Manfriend forgot to pick me up for work this morning. Maybe I am psychic.
Love,
Heidi
xoxo
Every morning when I open my eyes, I usually say a similar prayer. “Dear God, please help me make the right decisions today and let me be happy…and if I can’t be happy, please give me the strength to fake it.” This morning for some reason (I don’t know if it is the 80 hour weeks I’m pulling at work, the significant amount of stress I’m under, or the fact that I’m trying to cut Swedish Fish out of my diet), I prayed, “Dear God, please help me make the right decisions today and let me be happy…and if you have some time in the near future to use your power for fun, please grant me a hall pass.” I don’t have any religious evidence to support the idea that this actually happens, but I’m pretty sure He rolled his eyes at that request.
I remember in elementary school when I had to go to the bathroom, I had to raise my hand and ask for a “hall pass.” I never really understood that concept. It was like if I was found in the hall without it, I was some 6-year-old refugee who had fought my way through recess to reach freedom or crawled my way through nap time to escape the evil clutches of the kindergarten teacher while she accidently dozed off for a second. I wasn’t a big fan of the hall pass. It was inevitably some obnoxious crafty object that the teacher concocted using a clothespin, rainbow pipe cleaners, and glitter. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of glitter, but as a kid I just thought it would have been a whole lot easier to give me a sign that said, “I have to poo.”
In my adult life, my friends refer to the “hall pass” as an escape from their committed relationships. I’m told that by having a “hall pass”, it somehow erases the fact your partner was hooking up with a coworker when he/she was supposed to be home having dinner and watching the kids play Little League. Preparing for our upcoming nuptials, Manfriend and I know there will be no hall passes. You either have the full time committed relationship or you have your clothes set on fire.
The kind of hall pass I’d like is in the kind that I could give to the little angel that sits on my right shoulder and encourages me to say the right things even if I don’t really want to at the time. That…chick…needs…a….break! I can’t even tell you the struggle she has on a daily basis with that hot mess sitting on the left shoulder. If only I could just have one day to respond with what I’m thinking in my head, without any consequences…
Situation: (Text message with picture of my pregnant friend) “Look at my ever growing belly. Only two more months to go!”
My response: “Awwww…miracle of life….so exciting!”
What I’m thinking: “Please don’t send me any more pictures of your stomach. When I see it the only thing I can think about is that you have some creature swimming around in your body fluids, eating your nutrients and it causes you to have gas all the time. Don’t think for one second I didn’t know it was you who farted on the metro. When I keep seeing how big that baby is getting I just keep thinking about how much pain you’re going to be in in two months and quite frankly it makes me uncomfortable. Oh, and please please please don’t give me a framed copy of that naked picture of you where you are covering your private parts with your hands and your baby’s daddy is kissing your stomach. Yuck. I didn’t even want to see that of Jessica Simpson on the cover of that magazine when I was standing in line at the grocery store to buy Cheerios. Double Yuck.”
Situation: (Colleague entering the second hour of a speech during a business meeting.) “Does anyone have any comments or suggestions?”
My response: “You did a great job. I can tell you put a lot of hard work into this project.
What I’m thinking: “Shut the @#$# up.”
Situation: (Running into a classmate from college.) “So anyway, like I was saying, my husband is a trust fund baby and he just can’t spend enough money on me. Our three children are amazing. We already started a fund for them to go to Harvard. The nanny takes such good care of them. I’m working, even though I don’t have to, and I know it is only a matter of time before I’m CEO of the company and I just started last week.”
My response: “I’m so happy for you. I always knew you’d go far.”
What I’m thinking: “Shut the @#$$ up.”
Situation: (Email from a mutual friend.) “Heidi, she had to delete you as a friend on Facebook because she noticed that you wrote ‘Happy Birthday’ on a guy’s wall that she went on one date with ten years ago. She really thinks you’re a bad friend.”
My response: “It really is too bad that she feels that way.”
What I’m thinking: “Wait? We were friends on Facebook? My stomach is growling. I need a snack.”
Situation: (While I’m in the middle of getting out an important document.) “Heidi, do you know which metro stations would be the quickest way for me to get to where I need to be? Are there any restaurants nearby? What about parking? Do you know if there’s parking?”
My response: “Give me a minute. Let me see what I can find out for you.”
What I’m thinking: “http://www.google.com. Dumbass.”
Future situation in the next five minutes: (Loaded inbox of hate mail) “Heidi, I was very offended reading your blog.”
My response: “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I think I was a little manic this morning.”
What I’m thinking: Delete. I need coffee.
So I’m probably not going to get a hall pass anytime soon. Most days it is easy to say the right things. For those days that aren’t so easy, I guess we’ll just have to fake it.
Love,
Heidi
xoxo
During a routine, random, borderline psychotic, temper tantrum with my Manfriend, I shouted what every woman with PMS has shouted at one time or another, “I’m just not really good at anything.” Cue tears. Of course, his response, like any good partner, was “Baby, of course you are really good at things.” Enter tissue box – stage right. I sat at the corner of the bed anxiously waiting for what I thought would be a laundry list of goodness coming from his mouth. Orchestra plays music indicating climatic moment. He said, “You are such a mess and your view of the world is very unique, and honestly, and don’t take this the wrong way, makes you really really funny.” Gasp from the crowd.
I spent the next few days wondering what the heck that meant. I’m fairly confident that after that comment he told me I was pretty, but like most of our conversations I picked up on one phrase and decided to analyze the poo-poo out of it. It wasn’t like I expected him to say I was a great cook. Slow pan to the left at years worth of scorched skillets. Or a great housekeeper. Slow pan to the right at months worth of laundry in a pile on the floor. But funny?
I remember when I graduated from college with a political science degree and as I was smiling for family photos I kept thinking, “what in the hell am I going to do with a political science degree?” and I immediately went home and applied for grad school. What was I going to do with “funny?” Be a stand-up comedian? I’m pretty sure if I announced that career change, I’d get that same patronizing pat on the head that I got from Mom when I told her that I was going to be an astronaut in the second grade. Flashback to childhood memory.
During a chat about work where my Manfriend was telling me about a new technology he was implementing on a major project, I waited until he rattled off about six acronyms that I had no idea what they meant, and then I said, “What do you mean I’m funny? I’m not funny. Do you think everything I talk to you about is funny?”
Sometimes I pretend I can read Manfriend’s mind. It is almost like I can hear him thinking, “Out of all the women in DC, this is what I ended up with?” Of course, he would never end a sentence with a preposition, so clearly I can’t read his mind.
He looked at me with the most discerning look and said, “You don’t know you’re funny and I know you don’t mean to be funny. Why don’t you start a blog, get all that energy out of your head, and see what happens? Ok? It would be good for you to write.” I’m guessing he doesn’t check his Facebook wall very often. How many more posts could I possibly do in one day?
After much consideration and several cups of coffee, I figured I’d just start writing. So here is the first posting of my very first blog. It very well may be my last and I can add it to the other items I tried once and never tried again. Screen shots of skis, tennis rackets, basket weaving book, and other remnants from the storage closet of doom.
Welcome to heidisdrama. Just what the world needs….another blog.
Curtain closed.
heidisdrama 