Ode on a Blog

Dear Brooklyn,
There's something I've been trying to tell you. I've had this feeling for a long time -- almost ten years -- and I'm ready to say it.

I love you Brooklyn. Seriously and deeply and madly.

This morning walking through Brooklyn Heights, within the space of two blocks, I saw a prep school girl threaten to "tell everyone you're wearing granny panties". That was followed up by what was apparently the same prep school's club dedicated to emulating "Ice-T's Rap School".

yo man. biology is like my favorite.
yo yo. let me tell you, dat chemistry lesson was mad cool.

Then.

Brooklyn, I think the sexiest thing about you is your narrow streets cramped with double parked cars and the way you have those truck drivers who can manage to fit through the spaces with ease. Like that guy this morning in the 15' cube truck on Joralemon who squeezed his sides in and passed a row of cars on the right and a 24' Budget rental truck on his left with literally 3" of wiggle room. Total.

Hot!

A wise man once said of new relationships, ignore everything they say and pay attention to everything they do.

Well, I've been watching you Brooklyn and I just wanted you to know ...
I love you right back.

Don't Tell Mama, but ...

As HRH has pointed out to me, I talk about my mother a lot in this blog. I can't help it. She is a constant source of shit that I need to get out of my head and now that I'm having to take a break from therapy in hopes of making my monthly mortgage payments while maintaining my lifestyle (I love things. LOVE.), you dear people are taking Mary's place.

Though, you seem to be content with our relationship because I have received hundreds of emails asking for a follow-up on the, "Mama's in the Hospital? ... Since Thursday?" story. Well, let me tell you, you picked an ideal day to ask.

Here we go. Allegedly, my mother went into atrial fibrillation (A-Fib) on Thursday last. Allegedly my sister A drove her to the hospital in the medical knowledge capital of the modern world, Tifton, Georgia. There my mother was allegedly admitted to the world-renowned Tift General Memorial Hospital, ICU wing. You may remember, that I first heard about this through an IM conversation with my 11 year old niece/biologically, sister/legally.

This is the story I got from A after I called Monday night to find out what the fuck was going on.

This is the same Monday night where, in a matter of 4 hours, Mom went from being released from her then private room to being returned to ICU because her A-Fib was back. Since then she has been telling A that she was going to be released each day and to drive to Tifton (30 miles from home) to be ready to take her home.

I've been keeping up with progress through A who has told nothing but stories of no-show doctors and unsympathetic nurses. (In Tift Memorial! Imagine!) My mother happens to work for this same hospital. Apparently any signs of favoritism are harshly frowned upon. (Or they all hate my mother.)



So. Wednesday evening my phone rings and it's my mom's cell phone. Now, this could be A calling, or Mom. I decide it's not worth the risk, so I don't answer it. No voicemail. Then in moments it's ringing again. I got that, "the call is coming from inside the house" feeling. Then ... derk-a-derk-derka-derka-derk-derk ... my "New Voicemail" song.

Know what's worse than actually picking up the call? Forcing yourself to listen to the voicemail. It makes me feel like I did that time I skydived and the guy said, "Ok, step out of the plane."

I take a deep breath, and I listen. It's Mom. She says she's out of ICU and has a private room with a phone. Gives number. Says for me to call later. I decide to define later as, "tomorrow."

So around 12:30 on Thursday, my phone rings. It's Mom. Shit. I forgot to call her. Like, seriously. I totally never thought once about her all day. Mary would find that very interesting, I'm sure. Anyway, I pick up the phone and she starts giving me the run down.

Our conversation consists of her telling me she's going in to be put under anaesthesia so they can shock her heart back into normal rhythm. (Yes. Like, "CLEAR!" guh-gunk with the paddles.) And she tells me how she's seen her oncologist who says she might have cancer of the pancreas, liver or upper GI.

Awesome. As we're on the phone, the guys come in to take her to the OR and I tell her, "Ok. I'll call tonight to find out how everything went. Maybe you'll be awake by the time I get home."

She says ...

"Or maybe a stranger will answer my phone." For those of you with inexperience in having the world's most passive agressive mother, this translates to, "Or maybe I will die and they'll put someone else in my room."

I said, "Ok. Well, have fun!" and I hung up.

But wait! There's more!

I call back last night and someone different does answer the phone ... A. Thank God. So, Mom's okay and is talking to the doctors and A will call me once she leaves the hospital. And she does. And I start asking about the possibility of the cancer, and A tells me, "They didn't say that. They said she looked fine and that they just wanted to see her in a month for another CT scan."

Huh?

Now, in my conversations with my mom and A I have received various versions of the details of this hospital drama.

A says Mom has been in the hospital since Thursday.
Mom says she's been there since Saturday.

A says that she has been at the hospital every day from approximately 10am to 5pm, since Monday at the request of our mother who has expected to be released daily.
Mom says A has been there for a max of 3 hours a day and is only going there because she wants an excuse to get out of work.

A says that the doctors have failed to show up repeatedly while she's been sitting with Mom at the hospital.
Mom says A's never there so how would she know? The doctors are with her all the time.

Now, I can understand differing versions when we're talking perceptions or emotions, but basic facts ... Was A at the hospital or not? Was Mom admitted Thursday or Saturday?

I ask you dear readers, what am I supposed to do with this? Seriously.

Stay tuned for the story of the blowout that happens when I tell the family that I'm not playing until they can find a way to get their stories straight.

When hunger comes a rap, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat at the window

Oh, the immortal words of Cabaret. I’ve always loved that line because hunger and poverty are two things I’ve experienced all too frequently in my life. And though I have tackled poverty and am getting wealthier by the day (mul-ti-pass) hunger continues to be a constant.

One of Andrew’s favorite stories about me is how one time we were in a cab with a couple of friends of ours from Chicago. It was one of those rare long cab rides, the kind that start on the Upper East Side and ends in Chelsea, as tends to happen during these types of rides we were all sitting there quietly thinking to ourselves, when I burst out, “Do you realize that most of the women in this city are starving?” Needless to say, I needed a snack.

I have been on a diet for about 5 months or 23 years, depending on how you look at it, given that I went on my first diet at 8 years old. But for the last five months or so, I’ve been actively restricting my calories to around 1600 a day and for the last two months I’ve logged more hours at the gym, than most of the trainers (the people at the reception desk actually say, “Hi Heather” before I’ve reached them with my membership card).

All this restriction has really made me aware of deprivation. With only 1600 calories a day, choices like a glass of wine or dinner become all too frequent. You’d be surprised how fast calories go. I mean, one SKIM Starbucks Grande Latte, 180 calories. Yeah, and that’s just your coffee, you haven’t even fed yourself yet. The other day I was hanging out with my friend Jenny. Jenny was a little sad and we were going for manicures. Having pretty nails always makes me happy. I’ve learned that since basically, I can’t eat, really ever, that my only option is to spend money. But first Jenny wanted to get something to eat because she said she hadn’t really “eaten anything for a couple of days”. This is like some skinny girl mystery to me. This would never happen to me. I want to know why it is that when the skinny girls get depressed or stressed or even really happy, they lose the desire to eat. How is that possible? I don’t ever think, “Wait, I’m just too unhappy to eat.” No instead I think, “wouldn’t some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream make me feel better?” And the thing is that it would, temporarily. When I said to Jenny how I wish I could be the type of person who didn’t want to eat she said, “at least you find comfort in food.” Um, only a skinny girl who has never had to lose a pound in her life would be able to say that. For those amongst us who have struggled with our bodies, there is no comfort in food. That’s the point. Like hello, for seven seconds it tastes good and then afterwards it’s now guilt and misery and self-loathing on top of whatever was already making me depressed or stressed.

Jenny will never (SB willing, cause frankly I would never wish what I’ve gone through on anyone, except maybe Chloe Jo, yeah that’s right nemesis, I’m gunning for you) know what it’s like to have rationed out 12, yes 12, almonds, as her serving for the day. And to actually experience hunger and sit down, looking forward to eating 6 of them in one sitting and still feeling after six almonds, like maybe, maybe she shouldn’t have eaten those.

One, night not that long ago, I was suffering from seriously the worst PMS hunger of my life. It was so bad that I took a nap in the middle of the day just to keep from eating. Well, on this occasion “A” (who is very thin, but has been known to stand in front of my mirror and say, “I need to lose 3 lbs”. I’m sorry people, but 3lbs? That’s just stupid. No one, need ever worry about 3 lbs. If you need to lose 3lbs, please don’t ever tell me because I will not be able to remain polite, ok) walks into my house carrying Popeye’s. Now, it has been a few years, but believe you me, I have not forgotten how good this tasted. There I was starving people, starving, and in he walks with his fried food and I am seriously contemplating hurting him. I’m thinking that I’d be able to build a pretty good defense with the PMS/Dieting angle. Any jury of my peers, i.e. starving women, would totally understand. “A” walks in, sits down and begins to eat. For a few minutes I’m speechless and then I say, “are you kidding me? You’ve watched me not eat for the last three months and you walk into my house with fast food. Do you hate me?” I must say, “A” was a little shocked but this did not keep him from enjoying his food with a ranch dressing dip and all.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

You're not even going to believe this!

We have an outside reader!! I swear to god.

He suggested that HRH and I include more photos.



You, dear Outsider whom we love as much as Ralph Macchio's Johnny, got it! You, who have clicked our link, even though you haven't known us for a minimum of 4 years.

O Magazine ... HERE I COME!!

I promise you, dear readers, I will include more pictures. As you may have noticed, I have finally figured out how to do that word highlight click on it to see something thing. (I have not, as of yet, acquired the lingo.)

Ok. On to what I'm really here for.

People! I was honest with you. I poured out my embarassing story to all of you about my mis-signing, "Dancing Queen" all over creation with HeatherJeanne in tow. Well. I have been paid back. With ...

VINDICATION!

Turns out, millions of fans, each country that has a correlative sign language, MAKES UP ITS OWN SIGNS.
It's true. What may serve to convey, "You're in the Mood for Dance", in Hindi at Prince Manvendra Singh Gohil of Rajpipla, India's palace, may be completely misunderstood while performing in the Castro at The Lexington Club.

Check this out. HeatherJeanne is a computer geek. I think her former debaucherous self was her trying to deny the fact that she's actually a nerd. [I am researching photos of her in the big silver skirt with the Adidas Sambas.]

Here's the email I got from her:

Yes!!!! I found two websites - one BSL [British Sign Language] one ASL [American Sign Language] (I'm one with the vernacular now) with video searches of each move. We were actually totally correct.

Well, a few things were off - I think 'that' and 'watch' were different and the hand positioning was slightly changed. Which of course I will amend by studying hard. I will be one with the language. But overall - the point is - we rock.

Of course, you realize we never actually learned the rest of the song. Just those few bars. I think we need to amend that as well.

AND now we can be bilingual by learning both versions. We can be like Madonna saying 'tally ho' (oh yes she did) in a faux british accent. We can insert the British queen and totally confuse people.

(and in your blog, you totally failed to mention that the woman who originated all this performed a random strip tease/lap dance on a stool that night. Just randomly. I think she was even wearing leopard print. On that night.)

Well, she wasn't wearing leopard print, but ...

Door Policy

The Princess, in a recent post spoke about my “friend” (who from here in will be known as “A”) and the pork mishap. The Princess after reflecting on her hostessing skills was able to conclude that the fault did not lie with her but with her need to enforce a stricter door policy. The Princess and I often find that the fault lies in others.

My relationship with “A” (and I use the term relationship very loosely) has got me thinking about my own door policy. Especially after receiving a text from “A” last night that said, “Are you still angry?” When I replied that no, I was no longer angry. “A” was kind enough to tell me that he has, “been wanting to see you but every time I try you are pissy.” Now, this reminds me of a great quote I once read that said, “Women have the last word in every argument. When a man thinks he’s had the last word, he’s just started the next argument.”

Now I am the first to admit that I can overreact and that I am not always the most rational person. I am flawed people, accept it. In my defense this fight that I was having with “A” was over his standing me up (which he claims to have been a misunderstanding. Misunderstanding my ass. Now, I might be irrational at times, but I am never stupid). Also my so called “pissy” attitude involves a phone conversation in which “A” said, “do you expect me to call or text you back every time you call or text me.” Call me crazy but I do indeed anticipate that my texts and phone calls will be returned. I was operating under the assumption that this is how such things work. “A” is attempting to destroy my whole belief system about the fundamentals of communication.

Except… last night, on my walk home from the gym, I swear I saw a friend of mine (He has yet to earn himself a descriptive letter, I don’t just toss those things around) cross to the other side of the street as I was approaching. Now many possibilities exist here. One, it could not have been him. Two, it could have been him and he didn’t see me. Or the third possibility is that his experience with me was so horrific that upon seeing me, his only thought was to escape, thus resulting in a mad dash across the street. Of course I have got to laugh at this, given that I have been known to yell at Nat for standing deer-in-the-headlights style while we were approached by a certain someone. In fact I believe I said to Nat, “I don’t care what you do. Just don’t stand there. Jump into traffic, I don’t care, just don’t stand there.” So, should I have in fact elicited the same feelings from someone, I guess it is only fair that they would employee my tactics.

I’m not exactly sure when I turned into a character from Sex & the City, but it certainly seems to have happened, though without the Manolo Blahniks, but all in good time people, all in good time. At this point I’m willing to approach this situation with a sense of humor and a positive attitude and assume that this is one of my more irrational moments and that my wonderfully creative brain was playing tricks on me, because the idea that a person would cross the street to avoid me is almost enough to make me want to abdicate my throne. Almost people, almost.