5 comments

January 27, 2010

Eat my dust! Or Actually, Just Pardon it.

Friday is moving day. And this week, I am like Scrooge McDuck. Except, instead of blissfully backstroking my Glaswegian tail feathers through a cash-filled swimming pool, I am clumsily lumbering my sorry tush through a Texas-size coagulate of cast-off cardboard, packing tape, and permanent markers.

If someone were to sink a post into my brain, mount a hook, and hang a shingle, the lettering on the sign would read:

THIS SPACE OCCUPIED.

Cause it totally is.

No proper post this week. My bad. Your boon. Look at all the time you’re gonna have now that you don’t need to glom on and grit your teeth to make it through one of my marathon stories! You should totally thank me by coming over to help me pack! Oh, and while you’re at it, why don’t you tackle my homework?

Yes, homework. That creative writing workshop I signed up for, it starts tonight. And yeah, there is pre-work … which I haven’t started pre-working on. (Of course.)

In conclusion, I would just like to say that yesterday my mom called and asked me to write down a word. I-n-g-u-i-n-a-l, she spelled out. When I asked what it meant, Mom said it was a kind of hernia men get when their intestines protrude from their groin into their scrotal sac. Mom has decided she wants to be a sonogram technician when she grows up. She is learning all sorts of new words in her medical terminology class at the community college. Like it or not, I am learning them too. And now, so are you.

You’re welcome.

9 comments

January 21, 2010

The First Step

The first thing to do, she tells me, is to get all traces of him out of the apartment.

I sigh, glance at the clock in the living room. It is smallish, round with a silver frame; two hands, flat black chopsticks, mark off minutes on a white numbered face. The third hand, shiny and sharp, reminds me of a hypodermic needle which is not—considering the circumstances, that my heart feels as if it’s been pierced straight through—a strange likeness to assign. Tick Tock, the little clock says. Hänni it’s been 10 days since he left. He is not coming back.

My step mom, a sturdy Norwegian with a killer sense of humor and fierce loyalty to family, is standing in front of the couch. She’s come to take care of me. In these, the first few worst days of my life, she is the one who is keeping me fed, calling the lawyer, making sure that when I’m in the bath—my head submerged in salty, lilac-scented water—I reemerge on the surface, even though I don’t want to. Even though I’d rather drown.

Elida, my stepmother, she is a lioness. And right now I’m as helpless as a mewling, newborn cub. So when Elida palms the cheap Ikea console and says we need to get rid of his things, I comply. The first object that needs vanished into the ether? Our wedding portrait wherein his full round face and crooked smile are on prominent display. Elida picks up the silver frame, flips open the velvet backing, and removes the Kodak paper. “Here,” she says, thrusting the black and white couple towards me. “You need to cut this into small pieces and put it in the litter box for the cats to shit on.”

It seems crazy, but—wielding the scissors with the orange plastic handle—I do it. And then, miracle of miracles, I feel better.


(Photo credit: Delta407@Flickr)

—-

Sweet and salty, her communications—once full of blithe—are now peppered with sadness.

In an email response about dining room furniture for my new apartment, Elida recommends a parson’s table. “They are very versatile,” she says. “You might try getting one used and painting it stealth black, it has a wonderful chocolaty undertone.” And then—a shotgun blast to the stomach, a strange orphan in an otherwise bucolic discourse—Elida tells me that her brother is not doing well. “He is going to die,” she says, “and he knows it.”

In a separate email, Elida bestows the virtue of zebra rugs—“A diehard classic, if there ever was one”—and then she laments the loss of her beloved father. “Our last years were so sweet,” she writes. “I miss him so much,” she says.

Things have not been easy for Elida this past year. In the spring a mystery malady rendered her auntie Robyn—for whom she has become a part-time caretaker—an invalid. Last fall, Elida’s brother, Mark was diagnosed with end-stage pancreatic cancer. Just after Thanksgiving, Elida’s dad, my Grandpa Byron, died suddenly when an aneurysm ruptured in his stomach during a flight from Anchorage to Seattle.

It must be hard for Elida, keeping her eyes open when there’s so much cold air blowing in them.

—-

In all this, I can’t help be reminded of a time—three years ago this January—when the struggles Elida tackled where mine. At the apartment one afternoon, in another house-clearing exercise, she instructs me to drag Blake’s computer desk—all cheap blonde laminate and wobbly metal rods—onto the third-floor landing. “Now,” she commands, “push it over the railing.”

Woooooooosh. The table free falls, and when it connects with the concrete, it makes the most delicious smash. Chunks of pressboard shrapnel splinter across the parking lot. And then—like she’ll do a million times in the months leading up to my post-divorce recovery—Elida assists me in picking up the pieces.


(Photo credit: Damork@Flickr)

Today I am better. Elida is not. She is in a black place, and I’m embarrassed to admit, I have not helped her like she has me. I’ve avoided phone calls, can’t will myself to purchase a condolence card. You know the conversations where you die a little inside, it hurts so much to have them? I circumvent those by emailing a steady stream of frivolity—paint colors, wall patterns, ghost chairs; these are topics from which I won’t stray.

I’m a jerk. I know this. I’m not sure how to change. Except—I can do as Elida once told me—and take a first step. The first thing to do, I think, is to let her know.

I open my MacBook, prompt a browser, and type:

Dear Elida,

I just want to say, I love you.
(P.S. I’m sorry for being such an asshole.)

9 comments

January 13, 2010

I Cat-Proofed My Apartment, But Somehow Those Little Fuzz Butts Keep Getting Back In


(Photo credit: Scootie@Flickr)

WHO THE EFF IS LEAVING THEIR WET CLOTHES IN THE ONLY WORKING WASHER?!

What about me? What about my needs? Do you know I only have one pair of athletic pants? Are you aware it’s cold here and I’ve thus felt compelled to wear these pants (in lieu of shorts) to the gym, like, five times this week? Do you know I’ve got exceptionally sweaty crevices? Do you understand my sweatiest crevice—which during fitness pursuits gives the foulest swamp, thick with mold and mildew and curdled stench, a run for its money—is situated, a split the size of the grand canyon, underneath the waistband on the ass-side of my pants? Forget crunches and squats—you do know that wearing the same pair of pants for five consecutive trips to 24 Hour Fitness is, in and of itself, an exercise … in OLFACTORY endurance?

How do you feel about that, dear-neighbor-who-can’t-be-bothered-to-empty-the-washer-after-the-rinse-cycle’s-complete? Does it help you to sleep well at night knowing that the god-awful odor snaking through our shared ventilation is not—as you’d assumed—the innocuous off-gas of a cluster of dead rats, but rather something infinitely more sinister? Would you, Maytag midwife, birth your white cotton sheets more quickly from the wash machine womb into the world of the waiting dryer if you knew that next to be washed was a pair of putrid spandex pants that could stand on their own without legs inside them? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, A-HOLE NEIGHBOR, WOULD YOU STOP BEING AN INCONSIDERATE TWAT LONG ENOUGH TO REMOVE YOUR CLOTHES FROM THE WASHER BEFORE THE MACHINE—WHICH I HEAR IS QUITE BULIMIC—MYSTERIOUSLY BARFS (PERHAPS WITH MY HELP) YOUR CLOROXED CONTENTS ALL OVER THE DIRTY TILED FLOOR?

…

Quiet and contemplative, these are the questions I sometimes ask myself (mostly on laundry day).

(And also: I sometimes ponder the cosmos, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and the unfortunate exposure of my eyes to the dude next door’s shirtless, bony clavicle and his Rorschach blot plume of black, pubey-looking hair. Galloping across Dude’s chest in a tangled weave, I see horses … and posies … and people who should know better to keep their breast bone covered …. But I digress.)


—–

Two weeks from today I will have the entire contents of my current crappy apartment packed and ready to move to my (or rather “our”) new, not-so-crappy apartment where—omg!—I will have my very own washing machine. And then every day will be like Christmas. And I will be drunk off the fumes of power and Tide and bargain-bin dryer sheets. And when guests come to visit, they will say (of the Whirlpool appliance to which I am firmly affixed in an awkward embrace), If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it? To which I will respond, Fabulous idea! Cue up the organist! Buy me a bouquet! Book us two tickets for a honeymoon in Vegas. I hear the Liberace museum is *very* romantic this time of year.

But two weeks is not today. So for now, I can only do the thing of which hormonal teenage boys (and the similarly depraved) are adept. I fanticize. And furniture is my porn.

Even as the clot of cardboard I’ve gathered for packing sits untouched on my bedroom floor, in my head it’s urgent that I decorate a space I don’t yet inhabit. And so I spend hours—of which there are precious few remaining in this shabby little apartment where I found solace and self-sufficiency after my difficult divorce—researching, obsessing, making plans to spend what I’ve so carefully saved. Beveled mirrors, bamboo chairs, zig zag rugs and zebra pattern pillows—these are the trappings of a glamorous abode; and also, the smoke and mirrors of a glittering distraction.

Maybe the reason my packing thus far consists of three paperback books is, this place—the 600 square feet where I got my wings, did some healing, felt bad and then felt better—I just might miss it.

But only a little.

Hairy neighbor notwithstanding.


(Photo credit: Robert S. Donovan@Flickr)

13 comments

January 6, 2010

My Resolution This Year Is 1440 X 1024 Pixels. And Also, To Write! Write! Write! (Which Kind Of Sounds Like The Start To A Word Nerd Anthem)


(Photo credit: jppi@morguefile)

“Why did you start blogging again?” she asks.

I am tempted to answer that I’m obviously a masochist. “I enjoy the time suck,” I imagine saying, all cavalier-like. “Really, it’s fun to spend my free hours agonizing over word choice, stressing over subjects and predicates.” Imaginary me continues to explain that, You know the dream where you’re in a public place and everyone is gawking cause all you’re wearing—save for the birthday suit Mom gave you when you were born—is a pair of hideous, holey, girdle-style underpants? Well, I intone, arms thrown up on either side of my head in a flesh-colored, ligamental field goal, blogging makes that dream a reality!

“Just press PUBLISH,” I say, “and your life’s stories—the shameful stuff about your adulterous ex, the bloodlust for babies, the troublesome bout with writer’s block that’s flavored with a homoerotic tinge—it’s all laid bare, metaphorical stretch marks and all, for the Internet to judge. And the Internet,” I say, lips pulled back to expose an oily reptilian smile, “will judge … either by clapping with comments when the content is deemed funny or touching, or by reacting—a stifling winter blast blowing through the strawberry fields of assumed literary awesomeness—with cold, ego-crushing indifference.”

I want to say these things, but instead I answer my inquisitive friend in the way I do with all impossible questions. And that is: by tilting my head, shrugging my shoulders, raising an eyebrow, and crinkling my nose; so many small movements just to say one simple thing, which is, honestly, I have no earthly idea.

I’m not sure why 2009 marked my return blogging, except one Wednesday last September I woke up—my organic cotton pintuck comforter stretched tight around my shoulders—with a story inside me. That morning, sitting bolt upright in bed, I exclaimed (of the creative monster stirring in my bones), It’s alive! This outburst startled the slumbering cat curled up in a fluffy gray pouf on my pillow. And when the felicitous story willed itself from my rapidly firing brain onto a page in my pristine white macbook, I too was startled!

And then I did a funny thing. I continued to write.

And suddenly it’s like I have flowers popping up in my footsteps. I am ablaze, abloom. I am positively effervescent!

But I am also: afraid, aghast, ripe for a tizzy.

Confession time. This blog is not my literary endgame. It is my dream to write a novel, but I’ve never pursued it because I am a cowardly lion. The fear of rejection, the opportunity for failure, these things—because so much of my self worth is tied up in what I, as a creative person, produce—petrify me, like I’m a piece of ancient wood.

And so, in 2010 I’m going to actively work on my craft.

*Gulp*

I am resolved to read great writing. I was gifted a subscription to, and am going to study cover-to-cover, The Atlantic Monthly, whose contributors have included American writer royalty; storytellers like Mark Twain, Henry James, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Walt Whitman, Martin Luther King Jr., Helen Keller, and Garrison Keillor.

I was also given Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft. The cover says it’s “part memoir, part master class by one of the best selling authors of all time … a revealing and practical view of the writer’s craft, comprising the basic tools of the trade every writer must have.” Sounds tasty.

I am resolved to seek critique in a classroom setting. Though I have studied grant writing, business writing, science writing, and essay composition, I have never taken a creative writing course. That changes this year. Starting January 27, I will participate in a 10-week personal essay workshop at Inprint!, Houston’s leading literary arts organization. Registration is limited to 12 people, and rumor is that each student will have a dedicated hour where their work is picked apart by classmates—like the tender flesh of a succulent roast chicken stripped clean from its carcass—to be critiqued for what was done well and what needs revision. I won’t lie. I don’t “do” rejection. This constructive criticism thing terrifies me.

I am resolved to persevere. A few weeks back I read a post that resonated with my struggle as an artist. The message was that for some, art comes easy. There are people who are born burbling poetry, who can write music before they know how to read, who can draw amazing landscapes without any lessons. These people exist, but they are freakishly rare. “Why then is there so much amazing art in the world?” the author posed.

The answer? Perseverance.

I am not a fast writer. I am slow. Like slow as molasses. Like slow as a stubborn bottle of ketchup.

Sometimes it takes hours to spit out a paragraph, so when I tell you that I’m committed to delivering a new post every week of 2010, that’s a big deal.

52 posts this year, yo.  (Plus an additional 100 or so at Yummery). I hope you’re stoked … cause I’m kind of freaking out.

—-

… AND because this has now officially become the LONGEST POST IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, I’m resolving to end this thing. Like right now. (You’re welcome.)

Oh and one more thing …

HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVELIES! May 2010 bring you all the love, hope, peace and prosperity your little hearts can handle, for better or worse, in sickness and health, forever and ever, amen.


(Photo credit: Nicmcphee@flickr.com)

8 comments

December 30, 2009

Christmas in California

It’s December 23rd, 2009, a gorgeous day, the kind that makes your chest swell and ache at the beauty of it. Cloud-dappled skies and sugar crystal sand are the bookends of Huntington Beach where I am walking—the heels of my feet making dimples in the damp shoreline—with my brother, his wife, and new baby.

Crush, crush, crush. The waves lull me into a wakeful sleep, and I smile at the busker on the boardwalk who is earnestly strumming a song I can’t hear. Salt is everywhere—kissing my lips, knotting my hair, stinging my face—and I get the distinct feeling I’m being brined, like a pickle, like a turkey, like a pickled Christmas turkey.

In my periphery, a flash of crimson and white shocks my eyes. I am amused, when on the pier—it’s caterpillar network of sturdy beams stretching high above an expanse of churning, turquoise soup—Santa comes riding, not in a sleigh, but in the back of a cherry red pickup truck with the word, LIFEGAURD emblazoned across the side. A radical twist on the conventional costume, this Jolly Old St. Nick is wearing Rayban Wayfarers.

And I think to myself, “This is why I’m here.”

This is what Christmas in California looks like.

—-
Last time I visited Huntington Beach, it was Thanksgiving 2006. I was married. My brother was not. Tommy was healing from the heartbreak of a broken engagement. I was about to—unbeknownst to me, my adulterous ex-husband having orchestrated my absence so he could break bread with his mistresses’ family in Pittsburgh—suffer a similar misfortune.

Three years later, my brother is married. I am not.

I spent most every minute of the last eight days cradling, my arms wrapped tight in a protective swaddle, the form of my pudgy precious nephew. Colby’s stunning halo of flaxen curls and the delicious pink bloom on his cherubic cheeks transfixed me like a cobra charmed, and my heart—now that I’ve returned to Houston—hurts a little knowing I won’t see him again until summer.

Sure, Christmas in California looks like Santa in sunglasses. But it also looks like closed doors, fresh starts, new love, true love, and a beautiful baby boy.

I’ve only been gone a few days, but I miss them already.

6 comments

December 23, 2009

Top 10 of 2009—A Few Of My Favorite Things

When I was in third grade, I desperately wanted to play the Gretel, the littlest member of the Von Trapp clan, in our school production of the holiday classic, The Sound of Music. I’m not sure why I wanted to be Gretel, except her name kind of sounds like “pretzel” and well, who doesn’t like hot, twisty bread?

On audition day, the entire 10-year-old population of Big Lake Elementary was corralled into a classroom and given their marching orders: read two lines from the script and then pass it on. When it was my turn to read, I cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, opened wide my eager mouth, and then … whispered the words so quietly, they were less a dramatic dialogue and more a strange, sleepy lullaby.

Predictably, my theatrics (or lack thereof) didn’t land me the plum role of Gretel, but I did—out of pity, I suppose—get cast as A Few of My Favorite Things Song Leader #1 (of 6). And that singular experience—captured in photographs where I’m dressed in a billowy, white top, apron, knee socks, and braids, amidst a backdrop of butcher paper edelweiss—is one my favorites of childhood.

Hännihaus is not a gift guide or shopping-type blog, but there are a few things I’ve discovered (and/or re-discovered) in 2009 that really rock. I thought I’d share them here.

JUST IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING, IN 2009, THESE WERE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

1. Yeowww! Catnip Banana yeowww catnip banana I like my catnip like I like my raisins: organic and awesome. The Yeowww! Catnip Banana is not only cute, it’s also stuffed with 100% organically grown and intensely-scented catnip. Bella and Sphynxy go crazy for this toy! The only downside? The banana has been known to inspire annoying Internet phenomenon flashbacks. Can you say, ITS PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME?

2. Student massage

With the economy in shambles, I feel so blessed to have a steady, salaried job. The tradeoff for gainful employment in these tough economic times is that I am expected to do more with less—to work harder than ever before with fewer rewards and resources. To earn my corporate keep, I have sometimes felt like a sopping sponge that’s gone rough from being wrung dry; More than a few times this year, I have felt overwhelmed.

massage

(Photo credit: thomaswanhoff@flickr)

Therapeutic student massage has saved my sanity, and at a fraction of the cost of professional massage, is a luxury I feel I can afford.

If you are in Houston, I highly recommend the Memorial Hermann Massage and Spa Therapy School. A 60-minute massage with an intern therapist will set you back just $29. So cheap.

3. Yummery yummery-header

Psst, my other blog is a foodie shopping blog. When I’m not posting here, you can find me (most every day) at Yummery.com. Yummery is a unique, product-centric Web site focused on all things food, where all manner of unique items are showcased, from aprons to zesters and everything in between. Personally, I specialize in posting about items that—like alien juicers, ninja salt shakers, and ravioli sponges—have a quirky distinction….Or maybe they just stink. You be the judge. Check us out.

4. Regina Spektor

If love is like oxygen, then you’ll want to take in alt-rock, piano mama, Regina Spektor with big, greedy gulps.

Regina’s charming, Far, with its sweetly sung, slice-of-life songs about God, lost wallets, and steamy summer hookups, is my favorite album of 2009. Highlights include: the delightfully disturbing, “Genius Next Door” where Regina sings about a lake that turns into butter overnight and the man who drowns in it; pop-eccentric ditty, “The Calculation” where computers are made from macaroni pieces; and the ominous and infectious “Machine” which delivers—over a clanging metallic background—a strange story hinting at impending doom (“living in your prewar apartment/soon to be your post-war apartment.”)

regina_spektor

Other albums that got play on my iPod in 2009? Yeah Yeah Yeah’s It’s Blitz!, Fall Out Boy’s Folie A Deux, Where The Wild Things Are Motion Picture Soundtrack, and John Mayer’s Battle Studies.

5. Netflix

In addition to adjusting my thermostat, re-tooling my cell phone plan, and signing with a less-expensive energy provider, my efforts to save during the recession paid off big time when I killed my expensive ($40/month) cable and joined über-affordable, Netflix. netflix-logo For $9-something per month, I get unlimited 1-disc DVD rentals delivered directly to my home. A fan of TV on DVD, every week I enjoy hours of viewing my favorite shows—House, Gossip Girl, Dexter, Ugly Betty, Weeds, Mad Men, Big Love, and True Blood—all without commercial interruption.

A subscription that saves me both time and money? Dear cable: I’d tell you I miss you, but then I’d be lying.

6. My triumphant return to blogging!

number1

(Photo credit: HikingArtist.com@flickr)

OK, not a product. But still, this is totally awesome. Right?

7. NYX Eyeshadow Trio nyx eyeshadow trio After seeing it featured on a Girl Next Door makeup tutorial, I became obsessed with the Bobbi Brown Nude Eye Palette, but at $60, it was not in the budget. Enter the NYX Cosmetics Eyeshadow Trio: at just $6.99, the Nude/Taupe/Dark Brown palette—which I’ve found to be comparable to higher-end boutique brands in both quality and pigmentation—is my best beauty find of 2009.

8. L’oreal Colour Juice Sheer Juicy Lip Gloss/ Milani Crystal Gloss lipgloss The perfect complement to a nude eye is a glossy, beige mouth. Kim Kardashian routinely rocks this look, as does J-Lo, Rihanna, and Heidi Klum.

MAC Underage and C-Thru Lipglasses are popular for creating a neutral pout, but I hate their sticky texture and $18 price tag. L’oreal Colour Juice Sheer Juicy Lip Gloss in Bubble Gum and Milani Crystal Gloss in Secret are perfect dupes of Underage and C-Thru but have a better texture and price point ($8 and $4 respectively). Love.

9. The Gluten-Free Almond Flour Cookbook

gluten free almond flour cookbook

This year, one of my favorite food bloggers released an amazing cookbook. Elana Amsterdam (of Elana’s Pantry) is a culinary wizard whose focus on whole foods and grain-free cooking very closely aligns with what I do in my own kitchen. Her wonderful Gluten Free: Almond Flour Cookbook is an epiphany for people like me who strive to banish bad-choice foods from their households. I can tell you from personal experience, Elana’s delicious (low-carb) almond flour pizza crust, herbed crackers, pumpkin pie, and pancakes taste just as good as their traditional counterparts, but are nourishing in a way that white-flour foods just aren’t. Three cheers for delicious nutrition!

10. Twilight Edward Bookmark

I am a fanpire. I have read all the Twilight books and am now working my way through the Sookie Stackhouse series. On opening night, I made Andrew Hotpants brave an Ugg-booted throng of squealing teens and cougars to accompany me to Cinemark’s 8:15 New Moon show. And the girl who yelled, I’m having an orgasm!, as a shirtless Edward stepped toward the sunlight in an act of Voluturi defiance? It may or may not have been me.

I am not ashamed. I totally own this bookmark:edward bookmark twilight

Team Edward 4 ever.

—-

And that concludes my awesome countdown.  Tell me, what are your favorite finds of 2009? Movies, burgers, jeans, books, bikes, cars, kid stuff, mom stuff, man stuff—lay it on me.

Leave your love in comments and I’ll totally love you back.

16 comments

December 16, 2009

Love Shack(in) Up. Big News: Andrew And I Are About To Be Engaged … In Sinful Premarital Cohabitation!

living in sin diagram

If you asked me what’s new, I would say nothing except I’m about to commit what some—including my devout catholic grandfather—would consider a mortal sin. (Although, if we are keeping tabs on crimes against humanity, Grandpa’s insistence on stretching a tan thru Speedo across his wrinkly, 83-year-old butt cheeks would certainly qualify for more than a few Hail Marys … but I digress.)

The big news, which is “nothing new,” except that it is, is that:

Andrew and I are moving in. Like together.

We are going to live in sin, which if you think about it, is not unlike living in Singapore except there’s a few less letters to contend with. And also, the unfortunate practice of caning won’t come into use in our household … unless Andrew makes a habit of leaving the toilet seat up, in which case all bets are off. Just kidding, honey! (But not really.)

And no, we don’t think cohabitation is a bad idea. Andrew and I have been together two years and this particular pre-marital proposal has been under consideration for about six months. We both agree that marriage is in the cards, but we’re still sorting out when that will happen—wise men say, only fools rush in. And neither of us is into making serious, life-changing decisions by sticking a careless, wet finger into the wind. Now, sticking a careless, wet finger into an unsuspecting earlobe? We totally back that.

wet-willy-finger

In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you there has been *some* concern, as it applies to increased domestic responsibility. “There’s a reason why women hesitate to shack up,” Mom recently explained. “Taking care of a man—all the additional washing, cooking, and cleaning—it’s like accepting a second job where the pay really sucks.” I told Mom she was being silly. I said I’d been living with a boy the past five years and I’d never had to fold his underwear. “That’s true what you’re saying sweet girl,“ Mom replied. “Sphynxy is very good about personal cleanliness and he doesn’t go through a lot of laundry, but honey,” she said, “that’s because he’s a cat.”

Andrew—who has never had a roommate—is so lucky he’s leasing an apartment with me. I am a GREAT roommate! In college, I bunked with this sweet girl, Megan Snelling—she was on the crew team, which meant she was gone most weekends at rowing competitions. Every Sunday, while she was out, I would wash Megan’s bedding and turn down the sheets. I did this partly because I really liked Megan, but mostly because I’d secretly spent much of her absence passed out, naked—Saturday night’s vile vodka-Kool-Aid cocktail oozing from my pores like a steamy bowl of microwave ramen—on her convenient, bottom bunk. And only once did she catch me actually in her bed (she’d returned earlier than scheduled). She gasped at the sight of me tucked into her covers, drooling, at 2PM on a Sunday afternoon. As Megan ripped back the purple comforter, the one her granny had gifted her, she asked, Where are your pants?! Looking at her buff rowing legs clad in teeny athletic shorts, I could only reply, I dunno. Where are yours?!

(As an aside: I wonder what Megan’s doing now … and why she won’t add me as a friend on Facebook. It’s a nice gesture and all, but every time I send a request—instead of hitting “add”—my long-lost roommie emails me a link to this video called “Are You F*cking Kidding Me.” Poor girl. She never was very good at computers.)

So Andrew and I are currently apartment hunting. If you are in Houston, we highly recommend the services of Denise “Boots” Boucher at Apartment Living Locators (713-783-1441). She only winced *very slightly* when I told her Andrew and I (being fitness enthusiasts) had special needs that include: space for six bicycles, a dedicated spandex closet … and most probably, an intervention.

If we don’t get committed first, February 2010 Andrew and I are moving in. And then we’re going to buy new furniture. And then—if you ask my Grandpa Banana Hammock—we are going to burn in hell. I personally think the only burning Andrew and I will be doing will occur in our shiny, shared kitchen, but  there’s only one way to find out. Premarital cohabitation, here we come!

6 comments

December 9, 2009

Birthday Party Redux: We Came, We Saw, We Had A Huge Cake

One time I was born and that time was 30 years ago. And to celebrate the day of my birth—the occasion of being expelled from my mother’s womb, which is not unlike being expelled from school, except that, in my case, the consequential spankings are celebratory—I had a party.

At the party there was cake, and presents, and chardonnay. And also, there was a dress code. I tried to leave my house appropriately attired—that is, in my birthday suit. But Andrew wouldn’t have it, partly because he said I might get arrested showing that much skin, but mostly because it was way too cold outside.

So instead of wearing the suit my mom made me, I settled for festive flaming eyeware.

birthday smooch

And even though I felt they were tres chic, I was still kind of embarrassed about my silly glasses. So, I cracked a few jokes.

I was all, these glasses really light up my face! And everybody laughed.

And then I was like, hey I have a blue frosting unibrow! And everybody laughed.

But then I was all, these frames really make my eyes look huge! Can we get something like this for my BOOBS?!

And then everybody was like …

birthday not funny

CLEARLY not as amused as I was.

And for a moment the room was entirely silent, except for the person who fake coughed: “Inappropriate!” … And that person may or may not have been me.

For presents this year, I got some neat things: cowboy boots, a David Sedaris book, an apron for entertaining, a scented candle. My favorite gift was a very thoughtful birthday card from my dear friend, Ashley. So sweet and sentimental, it read (in crazy bold lettering), “THE ROMAN NUMERALS FOR ‘30’ ARE XXX. NEED I SAY MORE?”

When I read the card aloud, my boyfriend’s mother fluttered her hand to her mouth and gasped. I think it’s because the message—the implication that I was in my dirty 30s, that I was about to hit my sexual peak (yay!) while dating her hotpants son (bow chicka wow wow!)—it was so beautiful.

I’m pretty sure Andrew liked the card too … and the fact he was taking me home later.

Birthday Couple1

And in case you’re wondering, it’s true what they say, that everything is bigger in Texas.

I mean, check out my cake! You could park an aircraft on that thing.

look away cake

And check me out!

Shortly after this photo was taken, I got my birthday wish…

blow out cake

And it was for another glass of wine … which I promptly downed.

… And which probably explains why I felt it was acceptable, nay imperative, that I be photographed in the following manner:

happy cake

In conclusion, I would just like to say—for anyone who claims I’m full of hot air—it took me two tries to blow out seven candles. Two tries! Pathetic. Apparently the only time I’m long-winded is when writing racy, birthday-related blog posts. Thank God we only do this once a year. And also? Thank God the flaming glasses have made a mysterious disappearance. The birthday suit, however, is in full effect whenever I can rock it. Something tells me I’m REALLY going to like my 30s.

16 comments

December 2, 2009

30

Hanni 5 birthday

See the girl in that picture? That’s me. I’m celebrating a day that’s a lot like today, except it was 25 years ago. I was 5. I had fewer teeth, bigger dimples, and a lot less candles on my cake. My favorite TV show was the Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes Comedy Hour, followed closely by Knight Rider and the Dukes of Hazzard (check out my sweatshirt). I had just learned to tie the shoelaces on my clunky, kid-sized Caribou boots, and was very proud that my bed—now that I was a “Big Girl”—was stripped of its protective, plastic sheets.

The day I turned 5, I remember my smile—like a watermelon in winter—was wide. At my party, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt; instead of red grapes, I was served a Duncan Hines chocolate cake coated with canned frosting so sweet, it made my mouth ache. Before we cut the cake, Mom asked that I make a wish on its flaming crown. I filled my little lungs and puffed my cheeks. I blew for all I was worth, dousing the candles with a not-so-mighty wind and spray of spittle.

“What did you wish for?” Dad asked.

“World peace!” I cheerfully replied, mimicking something I’d heard Luke Duke say on TV.

My father snickered, and within moments the entire table was laughing at my precocious distraction. As I had hoped, no one was any wiser about my REAL wish. My secret wish, my true heart’s desire was that every day could be a birthday … that every day could be filled with friends, fun, and cake from mix … that every moment of my life would be so charmed. And also, I wished for a pony, even though I was scared of their stumpy legs and overly-large eyeballs.

…

Flash forward to today and suddenly: I am 30 years old.

I have gone to sleep and woken up 10,958 times. Since my birth, ticking clocks have counted down 15 million minutes. And if my life’s breaths were dollars, I’d have more than a quarter billion.

I have—as my 5-year-old self wished—lead a favored and felicitous life. I have many friends, an amazing family, money in the bank, and business cards with my senior title emblazoned across the front. I have hiked Mount Fuji, biked the Texas hill country, and survived nights spent at sleazy, Canadian hostels where the aged windows busted and shattered when wedged shut. I have witnessed great beauty in blizzards of cherry blossoms and in raindrops that transform when white-sleeved snow gowns are donned. In the faces of my cherubic nieces and nephews I have seen God, and because of them, I know He is gracious.

Save for my marriage to a troubled man who told so many lies—to myself and to his mistress—he lost track of all truth, I have had few sorrows. And even in sadness, there were always lessons learned. Since my divorce, I have pledged to love deliberately those who deserve it. And to those who do not? I now know to distrust a heart that’s so bowed it can’t break.

For my next 30 years, I’m wishing for babies, a house, a second shot at being a bride.

And if all those things come true, then the next time I do this assessment—when I’m 60 and smile lined—the only thing left to wish for will be the pleasure of a posture bra and sensible shoes. And maybe a pony, assuming I’m over the eyeball thing.

Happy birthday to me, xoxoh

4 comments

November 30, 2009

Wherein I Threaten Birthday Spankings To The One Who Is Not Turning 30 In Two Days

Andrew Hotpants: “Hänni, what night is your birthday party?”

Me: “Uh, you mean the party for my birthday which is in like two days?”

Andrew Hotpants: “Yeah.”

Me: “Uhm, would that be the party that you’re hosting? The one I watched you create email invitations for?”

Andrew Hotpants: *Blank stare*

Me: “So I’m guessing you haven’t prepared for anything big like belly dancers, sword swallowers, or uh … guests?”

Andrew Hotpants: (Cradling me in a massive bear hug) “Hey, you know I love you more than anything else in the world, right?”

Me: “Yep. Well, at least you remembered to order my ice cream cake.”

Andrew Hotpants: (Squeezing tighter, sweating a little) “Ice … cream … cake? Erm …”

birthday cake
(photo credit: gracey@MorgueFile)

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