Wednesday, October 31, 2007

real estate envy

as d day gets closer i seem to be creating, rather than answering, questions for myself.
besides the arduous task of revamping my portfolio & website (& seriously coming to grips with the fact that the last few years have completely RUINED my career) i have been trying to decide where i want to live. the two remaining contenders: LA and long beach. i think i would be perfectly happy in either so what it will boil down to will be where i find a job and what sort of domicile i want to live in.

i keep flip flopping between open loft space and quaint 1920's apartments and cottages with lots of built ins and coved ceilings (god i am SUCH a sucker for coved ceilings- it's pathetic). finding a home to satiate the plethora of personalities crammed inside my body, who all have distinct ideas about 'good design' is almost impossible. we're an indecisive handful and hard to please to say the least.

last night i came across something i would have never entertained before: buying. i've come across (and designed) dozens of little (and not so little) houses that i would kill to call my own- but they are always way beyond my financial grasp. but this may be a good 'starter' option for my first foray into living like an adult. it's an apartment/loft for sale in a 1925 building. i suppose the technical term for such shelters is 'condo' but that conjures such ugly images of suburban mcmansion sprawl... i have a hard time saying it. sort of like the word 'dude' which has never rolled off my tongue in a comfortable, natural fashion and therefore is not a part of my vocabulary.

**thank god i don't have such problems with 'cocksucker'.

i suppose the best part about this place is that i think i could actually afford it... provided i can find a banker that likes blowjobs. (KIDDING! totally kidding. this entry is really going into the gutter- what's wrong with me today?)
beyond it's financial appeal: it seems like a nice enough space. it's open but not raw. it has a full kitchen- which is such a must, 2 bathrooms, a decent living area and office space, separate sleeping area and MORE than enough room for all my completely random 'does an adult or a serial killer' live here crap. the idea of having to finally buy furniture is almost toe curling-ly exciting. i don't fantasize about men anymore. i think about sofas.

this is all just speculation coming from a girl who doesn't want to work today. but it's not completely absurd. i've just spent so much of my life living in tiny city apartments that everything else seems odd and incomprehensible.
"grown-ups live in houses, heathers live in abandoned factories & crack houses."
however, the older i get the more i like the idea of having a home.

of course a home with an adoring husband who has a cute baby in either arm and loves the fact that my ass isn't quite what it was 15 years ago would be ideal.... but my afternoon daydream is quickly becoming fodder for an over-zealous wet dream... so i should probably reel myself back into semi-reality because i don't see any of that in my future.

i fear i have a better chance of success in a long term relationship with a sofa than a man.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

muskrat tunic

i don't wear fur (despite loving dead animals) & can't imagine starting to wear it for any reason... but i came across something called a "muskrat tunic" in W today & i couldn't help but think 'that's so me'.

... but only if it still had eyes of course.

it was designed by max azria. i used to work with him sometimes and he absolutely adored me. i wonder if he'd give me one? i'm sure he would even sew on some wandering eyes if i asked.
would it be seriously bad of me to keep a muskrat anything? even if i loved it & cuddled it & considered it a toy more than a fashion item? (it's ugly as sin- i would never wear it)

yes, yes. i know the answer to that. no muskrat anything. i wish muskrats were a renewable plant.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

i think the gays are conspiring to decorate

and it is not just because the upstairs tenant is gay that i feel he's the responsible party helping himself to my bevy of shelter magazines when they arrive in the mail every month. i believe he's guilty because in 3 years of living here nothing has gone missing from my box until he moved in upstairs. that and every time i look up at his windows he's trying something new with his 'window treatments' (with little success i might add).

the temptation to go up there with a sketchbook, some fabric & paint swatches and a disk of judy garland is almost more than i can tolerate. there's nothing i hate more than aesthetically challenged, sticky fingered, gay men.

gay men are the only women on this planet i can relate to.
oh how i miss the days of the "A" gays.
now those were some men who knew their toile from their tulle.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

squash & sweat: the butternut of my dreams

the saga began on my 26th birthday, 1997 in the tiny kitchen of my haunted apartment on 6th street in nyc. it was a pumpkin soup served in the pumpkin: tres martha stewart. my deflowering was a mediocre success: it lacked flavor, was a bit lumpy (i wouldn't get my birthday blender until a day or two later) & though edible, my menu planning skills were still a couple years down the road and soup was the only thing i had made. we were still hungry and left feeling a wee bit 'so that's it?' after i had spent a good portion of the afternoon trying to cook in a kitchen that had probably never cooked anything legal and undoubtedly been the stage for a murderous butcher or two.

my poor soup went from being the star of the night to the lowly appetizer for many, many, many guinesses (SP?_try saying that drunk) that made up the bulk of our dinner once we realized 'dinner' was a bust. without much thought we walked next door to our 'living room', the crusty biker bar, and drank the night away. my only memory post-soup is of racing down avenue "c" and pierre biting it when he tried to hurdle a DOT horse and then promptly throwing up from the force of his fall. oh, that was the night i found 250 pounds worth of 1940's leather bound lab notes, complete with photos of rat cells that i made everyone carry back to my apartment at 4 a.m. i moved those bloody things for at least 5 years before i finally put them to rest. they smelled.

however, this early attempt was never completely forgotten. it has taken several years of work off and on, and more recently, a full year of ernest trial and error to realize my quest: the perfect autumnal soup.

it morphed from pumpkin to butternut and then made countless shifts in seasoning and base: creating everything from watery prison like fare to decadently heavy concoctions that tasted like a space age, full-thanksgiving smoothie. none coming close to what i kept tasting inside my head: the ever elusive cerebral soup of my dreams.

but today, 1 month and a week shy of my 10 year anniversary — i had a tom robbins moment in my kitchen and finally found my 'beet'.

victory was short lived. i hadn't finish my first serving before my mind started crunching potential recipes for a chilled cream of basil soup. the quintessential soup of summer. (gazpacho is SO plebeian.)

on a less cheery note: nothing ages you faster than finding yourself at a point in your life when it's time to start replacing small kitchen appliances. my birthday blender is on its last legs. reading glasses and open heart surgery are right around the corner.

the malnutrition & mental duress of my phantom babies

today i used my phantom children to order an oscar the grouch cookie with a pound and a half of frosting on it. when asked if i wanted a particular cookie i nonchalantly told the sales girl i didn't care which one she gave me 'it's for a 5 year old' while secretly (desperately) hoping she would give me the one with the MOST frosting. i think i was actually biting my lip as her hand scanned the cookies.

i'm not sure which is worse:
that i can't bring myself to tell some 15 year old with bad skin in a mall that i'm 35 & i still want the cookie with the most frosting (& therefore reduced to making up tales of children i don't actually have) or that i would feed my phantom baby such crappy food.

either way i am a complete loser.
just think if i actually did have kids? oi vey. i'd come home with a bag full of garbage & immediately retreat to the closet where i would devour its contents in the dark. god help the first toddler to come knocking on my door:


and then my poor babies would grow up forever being afraid of shoes and older women flying high on sugar and that just isn't right.

now if you'll excuse me i have to go get oswald's bottle. (translation: mommy wants a bottle of mineral water)

Thursday, October 11, 2007

totally random question

does anyone know have a WWII tanker desk with a finicky top drawer?
i do.
i call him 'mister roberts' (after henry fonda's character in the classic WWII flick by the same name).
i love my desk. he knows me better than any of you. i spent a month sanding it down to the bare metal by hand & then lovingly preserved it's glorious sheen with several layers of clear & a hint of house of kolor's violette pearl. it gives it a dizzying holographic effect from certain angles — on a bright day it can make you sea sick. it reminds me of fleet week back in nyc. (the glory days).

however, seasickness & a shortage of men in naval whites is not currently my problem: the top left drawer has decided to lock itself & i can't get it open. normally all i have to do is open the pencil drawer and jiggle it a bit, but not today... it is STUCK.
i've had this happen before and after a series of kicks, hits, super secret wiggles & pleading i got it open.
i distinctly remember thinking to myself 'i must remember this for future reference'.
sadly, that is where my memory ends. i haven't any idea what i actually did.

so if anyone has any ideas or knows where that secret latch is on the desk to unlock the drawers — please, by all means — let me know. that drawer is where i keep all my old address books & i desperately need to get them.

that is all,

uncle heather

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

the curse of the thinking man... is that he is doomed to forever be misunderstood by those who cannot think for themselves.

i got a letter today from an editor i've been talking with about publishing a small collection of 'bits'. he has been nagging me for some time and i finally relinquished myself to his demands by sending him a pile of completely undeveloped, unedited & unrefined crap- simply to get him off my back. i hoped that after the 5th page of zero punctuation and creative sentence structure his eyes would glaze over and he would give up once and for all.

stupid me. i should have known better. having worked as a designer for half my life- lesson number one is: never put something out there you hate because without fail that is what the client/public will latch onto and love more than anything and you will not only be forced to work with it- your name will be attached to it forever.

it's not as though i have signed a contract or anything- i am under no obligation to this man what-so-ever, but i still have to listen to him rattle on. and with this last letter it struck me just how terribly he doesn't get it. that he wants to get it is painfully obvious and that makes me all the more uncomfortable.
i want to be polite but at the same time the urge to back him into a corner & scream
'you just don't get where i'm coming from!!.... if you did you wouldn't want to put it on a fucking tshirt.'
but like i said... i try to be polite. it's the preppy in me.
my life seems almost entirely comprised of polite nods of the head & severe biting of the tongue. hard to believe, i know, for those who have ever had to endure one of my biting sarcasm riddled tirades... but trust me... i'm holding back... A LOT.

and now i am stuck coddling this poor schmuck because i don't have it in me anymore to simply tell him to fuck off. i don't want to be that person anymore. i hated that person. i was talking to a friend a couple weeks back & he commented on how i seemed 'soft' to him... & he actually sounded disappointed. i pointed out that when he knew me best (as in - we lived in the same city) i was a suicidal, absolutely bonkers drug addict. sorry to disappoint but soft or not- i think i've improved for the better. there's no shame in being able to giggle once in awhile... or move on from all the shit that destroyed you in the past. in fact i think it makes my 'hate & anger' even more poignant... because now- when i tell you to fuck off... i'm saying it because i don't care if you stop breathing... not because i say it as often as i breathe. i think 'tough' is one of the most misconstrued emotions on the planet. anyone who's ever had to be tough for a legitimate reason knows damn well it's not something you should strive for.. or hold onto like a badge of honor. it's a means to an end. it should never be an accessory. and there are no handbooks out there to teach you the secret hand shakes.

Thursday, October 04, 2007


longing for the misfit that will finally make me fit.
not into a world in which i don't really belong or care to understand,
but more snuggly into my own skin.

some mornings i wake up and realize: it doesn't matter what i do, who i meet or what i do with my life - in the end i am going to be doing it alone. i don't understand any of you. i never have, i never will. it's not dramatic or wrought with emotion. it just is.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Monday, October 01, 2007