Welcome to My Morning

I'm trying a new look today. It's called, "I woke up an hour late and didn't shower."

Anyone want to meet for lunch?

Okay, I'm not overly gross. I swear. I brushed my teeth and put on clean underwear. My hair isn't greasy and I don't stink (I don't think), so just COOL OUT. I was out the door in fifteen minutes - slightly annoyed with myself - but happy that I was going to be on time. On a Monday.

THEN. As I left the house, I almost tripped over a tiny baby sparrow just chilling in front of my doorstep. I moved him out of harm's way with a twig and then promptly called the Lady in tears worried that he was abandoned and had fallen from the nest and was going to die. She reassured me that the mother would fly down and feed him. "But MOM, he was so TINY!" She told me to calm down and go to work. Even though she really doesn't have time for my crap on a Monday morning, she still listens. She probably would have fed me if I had fallen from the nest, too.

Got to work and realized that my keys were on my desk chair. At home. AWESOME.

But seriously, I hate it when I don't have time to shower. Even in college, when people were running to class in pajama pants and wearing winter hats in March (to conceal the dreaded grease-head), I was showering even after studying until 4 a.m.

I know, I know. NERD.

In my four years of undergrad, I think that I skipped the shower once. Just once. It was pretty much the worst day for it, too, as I worked in the museum from 9-1, and then had class from 1-2, 2-3, and 4-5:30. Yummy!

(I wore my hat all day. Though it was January, so it's acceptable. Right?)

Also? I never once pulled an all-nighter. I just figured that there was a point where my brain would stop retaining all the crap I was trying to throw at it, so when I got tired, I went to sleep. I never failed an exam, so I guess it worked. I do think that I might have missed out on a basic college experience, but I am a cranky bitch without sleep, so it was probably for the best.

Really though, if anyone wants to have lunch, you don't have to worry... I shaved my legs yesterday.

So it's cool.

Tiny, but apparently not helpless.

Party Pooper

Either I'm getting old or I'm just a huge party pooper. It could be a combination of both -- I'm not sure.

Our housewarming party was Friday night. Thanks to the flex schedule (yay Federal Government!), it was my day off. I finally put books on shelves and nails in walls, but I had to run to my optometrist in Chinatown at nooner.

My eye hadn't cleared up completely, but she knew that I was impatient to get my new contacts, so she sent me home with one new pair. AWE. SOME. I have to wear them sparingly, but I was SO HAPPY to ditch the glasses that it just didn't matter.

I then hauled ass to the old apartment, packed up some random shit, drove to the ghetto Safeway for groceries, returned to the new apartment, and started on the food.

Here's where I'm questioning the age thing. I've always enjoyed being a hostess. I hold Thanksgiving each year, I love having movie nights, and my philosophy has always been, "the more the merrier." But when my roommate added her invites to the evite, I almost had a stroke. Fifty people?

Yikes.

I made several hors d'oeuvres for the housewarming: crackers with cucumber, the Lady's dill dip, and grape tomatoes; edamame; bruschetta and toast; and grilled citrus shrimp.

My roommate listened to my planned menu and said, "Huh. Sounds good."

(I should mention that she's four years younger than me. When I was her age, I was finishing up grad school. She works on the Hill and has a built-in clique.)

I wanted to serve wine and good beer and maybe one special mixed drink. She bought cans of Bud Light and the largest bottle of vodka I've ever seen (1.75 liters).

My friends showed up on time. Her friends arrived fashionably late. Two fashionable hours.

My friends left at midnight. Her friends were still showing up at midnight.

I was ready for bed at 11:00. Her friends were still going strong at 2:00.

I woke up sore and with a headache from two glasses of wine. She woke up early to go to a Kentucky Derby party and had no trace of a green face, even after waaaaay more alcohol and less sleep.

It's not so much that I'm a party pooper (though I constantly worried that we were being too loud), I just think that four years is a HUGE difference at this point in our lives. I'm far enough removed from my college experience that I don't consider myself a loser for staying in on a Saturday night, and to be completely honest, I was never much of a partier in college anyway.

(P.S. I love my roommate. She's awesome. I envy her ability to juggle a million things, drink like a rockstar, and pick up her friends drunk at a bar on a Sunday night.)

Time Off

Sweet Lord, it's been a really long week. Wow. My stubborn home computer resisted all attempts to join the information superhighway, and is more content just housing my pictures and being otherwise completely useless. Bitch.

However, a little break from blogging (and the internets) has been - dare I say it - nice. I've been much too exhausted to be creative, and having way too much on my plate has zapped my brain of all power. Well, that and the alcohol (see below).

In the days following last Saturday's move, I unpacked and organized, hung paintings and organized, cleaned and... well, organized. And even with all of the preparation, everything came together only ten minutes before our housewarming party on Friday night. Of course, I may not have been so rushed if it hadn't been for a little visit to Ella's on Wednesday night.

(Ella's is amazing, what with their specials and bartenders, and most of my drunken stories originate from one of their barstools. For example, after returning home from Ella's that night, I stumbled around for a while before deciding to get ready for bed. I attempted to wash my face and laid down on the bathroom floor instead. After deciding that the tiles were too cold, I laid down in the hallway instead and woke up there three hours later. I was hungover for the whole of Thursday. Awesome.)

And after helping Merrick and Gerald paint their newlywed apartment today, I am in need of some serious rest. So while I'd love to stay and chat... check ya later!

It's Comcastic!

Except... not.

I worked through lunch on Friday, just so I could leave early. This basically translates to = I am a complete moron and should have at least just gotten lunch and eaten it at my desk. But no.

Comcast was due to arrive between 4:00 and 7:00, so I left work at 3:30, which should have been way more than enough time to get there. Until I was ambushed by the Greenpeace people. I blew off the first one, mumbling that I was running late, but she must have been new as she gave up immediately. Not so for the seasoned veteran...

Veteran: "Hey! You look like someone who cares about the environment!"

Fantastic. Really? I do? Can you see it in my eyes?

Heather: "Yeah, I sure love birds. Gotta go."

Veteran: "I can see you're in a hurry, but can I tell you all about our issues?"

Sigh.

Heather: "If you can move fast... I've got an appointment."

Veteran: "Oh, great! I'll just walk with you!"

The fuck? I had to give the kid credit for his determination and support for his cause, but seriously, leave me the hell alone.

He hauled ass alongside me (I walk pretty fast) for about four blocks before giving up (he was out of breath when I finally stopped). I actually took his information in case I for some reason decided to join -- I wanted him to get his "commission." He worked hard!

I arrived at the new apartment at 3:55, and started to organize things - I wanted to get as many things as possible out of the way, as moving day was less than 24 hours away.

4:25 - Great! The apartment is all set. Moving everything in here tomorrow should be a breeze. I bet Comcast will show up any second!

5:00 - Hmmm. I sure am hungry. Who the hell skips lunch?

5:15 - That GD Greenpeace kid completely screwed my plan to stop for food on the way here. I hate him. And I hate the environment.

5:55 - Oh my gosh, I am so hungry I think that I might cry.

6:45 - First call to Comcast, asking for an estimated arrival time, as there were 15 minutes left in the window and I AM SO HUNGRY CRANKYFEST.

7:20 - WHY the HELL didn't we bring over the food last night? This fridge has nothing but a Brita. Hmm. I wonder if I could crack open the filter and eat those little things inside...

7:45 - Second call to Comcast. "We'll have him call you!" Uh huh, that's what you said the last time. Cockslaps!

8:15 - Knocking. It's about GD time.

8:17 - Comcast guy informs me that he doesn't have enough cable wire to run it to the back bedroom (my bedroom). How do you not have enough wire? Stock your truck, JACKASS.

8:30 - Still installing.

8:45 - Still installing. My phone rings, and it's the Comcast operator:

Operator: "Has the technician arrived?"

Heather: "Oh yes, he's here now, actually."

Operator: "Can I speak with him?"

Pause. What?

Heather: "Um, can't you just call him on his phone?"

Operator: "I've been trying to call him for three hours, and he isn't answering."

Ah, so that explains why I never got a call saying that he was RUNNING A LITTLE LATE. I handed him my phone, and after thirty seconds, he hands it back... covered in fat man sweat. GROSS.

To make a long story short (Too late.), we've got cable and teh internets. And I finally got to eat something. At 9:30.

Stupid Sexy Flanders!

On Monday, I got a great idea for a post, but knew that the picture would make or break it. I hurriedly found it and saved it.

And now? I can't GD remember what I was going to write about. I'm sure that it had something to do with, "It feels like I'm wearing nothing at all... nothing at all... nothing at all!" but I can't delve deep enough into the recesses of my brain to figure it out (and seriously, who would?).

So... nevermind. Here's the stupid picture. Make up your own story for what I was going to write about:


P.S. This episode is fantastic. "Use your brains to help us... your delicious brains!"

"Yay! Imagination Christmas!"

"Sweetie, if we didn't turn it down for the cops, what chance do you have?"

I am SO TIRED

But SO happy.

What a difference this change has made in my life. Watching my furniture leave the old place and find a new home was liberating. In those moments, I felt as if the negativity of the old house just melted away. It was such a crapshack - dirty, peeling, unsafe, cold, and dark. The new place is clean, inviting, warm, cozy, and comfortable. And in this case, like I was explaining to Awesome Old Roommate Jenny, "cozy" doesn't mean "tiny." Cozy means... well, all of that crap I just said.

Also? Bruises are sexy, right? Because I have about seventeen good ones from lifting and carrying and heaving and ho-ing (ha). And from bumping into things, of course. I'm really good at bumping into things. Like just now, when I was curling myself into my chair at work, I slammed my knee into the desk. I am brilliant! It's so pretty, I should take a picture.

Right. Pictures. I refuse to take any until my paintings are hung and the boxes are gone (that's right, Lady! You're just going to have to WAIT). Plus, I can't download any pictures until my computer gets all internetty, and that won't be until tonight.

I had help driving the Uhaul. Probably for the best, since I look like a thirteen-year-old joyrider when driving my mother's minivan. I didn't get us lost while driving from SW to the Hill, I didn't find myself humorously carrying too-heavy items, and I didn't trip or fall down. And I didn't drop anything out of a window, unlike a few years ago.*

So a huge, massive THANK YOU to everyone who helped us move - it went so quickly and so smoothly, that we were finished 30 minutes before the pizza was to be delivered (and thanks to Pizza Hut, for arriving five minutes early!). You guys are rock stars.

So it looks like a flawless move translates to = no funny stories. Sorry. The Comcast story is soon to follow, however. GD Comcast.


*When moving from my first apartment in Arlington, a one bedroom, to a two bedroom in the same complex, I was on my own. My soon-to-be roommate, a classmate I met at GWU, was home in Reno for the summer, and I took it upon myself to move most everything myself. Shane and Josh helped me move the heaviest furniture, and I was all set... until the first sweltering night in the new place when I realized that I really, really needed my window air conditioner. (Perhaps you see where this is going).

I figured, "I can do it myself! I don't need help!" I had it unscrewed and de-caulked, and held on tight as I tried to push the window away from the unit. The window stuck. I temporarily forgot about the VERY HEAVY THING and used both hands to wrench the window up. The air conditioner lurched out of the window, but was saved by its cord. I got what I thought was a good grip on the unit, unplugged the cord, and then watched it fall - in slow motion, it seemed - all the way to the ground.

It. Was. Amazing.

Support

Please help Emily raise money for healthy babies!

She'll be participating in the March of Dimes' Walk America campaign this Saturday, April 28. The deadline for donations is this Wednesday, April 25.

Even a small amount helps - please donate.

Hugs!

Unscathed

Back!

Exhausted, sore, and um... did I say exhausted?

But SO HAPPY.

Also? Comcast can SUCK IT.

Besides the suck, there will be entertaining stories to follow. Though the Comcast story is quite entertaining.

I have to "work" now.

A Short Intermission

The house is starting to echo.

The living room looks bizarre.

There is nothing on the walls.

I moved my computer last night and not having one for a while was strangely refreshing.

I'm so stressed that I've cried for no reason... about six times.

Bear with me during this move - it will all be over soon, and I'm sure that I'll have amazing stories (the Donut + Uhaul = Hilarity!).

A Maizey Blue Fresh Feeling

What?

I'm not saying that I chose this toothbrush solely because of the delicious Wolverine-y colors, because good oral hygiene is probably more important than school spirit, but as soon as I spotted it at CVS, my choice was clear.

GO BLUE!

I've heard it said that women take FOREVER to choose a greeting card. Not me. I'm in and out of the store in a flash, if I remember to buy one at all. But a toothbrush? I stood in front of those damn toothbrushes for TEN MINUTES yesterday and had three in my hand before I saw the super fly specimen above. I may have even been talking to myself about my difficult decision. But when I spotted that beautiful brush, I tossed those loser toothbrushes out of my sight, yoinked my new toothbrush off the shelf, and headed for the register.

And it's the best toothbrush I've ever had. Obviously.

On Moving

We're packing up and moving day is inching closer and closer. The house is looking more and more bare, and I am feeling even more excited than I thought I would.

When I left my comfy place in Arlington to relocate to the Hill, it was a really emotional experience. I moved to the DC area to start graduate school, and my apartment in Arlington was the only place I knew. It was the end of an era, you might say (anyone get that? Besides K-10, that is). Leaving that complex was difficult, but I was so excited to finally live in the city that it was infinitely more sweet than bittersweet.

This place. Well... it is what it is, I suppose. We should have known what we were getting into, especially since the previous tenants were in the midst of an ongoing war with Maria the Bitch Landlord from Hell (in which they lost their entire security deposit because she wouldn't cut them a break when they wanted to move out a month early. Her prerogative, I know, but they did find new tenants).

It wouldn't have done much to change my mind anyway - my commute had shrank (shrunk?) from thirty minutes to ten, I was living in a cool neighborhood, Union Station was only a few blocks away, and I finally felt as if I was in the middle of everything.

Then... things started to get weird. Our house fell apart before our eyes. Our alley/parking lot was always trashed. The market on the corner carried very questionable, maggot-filled products. There were constantly crazies in the alley (case in point - today, a totally drunk and/or high couple parked their car in the middle of the alley and chased each other around it, threatening violence and hurling insults and slurs, all while delicately carrying their 24-ounce cans of Coors. His was very nicely placed in a paper bag. Hers was not). And on and on and on.

It was easy to ignore these things because "I'm in the city! I have to get used to all of this, because it's the city!" And for the past two years, I did. I got used to it all.

Ha. It's funny what you can get used to when you think there's nothing better out there.

And I'm still going to miss this place. We're only moving four blocks south, and yet I feel as if I have to say goodbye. There are plenty of things that I won't miss, from the tourists at Union Station to the scary people in the alley to basically everything this house is about, but I will miss the "Good Morning!" I receive each day from the guard at the Thurgood Marshall Building. I'll miss cutting through Union Station at 3:00 a.m. and staring up at the gorgeous ceiling. I'll miss the coffeehouse on the corner with the amazing mochas. I'll miss my pretty kitchen floor. I'll miss living so close to Amanda.

But I'll look forward to an even shorter commute, a safer area, closer proximity to Eastern Market, and, of course, a nicer, warmer apartment.

And I can always walk the four blocks if I need to hear that friendly "Good Morning!"

Adoration

Oh, edamame. How I adore you!

I hope that I never tire of you and dump you like poor, white trash.

That would be so insensitive.

I Can't Stop Watching

Will Ferrell cracks me up.

Ahem...

...

My name is DC Donut, and I am an Evite Addict.

I can stop anytime, though. Really. Because it's not all the time. I swear. Throughout the year, there are certain event "dry spells," and these are the times that my addiction clears up on its own - without therapy, without medication, without withdrawal.

But in the spring, in the summer, and around the holidays, those evites start popping up and it's impossible to tear myself away! Who's invited? Who isn't...? Who's bringing a date? There are so many questions and so many possible situations!

Evite-stalking is quickly becoming a widespread problem in America. Well, I totally made that up, but if there are others like me - and there must be - then there is a large number of workers dragging down the country's productivity with the constant repetition of page refreshes.

Or so I would think.

It's when you set up your own evite, however, that things really start to get out of hand. Not only can you see who invited those pesky extra people, you can view those repeat offenders: those who've viewed the evite and have yet to respond. This is simply infuriating! Why wouldn't they want to come to MY party? They should want to! I'm fun, I'm hip!

It definitely beats the old paper and pen, at least when it comes to informal events.

So stalk your fellow invitees today! The first time is free. You can totally stop whenever you want.

God, I'm a pusher.

Deck the Halls With Boughs of Horry

It's... smiling at me!

Dragon Roll!

Okay, so it's not a duck, and his head stayed put. At first. But that quote came to mind as soon as they brought him to the table.

He was delicious.

My "Little" Brother

My brother is only two and a half years younger than me, and for about two thirds of our lives, we'd seemed to coexist in our own manufactured world of hate. And while this was clearly just a brother-sister jealous kind of hate, something that I hoped would clear up like acne, we sure did fight. And by "fight," I mean kicking, punching, rolling around in the dirt, ripping out each other's hair altercations. It was brutal. I routinely told myself, my friends, and my diary how much I hated him.

But when I moved away to college, something changed. I missed him. I really missed him. I started calling him, and we started talking. I told him about school and the dorms and the guys, and he told me about high school and hockey and the girls. We talked frequently, and he never failed to make me laugh out loud. The kid is hilarious.

And I realized that I loved my annoying little brother. I loved him more than I ever thought possible.

I soon looked forward to holidays and semester breaks for more than the obvious reasons - I could finally spend time with my brother. We annoyed the bejesus out of our parents with our endless supply of inside jokes and across-the-house yelling matches. We recited movie lines without blinking, we concocted elaborate ways of scaring each other involving much more than just jumping out from behind the couch, and we horrified our parents with our constant swearing.

Somewhere, at some point, we became friends.

I don't remember what he said before the picture was snapped,
but I do know I didn't stop laughing for five minutes.

Now, with over 500 miles between us, it's difficult to go more than a week without talking to him. It's amazing how insightful he is, how he always seems to know the answers to my problems, even if it's something that I don't want to admit to myself. And he lets me go off on my rants only interrupting to say encouraging things like, "You're right, she is stupid!" or "I can't believe your landlord did that!" And he still makes me laugh. Snorting, stomach-holding, side-splitting laughter.

And on this, his 24th birthday, I want to tell him how proud I am of the person he has become. He is strong and caring, responsible and thoughtful, intelligent and loving.

He gave me a niece, the most amazing, wonderful baby girl, and in an instant, he became the man I always knew he would be. The love he has for that little girl shines in his eyes and radiates out to all of us.

I am so proud to be his sister.

And when he called me to tell me that there was another baby on the way, I knew that there was no one else better prepared or more deserving than he and Kari.

Happy Birthday, Little Brother. I love you.

My Little Brother and His Baby Girl

Summers of Fiction

In high school, I never studied - I never really had to. I was in the top tier of my class, I was accepted at the only school at which I applied, and I was riding high. And then? I arrived at college and quickly discovered how devastatingly mediocre I was compared to everyone else.

"I have to study now? How do I even DO that?"

I figured it out, but it took a while. I worked my little ass off, and as each April came to an end, I needed a break. My college summers were nice - I worked here and ate here and drank here. I was on track with my degree, and was lucky to not have to take summer courses. That freedom was amazing in so many ways, but mostly because those were the times that I finally got to read.

As an undergraduate here, I took as many classes as possible in many different fields, just to be sure that I was following the major I had wanted all along: history. I was right-on about my chosen major, but after taking all of those random classes, I discovered that I just had to add a healthy dose of cultural anthropology to the mix (yay for minors!). As an undergraduate, I read constantly. As a history major, I practically read in my sleep.

Not that I didn't love my history classes - I did. I still think about most of them and the impact they had on my college career and now my adult life. And I still remember the first "A" I ever received on a history paper, and it wasn't until my junior year. History's hard, y'all, especially at UofM. It certainly prepared me for graduate school here, so much so that I maintain that undergrad was infinitely more difficult.

But my favorite history class? It was my junior year, and it would have to be Europe in the Era of Total War: 1870-1945. It was fascinating, the professor was fantastic, and the graduate student assigned to my discussion section was attentive, interesting, and fair. He actually cared about his students. And in between desperately wanting his approval, I desperately wanted him. A bit of a crush, you might say.

And he's the one who taught me how to write history.

(I wish that I could have made that sentence, "But he's the one who taught me about history... and so much more," but I can't. It's a shame, really. He was gorgeous.)

Anyway.

I read so much during the school year, from books to journals to course packs, that summer was more than a break - it was an escape. Don't get me wrong - I love history. Now, I switch between fiction and nonfiction with ease, and Christopher Moore's newest book gets me just as excited as the latest from David McCullough. But each summer, history books were out, and fiction was in. I TORE through stacks of books that had been patiently waiting for me for months.

I read fantasy, historical fiction, and Pulitzer winners. Mysteries, chick lit, and Archie comics. It was the summer after my sophomore year that I finally joined the Harry Potter cult and read the first three books in three days.

I didn't read Pride and Prejudice until the summer between my junior and senior year of college (a surprisingly long wait for a British historian, isn't it?). I was absolutely captivated and stayed up until 5:30 in the morning because I just couldn't put it down.

Reading is therapeutic for me, even more so than painting, and there is nothing like a good book. Or fifty.

A small sampling of the Donut's books. And Scrabble.
Mmmm... Scrabble.

Easily Amused

1. Go to Google

2. Click on maps

3. Click on directions

4. Enter New York, NY to Paris, France

5. Scroll down to step #21

6. Smile


(Thanks to my cousin for this one!)

Oh No She DIDN'T

"I'm replacing the door."

My landlord brought prospective renters through the apartment yesterday, and all Amanda and I lacked was a bowl of popcorn. Seriously. It was that entertaining:

She told them that the upstairs neighbor, the same neighbor we dubbed "Stompy McLoud," was "very quiet and never home." I don't think that she was amused when Amanda and I burst into hysterical laughter, but is she kidding? This is the guy who seems to have a personal vendetta against the STAIRS that can only be avenged with his boots and (apparently) enormous thighs. You'd think he was trying to break through them rather than climb up them.

(And yes, I know that the whole "Blanky McBlank" thing is old, but there is really no other way to describe the aural murder that occurs every. single. GD. day. Sweet Lord in Heaven.)

She mentioned that there was abundant storage. Sure, if you consider 'under the leaky bathroom sink' an appropriate place for your winter scarves and hats, because there's no place else to store them.

She said that she fixes things in a timely matter, which is true. She shows up, fannies around with the plumbing or heater or door, and then has to bring back a professional to repair what she "fixed."

I was waiting to hear her inform them that the utilities were comparable to other houses in the area, but she was fairly honest there: "They'll run over $300 in the winter." Damn straight, honey. But that's just the gas.

The best thing, though, THE BEST, was that she will be replacing the door, "which should help keep the utility bills low."

Are you kidding me?

We'd been inquiring about that door for over a YEAR, and she was waiting until we left. I mean, why should she fix it, really? She had us locked into a lease -- we couldn't leave.

Two girls asked if they could speak with me privately, because they wanted honesty. And I gave it to them, all tied up with a neat bow. I told them that I wanted to say that the place was a dump, but it's not so bad. I do like this place - it's original and interesting, and though it's small, it hasn't stopped us cramming almost twenty people in for Thanksgiving.

I told them that even though the landlord and I don't get along, perhaps that wouldn't be the case with them.

And I told them that we're leaving because it's time for a change, which is true.

But when they asked about the price, I honestly told them that it wasn't worth it (especially since we saw the ad she posted on Craigslist and noticed she raised the rent significantly). The price is acceptable for the location, but it's a total ruse. You don't get what you pay for here, and I just wouldn't waste the money.

I'm sure that she'll rent the place - no one else thought to ask me any questions - and that's fine. And while I am absolutely livid that she's replacing the door, I figure that I just need to be happy that we escaped relatively unscathed. We're moving on to greener pastures. There's no need to focus on the fact that she sucks at life, because soon we won't have to deal with her again.

Unless she denies us our security deposit, upon which case I will morph into my wee Donut-sized harpy stage and destroy her.

Harpy! (oh my gosh, you need to read this because apparently there were harpies in She-Ra).

Princess of Power!

Update

In case you were wondering, I found R2:

He's just chillin' on the corner of Constitution and 2nd, NE.

Also? The USPS website is ridiculous right now.

Good! News! For DC Donut!

Okay, I won't hold you in suspense much longer, though you should know that this news probably means nothing to you.

(I got you all excited for nothing, you easily excitable type-persons. I might have to taunt you a second time.)

We're leaving the shittiest house on the Hill for nicer, prettier, cleaner digs. On... the Hill -- it's like, four blocks from our current place. Two bedrooms, two FULL baths, and a super sweet kitchen. Awesome!

We've signed the lease, we've got the keys, and we're set to go...

...and we can't really move for ten days because we're both so busy. Ah well. That's what overlapping leases are for!

New giant bedroom!

Yummy!

The eye doctor was none too happy that I had been wearing two-week disposable lenses for over, oh, let's say... a few extra weeks (a bit of an understatement). Because now I have THIS. Pretty!

And I'm stuck in my glasses for another week. Not too much of a bummer, because they're not that horrific, but the prescription is low, so I am getting some monster headaches.

I do have to use these gel eye drops, which are gooey and interesting and they give me even more of an excuse to slack off. I can't see the monitor! Can't see! Hahahaha!

It's really not funny. I know this.

But also? Good news coming soon!

SUSPENSE.

Ugh. What a Day.

boss = passive aggressive micro-manager

desk = where documents go to die

checking account = currently at $3.97

bank = charged me $8.00 for a money order

new landlord = changed lease signing to new time and day

current landlord = lied about lease requirements; spawn of devil

old security deposit = a month away from my pocket

right eye = red and ouchy

glasses = giving me headache

weather = no longer snowing

sun = actually shining

birds = crazily singing

tomorrow = a new day

Is It Chilly In Here?

My brother and Kari just bought a new house in Taylor, MI, and Kari asked me to paint some pictures for their living room. Awesome! No problem!

I painted a series of three, all with the same color scheme, so that they could be hung together or separately. I thought that they turned out great! Until I took photos, that is. The first two turned out nicely, though the photos don't really do them justice (If I do say so myself. Heh):

I'm not sure what to say about this one - I swear it looks much better in person.

Mondrian inspired.

And then...

OH MY GOD, I PAINTED THEM A GIANT BREAST.

HAHAHAHAHA NIPPLY!

Mover and Shaker

After leaving RFD on Saturday night,
I opened my purse to find this:

Fantastic. Now I'm a thief. THANKS, GUYS.

Yay! And the Drunkenness!

I've been advised against teh drnunken posting, but I just cn't help mysef. I love the snakebites. LOVE THEM.

SNAKEBITES!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUREL!

I mean Laurel.

And Easter! Happy Happy Easter!

And eggd snd bunnies and the like.

Have you ever tried the typing when the drunk is prevalent?

NOT ADVISED>

Easter!

Update: Taking out contacts while drunk should earn a medal!

Self-Stalking

Okay. I'll admit it:

I've googled myself.

Everyone does it, right? And my name is, well, not that common, so there's no confusion. So it's okay. Ahem.

Like anyone, I'm curious. I wonder what's out there, and I wonder what people will find if they are google-stalking me.

Not that I've ever done that, either.

Anyway.

For the most part, it's a bit of a let-down. You'll get a link to a few articles I wrote on a site called Helium, a link to where I currently work, and a link to a review I wrote on Amazon.

Bo-ring.

Something that you will not find, because my name is not associated with the link, is the picture below. It is way too cool to not post, and yes, that is C3PO tied to a pole in the basement of the museum because he apparently would not. stand. up. straight:

There is no escape. Even for a droid.
Where's R2?

Al-kee-haul

You know how it is when you drink some stuff, and the next morning isn't so, well... delightful? Well, I drank QUITE A BIT of stuff last night, and this morning? Wasn't too terrible.

I'm not really sure how this is possible, considering that I started the night with margaritas at Union Pub and then retired to my couch with awesome old roommate Jenny and a bottle of red to watch The Office and Scrubs.

(Side note: Dear Union Pub, How hard is it to inform your wait staff of the daily specials, really? $47.98 for two pitchers of margaritas? Just... no! Just... GOD.)

The fact that my expected hangover was mysteriously missing doesn't matter, because I know now that I did something insanely stupid anyway: I lent her all three seasons of Arrested Development. She and that boyfriend-y type person of hers had better get through them quickly or I am going to have to find some new television-on-DVD crack. Or possibly kill her. And Dave.

I mean, no. I won't.

I probably won't.

Check It

Hello my babies! Let me alert you all to a new link on DC Donut: JeffWoelker.com

Jeff and I attended the famed University of Michigan together, lived in the dormish hell of Alice Lloyd, and then within a few blocks of each other on the rolling, unshoveled streets of Ann Arbor. He is known as Jeff, Woelker, Woelker Texas Ranger, and Luke Skywoelker.

Jeff now lives in Chicago, one of my favorite cities in the States. His blog is well-written and witty and you should READ IT because he is awesome, nice, and a good friend to the Donut. In fact, he coined the nickname, "Donut." And he's tall. Very, very tall.

Crash! Smash! Ugggggghhhh....

A massive crash of thunder jarred me awake at 6:07 this morning. Why do I remember the time? Because it was exactly three minutes before my alarm was set to erupt into a beeping cacophony and make me cry for peace. But being awoken before my alarm makes everything worse, even if it was just a lousy three minutes.

Those three minutes could have been the buffer between a headache-free morning and one with a vise-like grip. Damn you, DC weather! And damn you, evil headache!

After throwing my phone (phones have alarms! Isn't that brilliant? I think that it's because they know that people will break them faster and the company will profit. Crafty, crafty bastard bitch cell phone companies!) across the room, I extricated myself from my warm, loving bed, and immediately plodded to my computer to check the weather closings.

And that, my friends, is how you know that I'm on my way to becoming a local: I know that any sort of extreme weather can cause major problems. And by "extreme," I mean anything other than mediocre, boring weather. This includes excessive sunshine. Really. Hell, last summer a big rainstorm hit and I didn't have to go to work for two days.

Alas, no closings.

But you just never know with this city...

Shut Up, Dove

I knew that this day would come. I've been sitting here trying to write something clever and it just. won't. materialize.

So I bring to you the following half-assed post -- let's hope that this is a one-time thing. Or at least a once-in-a-blue-moon thing (had to give myself some wiggle room, right?):

Dove Promises are little foil-wrapped chocolate-y treats with "clever" hidden messages. Sometimes at work, when I can't get motivated, I'll eat a bunch of them until I find one that actually inspires me. Sometimes it takes a while. And sometimes I get a stomach ache.

Not if you've seen my bathtub.

What if your heart beats as fast as a hamster's?

You can't make me! No means no. NO MEANS NO.

No! It's how you feel inside!

I already did! Finally, some inspiration. Now I can get some work done.

OR, I could take a nap.

OR, maybe I'll throw up instead.

And Stop Calling Them English Basements When They CLEARLY AREN'T

I thought that by the time I was 26 years old, I would be able to afford a nice, one-bedroom apartment. (Well, I thought that a LOT of things would be happening by now that definitely aren't, but let's not dwell on that, shall we?) The first floor of a rowhouse, a condo, or... something. Instead, I am forced to look at basement apartments that remind me of college. And not the embracing warm womb of the dorm with the dining halls, huge bathrooms, and automatic cliques -- the shittier, dirtier, off-campus places with scary, unidentified spiders and stall showers.

When I finally ventured out of the dorms and into the off-campus lifestlye, I was PUMPED to find a two-bedroom basement apartment for $800. All of the utilities were included and there was a campus bus stop halfway down the block. Sure, it was a mile off of campus and missing the bus meant a nice, hefty walk to my work, but it was a STEAL compared to what others paid.

But what was with the furniture? If you lived in a furnished apartment in Ann Arbor, you had the same crap as everyone else. The same disgusting couch, the same shudder mattresses, and the same industrial-sized desks that some company probably gave up for free. But it was the first time that I was finally on my own - as "on my own" as I could be with my parents 40 minutes away - and it was sweet.

But now? We can't live in the super awesome house because we don't want to get stolen while walking home in broad daylight. We can't afford a townhouse in a nice area, and where the hell are the hood prices in the GD hood? GONE. It's now too expensive to live in a crack den in DC.

I am SO tired of apartment searching. It is stressful and I'm tired and I can't fall asleep.

Pray. For. Mojo.

Urban Artistry

I love the ever-changing urban art at the Metro Center metro station (is "urban art" the correct term? It's certainly not graffiti...). I thought that this was absolutely beautiful:

Because of art like this and the amazing violinist at L'Enfant Plaza, my commute is always less painful.

Spring Cleaning and OCD

It's spring cleaning time here in the shittiest house on the Hill, and time for all of my insanity to come to light. I'm starting with my bedroom, as it's easier to obsess over one's own mess than that of other people.

I just washed my sheets, and as I finished making the bed, I realized that the top sheet was upside-down. I decided to throw caution (and my slight OCD tendencies) to the wind and let it be. The question now remains: How long before I go insane and rip the sheets off of the bed?

If I don't just forget about it (something that I hoping and praying will happen), then I give it three days. Not that it matters - our dryer sucks so hard that my sheets stay permanently wrinkled, even after being on the bed for a week. I once ironed the top sheet while it was still on my bed, and when the wrinkles didn't disappear, I cried.

Am I really that ridiculous?

(Yes.)

(And may have also been PMSing slightly.)

(Okay, more than slightly.)

I recently completed and addressed fifteen invitations for a friend's bridal shower. It's a good thing that I had extras, because I screwed up about seven times. And by "screwed up," I mean that my cursive got the best of me and I didn't like the way that the capital "M" looked.

(Really.)

In middle school (and high school to some extent - you know, that mystical time before computers?), I remember writing out page-long homework assignments, before forcing myself to scribble out a single mistake at the very bottom of the page. If I had time? I re-wrote the entire thing. If not? I felt awful handing in something so messy.

Lord.

Even at work, when I compose my weekly to-do list on a fucking POST-IT, I'll rewrite the damn thing if there's a slight misspelling or if it isn't written nicely enough. This is a POST-IT that I stick to my monitor and then draw a line through the tasks as they are completed.

I think that it's better that I can admit to the crazy and just get on with it all.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Teddy

He sits on my bed in the same place he's always claimed. Different houses, different beds, different cities. But always next to me. I've relied on him for over 26 years. He's gotten me through fights, college exams, punishments, thunderstorms, bad days, and painful breakups. I hugged him tightly at 8:00 p.m. on warm July evenings, laying in bed listening to the neighborhood children continue their games. The sun was setting and it didn't feel like bedtime. But the streetlights were on, so I was home... tucked into bed.

With my teddy bear clutched to my heart.

My parents tell me that I was too eager to wait nine months. My mom went into labor at my baby shower, and my parents rushed to Wyandotte General Hospital while my grandmothers kept the guests entertained. I was born the next morning at 1:06 a.m., almost one month ahead of schedule. When they brought me home for the first time, my parents placed one of the baby shower gifts next to me in the bassinet. A teddy bear. My Teddy. I was tiny and weighed just about five pounds.

Teddy was bigger.

The other stuffed animals came and went. They were eventually packed up and donated away, but my Teddy was different. I remember attending a live production of The Velveteen Rabbit when I was about nine years old - it horrified me. I made my parents promise that they would never take my Teddy away from me, even if I contracted scarlet fever. They promised. That summer, I got chicken pox and I was still terrified that my bear would be taken from me forever. But Teddy stayed beside me, in the crook of my arm, never to leave.

I wasn't one of those kids who took their stuffed animal to school or on errands with my mom - Teddy usually stayed home - but family vacations were different. During one summer road trip, the entire family recognized the emotional value of my bear when I tearfully realized that Teddy had stayed behind at our last motel. One hundred miles behind us. After thoroughly searching the car, my daddy, a most wonderful, understanding man, promptly turned the car around and silently accepted the additional two hundred miles. After that, we had a checklist when leaving hotels: children? Check. Teddy? Check. Sometimes my dad would call out "Teddy!" ahead of "Heather and Steven!"

After learning fire safety in elementary school, I decided that as he was my most valuable possession, Teddy would leave a burning building with me. Even more morbidly, I used to wonder what would happen to Teddy in the event of my untimely death - would I give him to relatives or have him buried with me? I'm not sure that I could answer that question even today.

Teddy came with me to sleepovers in elementary school, track meets in high school, and made the journey with me to college. Riding high atop my brand new pillows and duvet cover in our overpacked Windstar, he too experienced Ann Arbor dorm life.

He is no longer the same bear from the August of my birth, probably because my parents never put a stop to his slow destruction. I am told, always with suppressed giggles, that I used to pull out Teddy's fur and stick it up my nose. My parents thought it was hilarious and just let it happen. I was entertainment. But poor Teddy! And yet, he endured the worst.

I guess that helps explain why Teddy accompanied me in my relocation five hundred miles from home: graduate school in Washington, DC. A place that intrigued me, yet a place where I would be completely alone for the first time in my life. But I wanted the best. I suppose that if the best Museum Studies masters program in the country had been located in southeastern Michigan, I would have stayed in the Midwest. But it wasn't. It was in my nation's capital and I was moving ahead at full speed.

Now, almost five years later, I can barely recall that early loneliness. DC is now my place, my home, my life. The unknown brought me to DC. Needing more than just a change of scenery, my decision to leave all that was familiar to me was one of the best choices of my young life. I was cut out for so much more than the suburbs of Detroit. I needed a place that belonged to everyone. A place that few called home. I would call DC home.

You might think that a 26 year old woman should have no need for a security blanket, but I don't see it that way. He may look absolutely pitiful and more like a mouse than a bear, but Teddy is a comfort to me and my link to my past. He's part of who I am.

And the nights I sleep most soundly are the nights that my Teddy is clutched in my arms.