Ho, Bitch, Slut

I talked to V, my niece, the other day. We talked after I had a phone conversation with my mom. Mom gave me the update on how she had gotten her shutters installed on the house for $10 a window. He did 3 windows which equaled 3 hours of work. Mom had to force this poor guy to take a $20 tip. Imagine the life situation that would make you feel $10/hour for manual labor was sufficient. Anyway. She went on to explain how she had been Googling to determine whether the pain in her back was from trying to lift the 150 lb. birdbath in my grandmother's backyard or from a pancreatic tumor.

[Side Note: This past week Mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I told her then asked what she wanted. (I'm 12/9 and she's 12/11.) She said, not sarcastically, "I want to live." People. If there ain't drama, it ain't my mama.]

So, as we're getting off the phone Mom says, "Oh yeah. Some of V's friends called her a slut and a ho and a bitch. What do you think I should do?"
Me: Stay out of it, Mom.
Mom (to V in the background): She told me to stay out of it.
V (from the background): Uh!

I asked to speak with V and asked her why the girls were calling her a bitch. She didn't know. So, I asked if she thought it might be because she was being a bitch.

No. Of course not.

So, I proceed to talk to her about how girls can say mean things and that I was sorry her feelings were hurt and I encouraged her to realize that if these girls were the kind of girls who talked shit behind their friend's back (in G language, of course) that these were not the girls she wanted to be friends with in the first place.

And then. I swear to God. I hear myself ...
quoting Erykah Badu.

Yep.I used the Apple Tree reference.

See I picks my friends like I pick my fruit
My ganny told me that when I was only a youth
I dont walk around trying to be what Im not
I dont waste my time trying to get what you got
I work at pleasin me
Cause I cant please you and thats why I do what I do
My soul flies free like a willow tree
Doo wee doo wee doo wee

I explained the apple analogy. "If you were at Super Wal-Mart picking out an apple, you wouldn't pick the rotten apple. You'd pick the good apple. Right? So why would you pick the rotten girl to be friends with?"

V said, "Huh?"

I said, "Just try to ignore them, honey."

And Back to our Regular Programming

Well, we had a nice little break from Mom Drama. Hope you all enjoyed yourselves.

We're glad to have you with us today for the first episode of our second season entitled: Susan has the life she's always dreamed of, Mom has elevated tumor markers for pancreatic and liver cancer.

Now this does not mean my mom has pancreatic or liver cancer. These are simply markers that indicate the possibility of cancer. Or at least that's what I gleaned when I had a mental break and googled for a second.

You all know not to google diseases, right? Never, ever google a disease you or a loved one may have. There are two reasons and I'm not sure which should be number 1.
1. You don't know who wrote those pages. You know better than to read the webpages from schmucks who have crystals and unicorns on their blog, but for some reason, those are the articles you end up reading. You may deny this, but all of us are cynical conspiracy theorists at heart. We know the only accurate information we can trust is from the AMA and CDC and a elite group of hospitals and universities, but when it comes to the disease google, your rationale slips. And you find yourself almost believing that the government secretly has the cure to cancer. The government and Charlie from CharliesCureforCancer.com. And you find yourself thinking, maybe Charlie is right. Maybe just going strict vegan and practicing yoga with Puss in Boots twice a week is the way to shrink that tumor.
And,
1. The news is always bad. Very bad. And that's because the articles that attract us most are the extreme ones. And the last thing you need is Charlie saying, "Listen, I know how to cure you, but if you don't start right this second, you are totally fucked. As a matter of fact, you should have started six months ago." That is not a good time.

So I googled for a second, quickly came to my senses and blocked out the horrific bold blue headlines, and began to frantically clean. It's my thing. I stayed home from work today because we had three deliveries coming in. Washer. TV. Media Center. We got two out of three. Everything worked out except the washer. It was damaged. They're coming Monday AM.

Where was I? Frantically cleaning. And doing handy man stuff. While waiting for the various delivery people, I maniacally cleaned and organized. I used a straight edge to place items in my medicine cabinet.Yes. Your Princess is handy. But she is always careful to be cute when being that way so that she's not mistaken for those girls who go to Ginger's and identify themselves as couples by wearing the same flannel print. Like a Scottish Family's Tartan, but not. (Those lesbians would never be seen in a skirt.)

Cleaning. Handy-Manning. As I told you, I got a keychain from Tiffany & Co. for the new keys. One of my keys did not fit. So I drilled it. Now it fits.

We have a shelving space and we got new shelves from Lowe's and we asked a nice kid who makes about $8 an hour to cut them down to a specific size. He was off by an 1/8 of an inch. A seemingly inconsequential amount, but with my measuring skills, a disaster. So, I cut down shelves with a 18 volt DeWalt circular saw. I later installed those same shelves. I filled those shelves with my shoes in a nice orderly fashion. I put away photo frames that have yet to be hung. I put crap out on the street like my jacket that I hung myself on a fence with one fateful night when I forgot HRH had my only set of keys to my apartment and I sent her home with the intenion of staying out a little longer (I always did) and when I realized my stupidity, I tried to climb the fence next to my apartment building that enclosed the Bette Midler Green Up New York Park Project Park (or something to that effect), and actually made it, but not before slipping, catching my jacket on a fence prong, and hanging, literally feet off the ground, hung up by my jacket collar like a scene from the Little Rascals, and then scrambling physical comedy style, back up and finally over the fence.

Again. I digress.

So, what I was talking about was how Mom is potentially very, very sick and how I am driven to distraction after distraction in an attempt to avoid the whole thing.

HRH - Right Again.

I hate when HRH is right. I mean, it's bad enough that my girlfriend likes to torture me by saying that HRH is funnier than I am (she is NOT funnier than me.), but to have to admit to you, my loyal fans, that she's been right about her L-Train rants. All 472 of them. It hurts the heart.

This past week I was commuting into work and I missed the station for my transfer from the F to the 6 so I ended up at 6th Avenue and had to take the L train over to Union Square. For you non-New Yorkers, this is a one-stop trip that should take approximately 3 minutes. Total.

As I walk down to the L platform I see these signs. Little lighted signs that give you the date and time and then ... it changes and tells you how many minutes you have until the next train comes.

At first I was pissed. HRH bitches and bitches about this L train and here I find this sign bullshit. Seriously. No other train line has that. And the L train was the first line to get all new fancy train cars. And she complains about crowds and waiting forever. At least she can know precisely when the next train is coming. That is huge. I know that usually you can get a train to appear if you hold up one foot while peering into the tunnel looking for lights. But on those days that you've lost your mojo, having a countdown would allow you to simply sit down and wait rather than returning to the edge of the platform repeatedly while thinking, "Maybe I should try my left foot. Maybe that's the one that will bring the train."

Then I see this.
(I know it's a badly framed photo, but that number on top is a 1 and I got excited.) Yay! I'm going towards Brooklyn. The next train is in one minute. Yippee! What is HRH whining about?

And a minute passes. The 1 is replaced by a happily blinking 0, excitedly announcing, "It's here! It's here! Here's your train! Come on! We're going!" But, the 0 lies. There is no train.

The 0 continues to lie for another 6 minutes. That's right -- until the secondary timer predicting the next train hits 0 as well. Blinking commences.

Still no train. And now I have two 0's blinking their lies at me and it's just too much for a simple Princess to bear.

Apologizing to HRH in my head, I make my way upstairs and walk to Union Square.

Who you calling blonde?

Okay, so for lunch today I trekked uptown to my favorite salad place, Just Salad. In life there are certain food destinations where once you have experienced their food no other can compare. For me that means sandwiches only from City Sub and salads from Just Salad. Now Just Salad is an insane place where they have like a zillion toppings lined up and four different types of lettuce and they give you a reusable bowl (hello save the environment and have great salad) which if you bring the bowl in you get two free toppings. Not to mention they chop it up into perfect little bits.

So, today I go into Just Salad and to begin the order the woman says, “Your name?” To which, I kid you not; I paused for like six seconds, “um…Heather.” Hello, I blanked on my own name. Is it me or am I getting blonder by the second? Really. My own name. In fact I started laughing and said to the girl, “You’d think that wouldn’t be such a difficult question for me.” Thankfully, she and the guy about to make my salad both found this humorous.

This sadly is not my first blond moment at Just Salad. On my first outing to Just Salad, I successfully answered not only the question as to what my name is but what type of lettuce I wanted. Then as the gentleman stood waiting for me to tell him which ingredients I wanted in my salad, I had a full on panic. I just couldn’t decide, so many choices, I was truly overwhelmed. But fear not, apparently the boys who work at Just Salad moonlight as therapists because he said to me, “Its okay Heather, take your time.” I’m not saying this is what made me a Just Salad convert but it sure didn’t hurt.

Fear

“Fear is the natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.” – Pema Chodron.

In my ongoing quest for peace I’m now reading Pema Chodron’s book, “When Things Fall Apart.” The largest obstacle for me is learning to not think beyond the moment. I can only figure that it is my fear of the unknown that drives my mind to constantly attempt to resolve it. Which honestly is a huge waste of effort because I have never found that the future my mind believes is going to happen is ever the future that exists.

I can’t help but wonder if almost every negative emotion stems from fear. I’ve found that even in the moments when I’m experiencing joy, or love, or abundance I feel fear breathing down my neck. I’m reminded of the Sir Walter Scott quote “Oh what tangled webs we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” Honestly, isn’t my belief that I have any idea what the future will hold a form of deception, one that I get tangled up in but never satisfied from?

Of course I am aware that I am capable of evolving beyond my fears. Take my subway ride this morning. As I walked to stand in my normal spot I noticed a particularly disconcerting homeless man standing near my designated train boarding spot masturbating. Well, honestly, when I first moved to New York not only would I have not been able to stand there but I would have been a little frightened. But I have grown. Today, I was only frightened that he would actually get on the L train with me and I’d then be surrounded by the smelly Williamsburgites and The Masturbator (whom I didn’t get that close to but I’m guessing he was smelly too).