Friday, February 29, 2008

somebody needs a happy pill

you know how you always have this internal monologue going on inside your head and sometimes it's just chumbling gibberish but other times it takes on this marcia brady-'oh my nose'-like iambic pentameter?
well today, all day long from the moment i woke — staring blindly at my ceiling, until right now as i type i have had the same 52 words bleating inside my skull and i have no idea why. the disturbing part of it is — i've been in a fantastic mood all day. absolutely brilliant mood — laughing, giving everyone just a raft shit, dead fucking on— i had one of my ae's crying at two different points during the day... all the while inside my head i am verbally beating the shit out of some old faceless, nameless geezer.

"tomorrow when i see you at the crack of bloody dawn i'm going to kick you in the yarbles so hard you'll be trying to pull them down out of your gulliwuts until the day you die old man. you'll have to pass through the gates of hell as a sodding eunuch."

why?

friday at last

very long, very busy week. i'm glad it's over. it hasn't been bad at all, but i'm tired and a bit sore as well. this blog is starting to turn into the ailment diary of a rickety old lady. that's a little embarrassing.

anyway, last night half way through my battery of rond de jambe en l’airs i hyper-extended my hip/leg and now i'm hobbling around as if walking is an entirely new experience for me. i don't know why i even try to exercise. all i do is hurt myself and anyone who has had a peek at my bare ass recently (i'm sad to report that honor is held entirely by my cat monty) could tell you that for all my plies and tendus my body is pretty much shit these days. so why i endure this i really have no idea. i think it's a deeply embedded sadistic need to torture myself as some sort of punishment for not being perfect (very far from it in fact) but i suppose that is a matter for my headshrinker to ponder, not my six or twenty lovely readers. (hello six or twenty lovely readers).

at any rate, it's friday, it's bloody gorgeous outside and i have a ton of work to do and i haven't started ANY of it. the best part: totally don't care. instead i've been flipping through an assortment of teen magazines reading juicy snippets aloud for bryan- my next door neighbor here at work. i suppose technically i am working — i'm redesigning a bunch of stuff for the girl scouts and need to familiarize myself with the tween mentality (which is a little scary), but my priorities have fallen by the wayside today and my looming deadlines have taken second stage to these informative articles on 'texting' and my horoscope in terms of 'school year predictions'.

apparently the beginning of the school year is going to be (or 'was' i think this is an old issue of cosmogirl) the most enjoyable time of the year. someone is going to like me during the winter season and we will 'hook up' but come spring our amore will ebb and we will part in order to attend to other parts of our lives. i will be confident in my studies (of course) but should be wary of becoming lazy and procrastinating. (i guess i should have read this earlier in the morning).

ahh to be 14 again. i can't wait to find out what seventeen mag has to offer. maybe some tips on telling my mom i'm ready for my first bra and how i'll know it's the right time to finally give my boyfriend that blow job that will make him cry for mama.

i'm learning so much, these magazines are much racier than they were when i was a kid. it's no wonder they're all knocked up.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

big brother really IS watching

compliments of google map... in a few weeks you should be able to get the street view that will let you look into people's windows (not mine however because i'm a freak and keep my windows shuttered at all times) i saw the car driving around the other day that takes the pictures. if it weren't for the fact that i am a totally nosy voyeur this would probably bother me.

what we have here is a failure to comprehend.

comprehend that i don't give a fuck anymore.

and there's a certain amount of liberation that comes with it. not giving a fuck, that is — you not gettin it is tedious and annoying. it's a wonderful moment when that click in the back of my head comes which makes me stop mid-sentence and just walk away. that moment when the second guessing ends and i can honestly voice what i've been chumbling about to myself — quietly, angrily, un-suredly; all because of some archaic code of loyalty that says i must stand by you no matter what. a code of loyalty, i might add, which has never been reciprocated quite to my satisfaction.

and so i am done. that you can't understand the how's and the why's is of no consequence to me. that is where the real victory lies. that is what will always make me more of a 'man' than you could ever hope to be. i don't have to explain anything because i no longer need you to understand my rationale— if you're left wondering 'why?' that's your problem.

there is no dignity in walking away and then forever looking over one's shoulder in order to see what reaction walking away has created. i could give a fuck about your reaction. i don't care and that is the most liberating, enlightened feeling i have ever known. you will never comprehend that sensation because you are weak and reactionary. you take every breath anticipating what affect it will have on the world around you — not because you need to breathe.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

delacorte


when i lived in nyc i worked on and off as a scenic designer and carpenter at the public. i think it was the summer of 96 that i did henry V and timon of athens during shakespeare in the park. i love jobs where i get to build things: i worked 16 hour days, destroyed a pair of steel toed boots in 2 months and came home every night filthy, bloody and exhausted — it was one of the best jobs i have ever had. shakespeare, central park and power tools, what more could i really ask for?

one of the perks of working at the park in the delacorte theater was that it was right next to belvedere castle and as employees of the papp & shakespeare in the park we were rather revered and given free reign (& keys) to the park after hours. i spent many a night at belvedere when the thought of dragging my weary body from 81st down to 6th & c was more than i could stand. (though there was a certain amount of satisfaction that came with getting onto a packed subway, sweating and filthy from head to toe, carrying a power saw.)

that summer the park was mine. i miss my hammock behind the stage, the dungeon underneath the stage, my castle and shakespeare's garden — where my pet rats otto and emanuel are buried.

i'm feeling a little homesick.

just in case you were wondering

i've been bringing porkchop to work and teaching him all sorts of terribly UNcool things (because i'm lame). don't worry, i'll keep the yiddish to a minimum... he is named 'porkchop' after all.

perpetually pukey

if it weren't for the fact that i lead an entirely sexless life i would swear i am about 29 months pregnant and suffering severe morning sickness. brushing my teeth without vomiting, or at least having to spend 5 minutes collapsed on my bathroom floor in a cold sweat trying to 'breathe carefully' while i regain my composure has become the most physically challenging feat i've been faced with in awhile. but as i said, i lead a depressingly solitary life and am most certainly am not carrying puppies — so it does beg the question: what the hell is wrong with me? as a rule i'm not one to complain about complete loss of appetite and shedding a few pounds, but this is getting to be a bit tiresome. i think i might be nauseated with life in general. i'm 36 and starting to worry that this might actually be 'it' and this is not how i expected things to turn out. i wish someone would take this old dog out back & put her down once and for all. i'll buy the bullets!!!
i'm not in a very good mood today.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

... so the other day i was on the mekong delta

flushing out tunnel rats when my chickenplate fell off and i thought
'fey! this could be mutche if i get hit with a beehive. oy! i'd rather be on a no-doze mission.'

my affinity for nam jargon and old jewish women is legendary but considering i was wearing mary janes and smocked pinafores during the vietnam war and i'm not an old jewish woman — sometimes i have a hard time expressing myself when i get into full swing. those days are over.

today my two favorite worlds collided when i found a 'dictionary of the vietnam war' AND a book of yiddish sitting next to each other in a dusty bookshop. my heart rate actually sped up a notch as i flipped through the vietnam book... 'blade time', 'clover leaf', 'piss tube'.... all my life my fingers have itched and my tongue has languished in defeat as i searched for the right words... and here they were at last: alphabetized.

i also brought home a book on historical slang, the complete CB dictionary and a handbook for buckish rhyming and pickpocket eloquence. with any luck i will never utilize the english language properly again.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Thursday, February 21, 2008

too.... much...... jane..... austin....

*note to self: never, under any circumstances, allow myself to settle down into bed with anything written by jane austin, edith wharton or the bront├ęs, during a bout of hormonally induced cramps/mental psychosis.

for all my fire-starting, ax-wielding, play in the dirt, swear like a madman sailor, tomboyishness i can be exceedingly female when the mood strikes. and when it strikes it has the venom of a hundred cobras.

after a frightfully long week i left work early yesterday for a hair and doctor appointment. they both dragged on forever and included way more poking and prodding than my body was up for. by the time i got home, 6 hours later, it took concerted effort to pour a glass of grapefruit juice and remove my clothing for bed — but it was 7 p.m. and going to sleep was out of the question unless i wanted to be roaming my dark rooms from 3-5 in the morning. so i decided to read a little jane austin; pride and prejudice to be exact.

i love the 'girl novelists' and i don't care what anyone thinks. they have been a staple of my literary world since i was a girl. my ardent belief in 'good form' and the delusional hope that no matter what tragedy befalls you in life — eventually there is a 'mr darcy' out there for each of us, i blame/contribute entirely to these women.

and like all of them, i will surely die alone because of it.

so i snuggled into my piles of down like a proper young lady and read jane. but the thing about reading jane — at least in my bed — is that it's never very long before i am crying like a school girl who got stood up at her first 'important dance'. i suppose ultimately it was very therapeutic — sometimes you just gotta cry — but god dammit, waking up with a puffy nose and throbbing, sobbing induced headache is not what i need right now. and to make matters worse, i left my morning coffee unfinished somewhere in my dressing room this morning when i ran off to the bathroom for my bout of pseudo morning sickness bit o barfiness — so now i'm not only weary from a night of crying over the social mores and unrequited love circa 1800/2008, but i've got a pounding "insert caffeine" headache to boot.

i need a very rich friend with a sprawling house in the country to divert my agitated mind.

anyone, anyone???? by jane austin's standards i am a very 'accomplished' lady and delightful company.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

pilfered pretties

forgive me for being such a girl for a few moments. i'm not in the mood to write or work — so i've been poking around on blogs and random folders of 'things i like' photos i have saved on my computer.

david wiseman ceiling sculptures, versace satin heels, chiffon and silk luisa beccaria dresses, big pink peonies and meringue-like poufs on a white duvet covered in hand sewn kissing pleats.

somebody's estrogen levels are out of control today. $50 says i start whimpering like a grandmother during a baby diaper commercial tonight.







you know the day is off to a rocky start

when you look down at your sweater & realize the only reason it looks oddly 'cleaner' is because you have it on backwards.

welcome to my day so far.

Monday, February 18, 2008

the 36 hour trip to vermont

i think it was 2001 or something. i was home visiting for xmas and one night around 3 a.m. at the bar my friends steve, chris and i thought it would be brilliant to drive to killington, vt the next day to go snowboarding. in good weather it's an 8 hour trip. anyone who has ever driven on the east coast in december knows there is no such thing as good weather in december.
the next morning we got up and left. we didn't really have any money and none of us had a pair of long underwear much less a board with us... so it was an ill-conceived plan from the beginning — but a friend could get us on the mountain for free once we got there so we didn't really care.

i don't remember much about the drive except that we listened to a lot of ac/dc and slayer and we couldn't coordinate our bathroom breaks so we had to stop every 30 miles for someone could pee or eat. after an epic 12+ hours in the car we got to jerry's house — the worst pube filled 'bachelor' abode i have ever stepped foot in — decorated (but never cleaned) in typical stoner/snowboarder/skateboarder/20 year old boy fashion. incense is NOT a cleaning product people!

we hung out, watched the same episode of 'family guy' 6 or 7 times, looked at tranny porn and stared at each other like 'what the hell were we thinking of?' the most cherished moment of the trip was when i asked jerry if he had some ketchup and he rummaged around under the coffee table, grabbed a bottle of heinz and plunked it down in front of me. to this day steve and i can't eat ketchup in front of each other without lamenting that it doesn't have pubes stuck to it.

the next day we woke up in a shitty mood. went to the mountain, walked up to the lift, stood there for about 5 minutes, looked at each other like 'fuck this, it's cold', turned around and drove back to pennsylvania.

i found these pictures today. i don't know who took them but i think it's while we were waiting/hiding in the bathroom for jerry to steal us staff passes. i look like a blurry, chubbed-out jeff spicoli in a life vest and fez.... but i like my ratty ass blond hair so fuck screw it (i really need to stop saying fuck so much).


Sunday, February 17, 2008

i think my bath water is tainted with pcp

i was really looking forward to my long, hot soak in the tub tonight. my body is killing me. i am physically depleted and it hurts to breathe. it is usually at these times when i can get into my tub with my ears just below the surface, listen to berlioz's symphonie fantastique by the dim light of my 1950's black panther and forget.

so much to forget.

tonight was not to be one of those nights. i was actually in a fairly decent mood — just incredibly tired and in a lot of pain. so when i slipped into the water and it was as though i had slipped into a tub of death i was a little surprised. "it's my joints" i told myself and slid a little deeper into the water, closed my eyes and waited for my brain to go into radio silence.

instead, i fell into a light sleep and dreamed my skin had changed to snake skin from the collar bone down. i couldn't move — only my pinky could slide back and forth above my belly button. 7 scales down, smooth. 7 scales up, rough. back and forth, back and forth. i was awake enough to know this wasn't true or possible and could periodically open a paralyzed eye to check — there was my pinky on a perfectly normal belly.

eventually i woke up enough to realize that if i didn't get out of the tub immediately i ran the risk of winning a darwin award for falling asleep and drowning in my own tub. i wrapped up in a towel and curled up on my bathroom floor for a bit — watching the nap of my turkish cotton bath mats jump as i closed one eye and then the other.

berlioz has segued into beethoven and i think it is time for bed.

Friday, February 15, 2008

if you dream it — they will grow

i watched 'a clockwork orange' before going to bed last night. i'm not sure what this says about me — but i'm inclined to believe i may need a bit of therapy. not of course because i watched 'a clockwork orange' but because every time i watch it i have extremely vivid, very dirty, very pervy dreams — and i love them. that can't possibly be a sign that all is well and good inside the psyche of heather.

so in the midst of my carnival of deep-sleep porn i dreamed that my boobs were bigger. not the kind that often look good paired with stripper shoes mind you — but noticeably larger than my extremely normal 36b/c physique. in my dream i was like 'fine whatever' big knockers where just a prop as far as i was concerned — i had better things going on around me (for which even my rather extensive vocabulary could never do justice.)

i woke up this morning in a delightful mood and hopped into the shower with a smile on my face. a cursory glance at the gals summoned a 'hmm, i can barely see my toes?' and then my mind wandered to dirtier places.

work sucked — for a number of reasons, but through it all i couldn't shake the 'something is different' feeling. however, i never look at my toes during work, so my burgeoning chest didn't factor in again until an hour ago.

i left work early because i needed to 'buy'. what, where and why was irrelevant, i just needed something to remind myself that i'm a girl who likes pretty things. i bought a lovely pot of lip gloss from nars that makes me look like i just made my first kill, a bottle of acqua di parma cologne (sometimes a girl wants to smell like cary grant) and a miraculous new mascara that makes my lashes look like big furry caterpillars crawling across my eyes — trust me, this is a good thing.

next i found myself in a little boutique trying on adorable, insanely expensive, filmy feminine tops that would have made f. scott fitzgerald put down his scotch so he could swoon with both hands. i fell in love with a pile of them and slipped into a dressing room where i discovered that my normal size wasn't even close to making it over my boobs. as i tried on the next two sizes i realized something was up. i looked like i was about to have tea with hookers. my sales boy, who had obviously fine tuned his persona by watching rosalind russell in 'auntie mame', skipped to my door and in his sweet sing-songy voice purred 'how are you doing in there daarling?' to which all i could reply was "i think my boobs grew last night."

"that's fabulous, darling! are you excited?!" he said for all to hear.
"well... i'm going to need a larger size" i replied, completely side stepping any direct demonstration of emotion pertaining to 'heather's new boobs'.

he flitted back to my room within seconds and handed me the new blouses with a glint of pride in his eyes that made me think he was admiring newborn babies sired from his own uber gay sperm not my engorged tah-tahs. i feared he was going to reach out and squeeze them a la 'sixteen candles' so i dipped back into my room and tried on the latest collection of pretties... and finally, 4 sizes larger than normal, i had a fit.

for 20 minutes i stood in my dressing room staring at these miraculously round, pert boobies that apparently were a carry-over from my dreamland ultraviolent in-out with alex delarge the night before.

it didn't matter that my converse had a paint blob on them and my jeans were hanging off my hips like i stole them from dennis the menace in the school yard... i was all woman and i was fascinated.

i have no idea where my new boobs came from. they weren't there last night when i took a bath — it's like dr. ray came to visit me in my sleep. i would have preferred to have my blond roots touched up to be honest, but whatever, boobs are fun and in a week when they disappear i will be left with a small fortune's worth of devastatingly french femme blouses that won't fit.

i'm going to watch 'a clockwork orange' every night.

anderson cooper i love you!

thank you for the box of chocolates and more condoms than i could ever hope to need much less use — at least we know the candy will be put to good use!

thanks my dearest, spectacularly gay man. the grey fox and new york will forever have a place in my heart.

the candy lasted about 20 minutes.... this is all that remains:



p.s. — jeffy-pooh, i've been the beard for many high-profile gays — i consider it an honor to add you to the list! i'll always be queen of the "A-gays"!!!

stripper shoes: a sartorial misstep against humanity?

i know this is a futile argument where certain people are concerned — primarily the entire male population — but i really must voice my opinion on the subject:

i don't understand stripper shoes.

maybe it is because i don't have a wiener, maybe it's because i am already 5'8" and the addition of 6" would only succeed in alienating me from men even more so, maybe it's because i'm a girl who leans more towards the 'pretty' side of things as opposed to the 'sexy' side of things. or maybe it has to do with my preference for subtlety and 'quiet perversions' as opposed to overt declarations from my footwear that i like to fuck. (i mean, i totally do.... but i like that element of 'whoa, didn't see that coming!' surprise.)

i'm not really sure. all i know is that when i see a 4'8" chick wobbling around in shoes that require heavy doses of pain meds to be worn for any period of time i don't think 'sexy'... i think 'looks like herman munster's shoe rack got raided again' and instantly begin to dissect the entire package and consider everything that should be done differently. it's the fashion stylist that still lives deep inside me. if i had my way i would be pinning stranger's clothing onto them and marking the crap they need to lose immediately with big "x's" in china marker all day long. i can be brutal in my fashion ministrations, but what's worse — on any given day i'm clad in jeans that don't fit right, ratty vans & a motorcycle t-shirt — so it's all rather hypocritical.... but i clean up nicely when the need arises & bottom line: i don't need trashy shoes to be a whore.

so here i leave you with a visual comparison: your typical hoochy mama atrocity...


and two of my personal favorites:



and dave, white is never an option, ever. hahhahah.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

you say v-day, i say d-day.

valentines day doesn't really do much for me.
primarily because i'm not prone to superficial declarations of love and mostly because i am usually sans man during the dreaded event or with one who can't be bothered. (*note to you fellas, handing me your amex card and telling me to 'pick something out for myself' is NOT the same thing and will not endear you to me in any way.)

that said, i'll take a lovely box of candy or vase full of flowers any day of the week. i'm a girl, these are things i like — period. i could care less what the day is and i don't care what the pretense is for getting them — provided, of course, it doesn't involve my male counterpart trying to make up for humping some slag. (*note to you fellas, there aren't enough boxes of gourmet candy or heirloom peonies on the planet to make up for such an indiscretion, so don't even try, just pack your bags and leave.)

tis the season to be inundated with emails and constant reminders that i should not only be loved but it should be proven with rather pricey tokens and if this isn't the case, then there is something wrong with me. (like i'm not aware of my faults already, i don't need martha stewart rubbing my face in them.) these daily reminders that begin in early january and won't end until february 14th are easy enough to ignore since most retail inspired odes of love really don't do much for me; but every now and then i see something that makes me sigh a little.

i'm a sucker for good design, anything pink and brown, and if it comes in a 'shoulder box' i really don't care what the contents are. if the contents happen to be some of the most deliriously fantastic candy in northern california then there's really no hope. i MUST have it. my 'crushes' tend to lean towards people who have a remarkable talent more so than cute actors and muscians and i've had a serious crush on michael recchiuti since the day i stepped foot in this state.

and he, more than anyone, with his perfectly appointed boxes of sweets, makes me regret that i am solo. i could buy them for myself and be perfectly happy... i suppose... but there is something about doing so that just isn't the same. (sighs the chronic 'bachelor' as she thinks of fleur de sel caramels bought by another.)

"Three layers of the finest artisan chocolates, including our most popular Fleur de Sel Caramel, Ginger Heart and Lavender Vanilla."

Monday, February 11, 2008

i despise children

actually, that isn't true at all. i love children more than i care for most adults.... but i do DESPISE ill-mannered children and their parents who let them crawl around like monkeys.

today was a shit day from the moment i woke up — crying. i had been dreaming that i was back in pennsylvania visiting my family. it was me, my sister and my mother — driving through the street trying to decide where to get a quick breakfast. we passed one little cafe & bakery after another and each time one of them would chime in with some reason we couldn't eat there. my sister was driving as she usually does — which is to say, not so hot and almost backed into an oncoming car — it was a dream i don't know the particulars — all i know is that i was inches from eating a mercedes emblem. we regressed into teenage arguing, mom yelled and next thing i know we're driving down market street, i'm sitting in the back seat thinking furiously inside my head 'i wish i was home (california), i hate it here' and i woke up whimpering.

i should have called it a day there — but NOOOOO, i had to get out of bed.

get to work and my computer is still running like shit from last friday. i had to go to a press check so i told the IT guy what the problem was and strongly urged him to have it taken care of when i got back.

i get back and his solution to my $7000 mac that won't let me start any of my programs was to make another user on the computer. technically it works... however i have 45 gigs worth of shit that needs to be transferred over to the new user & about 4 deadlines due by noon.

not exactly the solution i was looking for.

i suppose considering we're a design agency full of macs with an IT guy that knows NOTHING about macs, this was as good as i could have expected — but it was a far cry from what i needed. so i parked myself down at my desk and began the arduous task of getting everything sorted out. a job i might add that i am NOT getting paid $80k to do — but hey, whatever, details. fucking details.

all of this was going on while i was trying to bat away the 6 year old daughter of another designer. she was there for the day and doesn't know the difference between 'busy heather' and 'heather wants to make a fort in her office'. she spent the whole day bugging me every 2 seconds, climbing on me, provoking the dog, spilling water on my desk, etc, etc etc... all while her dad went on about his business as though she wasn't even there — blatantly ignoring the fact that every 10 minutes i was reprimanding her for something. when it was time for lunch i thought 'oh finally, a break' until she plunked her little tush down at one of my tables and began chowing down on her mac and cheese like an old woman without teeth. i have never seen such a petite, truly adorable looking little girl look and sound so positively revolting when she ate.

it was all i could to keep from saying 'wow, you are really going to grow up to be one spectacular woman at the rate you're going, aren't you? you're SIX and i can't decide if i want to kick you or puke on you?'

that's impressive.

god, it has been such a shitty day. i am so over it.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

everyone loves 'assisted bathing'



i'm fascinated by this thing called soapland. if it weren't for the whole 'sex with strangers' bit it would totally be my calling.

Friday, February 08, 2008

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

single white female seeks armed ruffian to take out trash

there are those who like to compare sacramento to paris because of the number of trees per capita. a comparison i find about as relevant as me saying my apartment is like versailles because i have several mirrors.

trees or no trees, it has been feeling a lot more like beirut in the 80's than a suburban 'city' in california or paris. in the last week there have been police copters zooming over my house on 4 different occasions. tonight when i came home the police were everywhere, and not one but two helicopters circled the block until they finally came to rest directly above my house and just hovered. i was in the midst of taking out the trash during the 20 minute stand off and while i wasn't at all scared or nervous i did keep my ears pricked for the lovely pop, pop, pop of gunfire.... a sound i thought i had left behind me in new york years ago.

i'm used to gunfire and swat teams, in fact, i'm rather fond of men in riot gear and kevlar; but the helicopters are a new thing for me. in new york they weren't really used (there was a tank once — which was loads of fun). everything was a bit more up-close and personal. you can't really maneuver a chopper through mid-town — except in bruce willis movies. i didn't become familiar with 'ghetto birds' until i moved west. i have to say, they fascinate me. i love the sound — that deep, guttural, wump, wump, wump is like a baby's lullaby, i could fall asleep to it every night.

just like back in nam.

that said, as fun as it is to have a back yard that resembles a special forces floating camp on the mekong delta, i'm not completely daft and i realize that when you look up and can see the faces of the men with guns hanging from the chopper it usually means the bad guys are very close at hand. my back alley is getting such a rep as the place to be if you are on the run, i was thinking it might be 'neighborly' of me to leave snacks on the roof of the shop for the pilots and gunmen as they zig zag over my house. i'm probably not going to eat those wheat thins anyway.

so here's my dilemma: i know i should stay inside when the voices from the sky say there's an armed and dangerous fugitive in the vicinity, but... i really, really hate taking out the trash — soooo, when the mood strikes i gotta go with it or else it won't get taken out. i swear they are always chasing someone on trash night too — it's like they want me to live surrounded by my own refuse or something. as always the world is conspiring against me.

for now i just ignore the war-fare around me as i struggle to separate recycling from trash beneath the gusts of tax-funded downdraft. besides, i've got to believe anyone who's trying to out run helicopters and chevrolet interceptors (whether driven by police or jason jessee — run fast or run faster in that order) probably has better things to do than stop by for a quick rape/pillage/murder. and if he doesn't, well he's certainly got me beat when it comes to multi-tasking and in a warped kind of way, that's actually impressive.

the last thing i need right now is a vacation

i'm overloaded with work, i need to find a new job, a place to live and there are a million little things piling up around me that all need immediate attention.

so picking up and leaving for the weekend really is NOT what i should be doing... and yet, it's all i can think about. a day or two some place quiet, some place pretty, some place where someone is going to take care of ME for once. my mind keeps wandering to indian springs in calistoga. i went there a couple years ago for my friend amanda's pre-wedding-girls-day. i think the general public refers to these as 'bachelorette' parties but we made a very conscious effort to steer clear of such noxious affairs — and it was wonderful. we converged on the small town of calistoga for a day of giggling, hot mud, fashion & tabloid magazines, good cheese, bread and fruit eaten by the pool and a little bit of group nakedness. i don't hang out with a lot of girls, so on those rare occasions when i find myself with a group of them and they aren't making me hate my own sex, i feel especially lucky to know really cool, intelligent, funny women — even if i only know a few of them. because in the world of women — there's a lot of worthless crap out there and it's really quite depressing.

calistoga was like another world. the spa itself dates from the 1860's, with most of the buildings restored to their lovely 1940's bones. everything is beautiful and pristine, it's tranquil and private, but not at all stuffy — it's like visiting the very wealthy family of a friend for the weekend. even the drive is beautiful and you pass through calistoga's neighbor, st. helena. which is easily the most picturesque town i have been in since moving west. **they have a full dean and deluca AND the western outpost of the culinary institute of america — so naturally i was smitten immediately.

as for a return trip, the timing couldn't be worse — as i don't have the time or the money to skip away for the weekend. but it doesn't change the fact that i need another one of those weekends, badly. a weekend where all i have to do is think about my next meal while someone is rubbing me with oil and shuffling me from room to room as if i was a baby or an invalid. (god they've got it so good.)















Tuesday, February 05, 2008

a well made bed

requires well pressed sheets.

MUST..... HAVE.....NOW!!




oh sweet jesus. the bible of typography is finally out.

Monday, February 04, 2008

oh, my tenderloins

i was overcome with a bout of nostalgia for the maniacal ministrations of mister b, coupled with the feeling of being about 20 pounds over-weight (they often go hand in hand). instead of just being a normal person and doing my usual, reasonable for an out of shape 36 year old woman barre stretches, i opted for a more rigorous barre workout than i have attempted in quite some time. clad in my requisite italian wool tights (the most beautiful things in the world), rubber warm-up pants (the most UNbeautiful things in the world), my battered pointe shoes and a leotard that was just shy of fitting my 'round little 'american ass' i set out to reverse 2 years of laziness in one afternoon.

it was all 'peter martins & gelsey kirkland' until the arabesque that nearly killed me.

until yesterday i wasn't aware women could even get hernias; i thought it was a male thing. i'm not even sure that is what my problem is — but my god it hurts. i feel like i have been stabbed. is it possible to blow a uterus? because i feel like i have popped an internal tire.

to make matters worse all i can think about is sex... sex, sex, sex. sex which of course i won't have because there is nobody to have sex with. of course this is probably for the best since i couldn't do much more than lay there and hold back screams of agony... and that's not really my thing — but all the more reason why i would prefer to not be constantly thinking about it. i feel like a teenage boy.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

porkchops first day

cleanliness is close to godliness, but more importantly — you get to watch me wash my boobs.


good grooming is essential


porkchops first ride


dirty laundry


clean laundry


latte in the sun


mister balanchine haunts us daily.
"suck in your stomach, tuck in your ass!"


all good cooks believe in mise en place, all good japanese wives believe in gyoza. we believe in both.


getting acquainted with the hot birds in town



'check out the sticks on that bird'


many men dream of this spot, very few get to visit: heather's bed.

(ok, fine.... i sleep alone because nobody wants to sleep there with me. whatever, leave me alone. jerks.)