We were in the middle of a round tequila shots on Wednesday night when the khaki-clad stranger took a look around the bar and said, “I’m definitely headed for some trouble.”

I laughed and handed off my shot to Mike J. Tequila and I are a combustible combination, and out with Mike’s uncle and his coworkers, I didn’t think it was the best time to introduce Angry Drunk Heather. I like to save that for special occasions.

When I turned back to my martini and the man headed for trouble, I spied a wedding ring on his left hand.

“Looks like you’ll be keeping trouble to a minimum,” I said, and winked.

“We’re about to get divorced.”

I said nothing but raised my eyebrows. I didn’t buy it. And I was right not to. According to his coworkers, Trouble Guy is nowhere near divorce; he’s just a dick. Okay, they didn’t call him a dick. That was all me.

Sometime later, during the fuzzier part of the evening, Trouble Guy, obviously (and erroneously) thinking I’d be on board with such a maneuver, waggled his fingers at me. His very naked fingers.

“I put it in my pocket!” He looked very proud of himself.

“You’re an asshole.” No sense in mincing words, I thought.

“Have you ever been married?” he asked, leaning closer.

“No.”

“Then you don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

This! This is why the older I get, the less I want to be married. I mean, if you can’t trust a guy in pleated khakis (the ultimate indicator of gamelessness) who can you trust? You think you’re sending your dopey husband off to a pharmaceutical conference, with no thought as to whether he’ll keep it in his pants, because he’s your pleated khaki-wearing man! He’s safe. Instead, he’s out on a school night, taking shots from college girls.

Oh, he’s keeping it in his pants, alright. But it’s his wedding band in there. Not his dick.

Heather: I have a game for you.

Ari: Ooh, fun!

Heather: Guess what I’m wearing.

Ari: Grey or black yoga pants, tank top, and Hal.

Heather: No. It’s so out of character, you’ll never get it.

Ari: Okay, a nun habit and cat o’ nine tails?

Heather: Close! It is a torture-related device.

Ari: A Jewish star, yarmulke, and nothing else.

Heather: Shit, is today a holiday?

Ari: A corset?

Heather: No. A WATCH! I’m wearing a goddamn watch.

Ari: WHAT?!?

Heather: I know.

Ari: That makes it more of a holiday.

Heather: Did you feel it? The world just started spinning in the opposite direction.

This watch thing is a big deal for me. During my first week of my freshman year of college, my mom bought me a watch. Nothing fancy. Just a timepiece to help get me to class before roll call. When that sucker died two days before graduation, I believed it was a sign. I took off the watch and never replaced it. But now that I have places to be, trains to catch, and I won’t be glued to a cell phone, wearing a watch is sort of necessary. Hateful, but necessary.

And, as it turns out, totally awkward. It feels weird. What’s more, I’m not exactly sure where on my arm it’s supposed to go. Right at the wrist? A little higher up? Is it too loose? Should I have a link removed?

People, there is just no end to the list of things I can worry about. I mean, a watch should not require this much pondering, but I put in the effort, because that’s the kind of neurotic mess I am. Who knew I was one Timex away from a complete mental meltdown?

The Indiglo sure is pretty, though.

“Why does it always seem longer going back?”

“Because we’re tired?”

Jamie and I were on our return trip on the Katy Trail – it’s part of our on-going attempt at not being lazy – and the last two miles were really dragging. But I wasn’t really feeling tired. Sweaty, yes. But not tired.

“Oh! I know why,” I said. “I spent the first forty-five bitching. The miles just flew by!”

Jamie laughed, but it was one of those laughs that said, “It’s funny ’cause it’s true.” It might have even been laced with a hint of “It’s a good thing you have such nice hair, or that might have strained our friendship beyond repair.”

Boy, is she a trooper. I may suck at a few things, but that is one thing I do really well – choose friends. Really great amazing friends who put up with my antics. These days I’m a real treat. Either I’m staring off into space making mental To Do lists or going on stress-fueled tirades about the bathroom scale or incompetent customer service reps. Seriously, how hard can it be to find a grounded plug adapter that works in Italy? Huh, Dell guy? Huh?!

Anyway, I told Jamie I was going home to search my brain for something to blog about. Something that had nothing to do with travel or hostels, because the internet, as great as it is, makes it impossible for me to use my feminine wiles (and luscious locks) to trick you people into sticking around. Unfortunately.

I’m not so sure this post counts. But! Since you all have been so helpful these last couple days, let me try to return the favor. My piece of advice: Do not spend money to see Good Luck Chuck. See Superbad twice and you’ll be ahead of the game. Way ahead. Trust me. I do love a good raunchy comedy, but Chuck was just lots of naked boobs without any context. Even Jessica Alba (totes adorbs!) couldn’t save this movie from how unfunny that bad-skinned, so-called comedian guy is.

You know what? See Superbad twice anyway. That shit’s just funny.

I had a giant list of To-Dos to tackle this afternoon (blog stuff, calling the airline, booking hostels), but first, Jamie and I had a date with the White Rock Lake jogging trail. The trail is somewhere between nine and eleven miles around – depending on which path you take. And we thought, nine miles, no sweat. We weren’t punching a clock, so we’d just take our time and have a nice walk.

A nice walk? Holy crap, I’m tired! Turns out, nine miles is a sweat. A really big sweat. I have an interesting sunburn pattern on my back, seven (seven!) blisters on my right foot alone, and just getting up from the couch is becoming a major ordeal. This is clearly the price of getting old.

So instead of booking hostels, I had dreams about booking hostels during my three hour nap. I know I should be embarrassed about napping for three hours, but mostly I’m annoyed that even in my sleep, I’m still working. Planning. Prepping. There were spreadsheets in that dream, for Pete’s sake. Anyway, now that my itinerary is worked out, I thought we could arrange some over-the-pond meet-ups.

London Meet-Up
Friday October 12
8:30 PM
Location TBD

If you’re a Londoner with a suggestion for a location, I’m all ears. Or, um, eyes. Also, I’ll be spending a few days in Avignon, Barcelona, Turin, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples, if there’s any interest in getting together in those cities. Hostel recommendations in those cities will be equally appreciated! Since, really, so far, I’ve only gotten around to dreaming about them.

Yesterday was chaos. You can see it in my apartment. Laundry strewn around the bedroom; dishes in the sink – six inches away from their intended resting place in the dishwasher; the darkened half of an avocado, exposed and ruined on the cutting board. I would never waste an avocado! But things kept happening and I kept not getting around to putting it away.

First there was the Passport Freak Out of ’07. My passport expires six months after we leave for Scotland, and I’d just read an article about how a valid passport really isn’t valid if it expires in… you guessed it… six months. I shot of an email to my mom (two heads are better than one) and the Internet research began. And you know what I found? Not a single person, government website or travel agency could agree whether or not the countries on my fall itinerary would let me in. So then, I started calling travel agencies. And consulates. It was truly a reach out and touch someone kind of day.

Now, I don’t want to read any comments (not a one, do you hear me?) about how I’m going to be in trouble, stuck at some border because of my decreasingly invalid passport. I won’t. The British consulate told me they don’t care what people on the Internet are saying; so long as my passport doesn’t expire while I’m away, I’m fine. Same with the Italians.

Good. Great. Grand. Molto bene.

After that, I mellowed out a bit and got down to work. I know I’ve been teasing you with the details of the new gig, and here they are at last. I’ve signed on to do some travel writing for a student travel company. You know those international student IDs you get when you go gallivanting around Europe? That’s what they do. And what I’m going to do, is some gallivanting of my own. Then I’m gonna blog about it – the ins and outs of hostels and Eurail and eating on the cheap. On the Road with This Fish. The blog will be strictly travel – all the other stuff about life, love (and sometimes, the lack thereof) will be right here. Stories about tours and tourists? There. Stories about just what I did with those tourists? Here.

My trip to Scotland then, because someone wants to pay me to see the world, is turning into my trip to Scotland, Spain, France, Italy and possibly Greece. While some aspects of being away for so long are overwhelming, there’s always Tuscany in the fall. how lovely does that sound? Tuscany in the fall. I say that to myself when I’m stressed out over logos and blog design and wondering how Hal will take to living at my mother’s house for a month or so, and it all starts to melt away.

So, while things are a little stressful, they could certainly be a lot worse. I’m betting that whatever the word for ‘chaos’ is in Italian, it sounds perfectly lovely.

I got home from Phoenix around 11:30 last night, then twelve hours later, hopped in my car to drive down to Austin for ACL (Austin City Limits Music Festival). I made excellent time and decided to catch a catnap at my sister’s apartment before heading out to Zilker park. I woke up drooling on my arm an hour and a half later. Some catnap.

Hoping to get in a a little time with Stephanie and Family, I texted her husband Phil to see what they were up to.

Heather: I’m in town for ACLfest
Phil: Adding “fest” to any word makes it fun.
Heather:You should start referring to the kids as “twinfest”
Phil: Start? You mean continue!
Heather: Diaperfest! Teethingfest!
Phil: Yeehaw.

Heather: So what are you jokers doing for dinner?
Phil: Stephanie’s writing…. some would call it “writing fest.”

And a new, ready to run into the ground, inside joke was formed. I live for that stuff. It’s probably genetic. There are so many jokes in my family that have survived years of overuse. Jokes that I will someday program into my kids, jokes these unwitting children will on the playground and get blank stares and probably even a few beatings.

God, I can’t wait to be a parent.

When I was a kid, grown-up importance was determined by two things: you carried a briefcase (god, I love you, Alex P. Keaton) and you went to meetings. If you ran to meetings, jerking your briefcase up and down as you checked your watch every few steps, you were about as important as they came, in my seven-year-old mind. Silly kids. Had I known then that people flew to other cities for lunch meetings and then flew right back home, I’d have rethought that bit about the briefcase. Who needs a stupid briefcase when you have frequent flier miles? That cyborg guy was right. It really is all about the exec platinum.

Tomorrow morning, I’m heading to Phoenix — just for the day — for a meeting about this new! exciting! freelance gig! I’ll be starting. I’m still holding back on the details, but let’s just say it involves travel. And writing. And did I mention travel? To Europe? Yesssss.

The three of us had just come from Girl’s Night dinner in the Bishop Arts District and were holding court at an out-of-the-way table at the Old Monk. It was one of those nights where everything we said seemed brilliantly funny and became an inside joke that we were determined to run into the ground.

Did you know that the phrase “right up my alley” was dirty? It is. On par with, “that’s what she said” and so much funnier.

Anyway, sometime around midnight, a couple of guys asked to join us. Sure, absolutely, why not. So Keith and The Guy Who Hates Sarcasm sat down. Obviously, they came over because of the stunning display of cleavage at the table – we’d all gotten dressed up for dinner in our end-of-summer finery – but ended up leaving with a heaping serving of smart ass.

Conversation was quick, witty and funny and the guys were holding their own (though, someone did leave that table with the unfortunate nickname Goulash). When it was nearing closing time, Keith slid a pen and an upturned receipt across the table and asked for a phone number. Whose, he didn’t seem to care. Just a phone number. A flicker of Oh-no-he-didn’t passed between us girls. A few awkward jokes were made and Keith took his receipt back just as empty as he’d offered it.

“Well, he was sure casting a wide net, wasn’t he?” Jamie said, the moment we hit the sidewalk.

“Right? He really knows how to make a girl feel special,” I said, shaking my head.

“Even if he’d said, ‘Hey, you girls are a lot of fun. Can I get your numbers so we can all hang out again?’ that would have been fine,” Laura said.

“At least then he could be non-discerning where we can’t see. That Anyone? Anyone? routine was just sad.”

We agreed that what Keith clearly didn’t realize was any one of us girls, had he asked us directly, would have gladly give him a phone number. Because until that point, he’d been charming enough. But then… well, I’ve never seen anyone crash and burn so thoroughly (excepting, you know, Britney last night).

Choosing sucks. I get that. What if the girl you prefer doesn’t prefer to give you her number, what have you got then? Well, no digits, for sure. But you’ve got three girls who think you have the appropriate number of testicles, as well as pretty decent assurance that they won’t spend the whole ride home discussing your bad, bad move.

I know it’s late, and I’m a little bit drunk, but seriously, how much do you want to make 23 comments - (Comments are closed)   Uncategorized

Team Samesies was rocking Tuesday night trivia. Between the six of us, we had seemingly limitless knowledge of ulnar nerves, The Wonder Years and James Joyce. Curious about Superbowls past? We had that covered, too. Still, when the MC announced our first place position, we were the tiniest bit surprised. We’d blown that question about Wonder Woman’s costume. And the one about four presidents who’d kicked the bucket in office (unassisted by assassins). But first we were, and as we geared up for the final! sixteen point! question! totally, absolutely certain we’d stay there.

But then… well, damn you Meryl Streep. Damn you for making so many movies! We’d never even seen Heartburn, much less been able to decide if it came before Out of Africa and after Sophie’s Choice or… well, screw.

We agreed that it felt nice to be in first place, even if it didn’t last, or get our bar tab paid. We also agreed that we were coming back next week to set things straight. Team Samesies is going to bone up on totally useless, trivial information and take back the night. Trivia Tuesday is ours. I’m going to surf IMDB and watch lots of television to smarten myself up.

Speaking of, I have to go now. Shania Twain is on my TV and I should be paying attention. I mean, really, is there anybody more trivial than that woman?

Whatever the opposite of awesome is, that’s how I feel today. Blank, actually. That seems like the best word to describe this. I feel somewhat blank today.

I spent the first official morning of Unemployment wandering the mall. Oh, blessed contradiction. When I have no income, what do I do? I go shopping. Though, unless you count the two predictably-worded birthday cards I picked up in Papyrus, I didn’t go buying. So no harm done, really.

I tried to do some buying at the grocery store later, and that’s where I ran into trouble. I spent a solid hour there and couldn’t manage to put anything in my cart. In the end, I went to the checkout counter with four containers of yogurt, a loaf of bread, and some toy mice for Hal. A Please don’t hate me for leaving you for two weeks gift. My parents used to bring us Skittles or airplane goodies when they went away, and that always seemed to work. Taste the rainbow, Hal, and pretend I’m a good pet parent.

When I left the store, I sat at a stoplight on Lovers Lane and cried, because I realized what kind of predicament I’m in, exactly. The not having a job thing. It, too, is the opposite of awesome. When the light changed, I wiped my nose on my bare arm. I might have felt silly, boo-hooing, knowing that people in cars on both sides of me could see, but, well, I just learned that my father routinely falls asleep at red lights, and by comparison, crying seems far less absurd.

My trip West was so much more stressful than I’d imagined it being. Over the last week, we managed at least one crisis per day. Our personal best: fewer than six hours between the car breaking down and the dog running away. Even when you can see the humor in it (like, Henry Hill knocking my dad flat on his ass to ditch the house for a park adventure), it’s perfectly exhausting. Especially if you’re a fixer.

Hi. My name is Heather, and I’m a fixer.

Thing is, I rarely feel any sort of compulsion to please people. In fact, I piss people off all the time because my pretty little compulsion is to make things right. You there, why are you crying? This situation can be remedied! Here, let me. I know it comes across as bossy, and I imagine people resent it (how could they not?) that I care less about them liking me than I do about the ease and orderliness of their existence. In the absence of true leadership (i.e. someone who actually knows what they’re doing), I will almost always appoint myself Person-in-Charge. I don’t like to see people stressed, or in chaos, or crying. So I will do whatever it takes to stop it. Even if, it turns out, that means absorbing the stress myself. I might be broke, but I will make myself broker to stop you from crying. The end result being that I get cranky and need to nap a lot. Most of the last thirty-six hours, in fact.

Obviously, this is something I should be talking about to a therapist of some kind. But we’ll save that for a time when I’m employed and insured. So, um, anyway, I think I’m going to go take a nap now.