Posts archived in Bike love

December 2, 2009

30

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

7 comments

November 23, 2009

On Gratitude

It is the fifth time in so many days. I pull my white, scoop-back chair up to the chocolate Parsons table where I do my writing. I flip open my laptop, flex my fingers and place them on the keyboard; I’m ready to impart something profound to the blank page, but when the cursor blinks, I freeze and then the something that happens is: nothing.

I am stuck.

A creative-type Brer Rabbit, my words are suddenly entrapped in a thick tar of psychological block and self doubt. No matter how desperately I will it, the stories won’t write. And the thorny thicket of free and easy creativity—that laughing place which holds my escape—it’s as elusive and mystifying as the literary dots I can’t connect.

Frustrated for the 50,000th time, I force myself to sit and punch keys for three hours. My perseverance is rewarded with a page full of blank and a headache the size of Texas. Resigned to artistic failure, I flutter my hands to my temples in a white flag of surrender. A sob chokes my throat. I bite my lip. Pull my hair. The head theater starts, and in the coming days of confounding self-flagellation, I do all but rent my clothes.

—–
I plop my items on the conveyor: bulk spices, organic apples, hemp milk, free-range eggs. Though I am physically present at the Whole Foods on Woodway and Voss, my mind is somewhere else entirely. I am sitting on a white, scoop-back chair. I am telling myself I suck. I am saying things like I will never be able to write anything worthwhile again. I’m like, you’d better get used to this Hänni; this block you have is permanent now, like an ugly scar, like a contract you can’t break. And I imagine the disappointment, in myself and for others, when my triumphant return to blogging proves to be a fluke … proves that all the frenetic posting pre–writers block was just a flare up before the inevitable fizzle. I blanche.

“Ma’am, are you OK?” the cashier—all dreadlocks and tattoos—inquires.

Suddenly I’m awakened from my angsty, self-involved stupor. I tell him I’m fine. But the way I say it, with my voice rising at the end of the sentence, it sounds like a question and not a statement of fact. Dude lifts his eyebrows, unconvinced.

“Your total is $42.67,” he intones. “Oh, and by the way, whatever it is, it will all work out.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, lying through my teeth.
—–
I don’t want to jinx it, but I think my writer’s block is on the wane. And just how did I banish that importunate beast? By brandishing my shiny sword of gratitude.

For all the nights it’s kept me awake—the molasses of my creative malcontent stewing even as I lay my head to sleep—writer’s block has thrown into sharp relief all the things that ARE working in my life.

I am healthy. I am happy. I am loved.

And also, I am gainfully employed as a writer. Even when I can’t string two sentences together for this blog, in my professional life the words are steadfast. Sure it’s unsexy drafting technical content for enterprise software solutions, but my fulltime job guarantees a tidy, bi-weekly paycheck … writer’s block or no.

In this season of thanksgiving, I am appreciative. For writer’s block, its lessons learned, and its quick departure thereafter, I am eternally grateful. Thanks.

yellow thank you
(photo credit: nateOne@flickr)

8 comments

November 2, 2009

Love Stories

heartbike
“Do you think you’ll remarry, Hänni?”

“Yes, I think I so,” I said in answer to my inquisitive friend. “If there really is such a thing as ‘The One,’ Andrew is it. Someone once convinced me I was nothing, made me think I was a hard rock. But really? I’m a gem. Andrew knows this about me, that I’m a treasure, and he treats me as such.”

“That’s good,” my friend replied. “And also, I agree. You two are kismet. I can see it in your actions, your laugh, the way you write—you are changed, and I mean that in the best possible way.”

And then together we marveled at the miracle of only having had to kiss very few frogs before I found my handsome prince.

—–
Hot and sloppy, my first kiss was with Ian. I was 16 when I met the boy I’d spend the next three years crawling into bed with … and promptly falling asleep alongside. I’m not sure why we fought our biology, how we resisted the ever-present urge to explore each other fully inside and out, but we never made it past third base. For us, sex stopped at fumbled bra straps and belt buckles. To be sure, ours was not a great love, but it was a first love.

The last day I had with Ian, we drove through California in a stolen car. His father would be angry when he returned the Lincoln, a little worse for wear and with 1000 miles—the driving distance from Seattle to San Francisco—added to the odometer. But we didn’t care. We were young and restless and ripe for adventure. But we were also, despite ourselves, and with college looming in the near future, growing up.

“I think you should go away with me to Ottawa for university,” Ian said, carefully maneuvering through the redwoods that were eons more ancient than he and I were. “I know you’re set on Virginia, but it’s so far way, and it would be difficult for us to stay together … and uh … um …”

There was something desperate in his voice. I felt my guts buckle, and not because the Lincoln trembled as we curved through the forest.

That fall Ian went to Ottawa. I went to Virginia. Within the year we had both lost our virginity, just not to each other.

—–
I was 22, the year we laughed all the way to our wintery retreat about the presents our friends had made for each other. Newly engaged and ready to nest, for Christmas Aaron had gifted his bride-to-be a vanity. Enola, for her groom, had crocheted a quilt. How sappy! we bellowed. Let’s never get married! I roared.

In retrospect, it would’ve been wise to heed my advice, at least as it applied to the boy sitting next to me.

Blake had something unspeakable inside of him, part of me already knew. The too many times I’d cried myself to sleep, it was merely a specter of things to come. Nonetheless, within a few hours I would become Blake’s fiancé; within the year, his bride; before our second anniversary, his betrayed. As I waded through the emotional wreckage of his eventual affair and our ill-fated pairing, I couldn’t help but think our “love” as we had come to understand it—as a test in control and complacency—should’ve met it’s demise years before its dissolution became a legal matter.

—–
29 now, almost 30, in my life’s manuscript, the chapters for first love and worst love have already been written. In two days Andrew and I will celebrate our second year together. We will dine by candlelight. I will wear a pretty dress; he, his shiny shoes. I’m cautiously optimistic. This very new, very precious love? It kind of feels like forever.

11 comments

October 8, 2009

A Letter To My 16-Year-Old Self, From Myself Today

heart letter

Dear sweet, 16-year-old Hänni,

I want you to know, your worries are warranted. You know those suspicions you have—the ones that make you so afraid? The ones that keep you up at night, bartering with a nebulous God, your allegiance for his sweet solace? “Dear Lord,” you pray, “If you give me friends, I’ll be a good Christian, I swear.” And you think you could keep that vow, if only God would answer you in the way you want. That is, if God waved his magic wand and gifted you the perfect partner-in-teenage-crime—someone to trade snack packs with and pass notes to in Mrs. Lawton’s nerdy Honors English class—it would mean you aren’t what you think you are.

It would mean you are just like everybody else you grew up with in that tiny, strip-mall of a town.

It would mean you are not, as you have felt for some time now,
D I F F E R E N T.

That is, all the many small cruelties inflicted by others your age weren’t really acts of rejection, but rather misunderstandings. The jocks who, unprovoked, poured a 2 liter of Pepsi down your neck? Accident. The popular boy who screamed through the halls that you were a bitch because you wouldn’t give him your lunch? Misheard. The girl with the mullet who was your only friend until she decided not to be, she perceived you as so uncool? Case of crossed wires.

Yes, if you had friends, it would mean you belong. Because being different means a lifetime of loneliness in Wasilla, Alaska, that frozen place where you were raised. At least you think that now that you’re 16.

But guess what Hänni? You *are* different. And it’ll take an exchange student interview and a transcontinental flight halfway across the globe to realize it, but you will be changed. And you will feel better.

Because in Japan, that strange foreign country where sushi is a staple, you will meet incredible people who are wayward and feisty, just like you. These square pegs—kids from Vermont, Wisconsin, the Netherlands, and Canada—they will become your best friends … maybe the best friends you’ll ever have.

And you’ll miss them so much. Oh my God, you’ll miss them. The day you stand on a platform, waving goodbye to your best friends, fellow teenage expatriates, Bliss, Justin, Michiel, Anne, and Ian, that will be the first saddest day of your life. Many years later you’ll mention this on a thing called a blog. You’ll do this in hopes that your 16-year-old friends will find you and let you know they are well. You want them to know that you are well too.

Because in the interim between 16 and 29 you will have lots of good times, as you embrace your quirkiness and surround yourself with others who do likewise … but there will be some very hard times as well. The second saddest day of your life—the day you say goodbye to the friend who pledged to love you faithfully til-death-did-you-part, but who bedded another while your heart was still beating, as yet unbroken—that will hurt. But you will survive. You see, Hänni, the most important thing you need to do is learn to love yourself. Once you’ve done that, everything else will fall into place. I promise.

Oh, and one other thing: you should also go ahead and dye your hair purple—If someone doesn’t accept you into their life or program because you have punky-colored locks, then you’re better off without them. Trust me. You will be a published writer, just like you’ve always wanted, and you’ll do it on your own terms.

–keep writing
–keep rocking
–keep wearing rainbow-colored socks

And lastly, dear 16-year-old Hänni, you need stop worrying about growing up. Mostly because, you never will.

xoxoH

10 comments

September 23, 2009

If You Are To Read My Revived Blog, There’s A Few ThingsYou Must Do

First off, clap your hands and say hey yo hey yo.

Clap your hands and say, woot woot.

Clap your hands and say, yeeee haw!

Today we raise da roof, cause honey’s, the haus is back … or at least it’s starting to look that way.

If the haus were to come back, to be New.Improved.AndNowWithLessGas, there’s something you need to know: the format is changing.

In its previous incarnation, Hannihaus was fairly Seinfeldian—it was (mostly) a blog about nothing, unless you are solely obsessed with fart jokes and diarrhea diatribes, in which case it was a blog about everything.

The thing is, I hate Seinfeld. I hate Seinfeld so much that when I flip through the TV channels and it comes on the screen, I keep right on flipping. I flip to the next screen, even if the next screen has some crappy sports show, even if the next screen is a Billy Mays As-Seen-On-TV infomercial spectacular (God rest his Orange-Glo lovin’ soul).

The old haus kept readers at arm’s length, didn’t really let you know what was authentically important to me. Only towards The End did it include stories that were a little less mirthful, a little more truthful. When I refer to The End, of course, I am referring to the end of frantic posting which used to be the hallmark of this well-tended blog. I am also referring to the end of my marriage which, of course, coincided with the end of posting. It was too hard to write about happy when the only way to access a semblance of such things was with a head full of Xanax.

Not so long ago, as part of my New Life, I bought a road bike. It’s pink. Her name is Miss Piggy. Before Piggy it had been many years since I’d ridden a bike. My first time back in the saddle, I immediately fell ass-over-teakettle. The only thing more painful than my banged up buttocks was the knowledge that I’d fallen publicly (at an event) and without grace. If I was being judged, if falling were a competitive sport, my aerial antics would’ve ranked me a “2”.

So here I am, getting back on that metaphorical bicycle. I’m want to start blogging again, I really do. This time I’m going to be more … well, me, whatever that entails. I hope you will come along for the ride.

I promise it won’t hurt … well maybe a little … and only me, not you.

hh0909bandaid

12 comments

November 6, 2006

So Funnee HAW-knee?

It’s happened again.

I totally busted out of my pants. Last week, after cinching a little too tight, my belt snapped clean in half. And in the aftermath only rubble, butt crack and the stares of my incredulous co-workers survived.

Because of course, this happened in the office.

I’m not sweating it though. When you’re thin around the middle, but you’ve got much back these things tend to happen, which is why I never blink an eye … or go commando.

But yeah, something did occur in the workplace that I actually found disconcerting.

Someone left kryptonite in the break room. And by kryptonite I mean homemade chocolate chip cookies. And by homemade chocolate chip cookies I mean, I homemade them get in my mouth. Like real fast. Like dangerously fast.

And oh yeah, also someone told me they found my blog.
…

Now I don’t give two figs if my co-workers find the haus. I’m not one of those doom-and-gloomers who are afraid to post for fear that the boss will read about my friend’s big balls , my date with the masterbaiter, or my ass-licking cats.

No, I’m not bothered when my co-workers read my blog.

I’m bothered by their reaction.

“Hänni,” they inevitably gush, “you’re soooo funny.”

They say it like it’s a surprise. They act like archeologists; they googled for gold and found fart jokes.

And I should be flattered, but the truth is every time this happens—and it happens a lot—I kind of get miffed. If everyone thinks I’m so funny after they’ve read my blog, then I have to wonder, what did they think before?

Did they think I was boring, lukewarm or lame? Did they think I lacked spirit, sass or charm? Did they believe I had an unnatural obsession with bootys, burritos, and boys who wear makeup?

… Because if they thought the last three things, they’d be right.

But yeah, I have *no idea* what people think of me IRL. I could go back and forth, describing interactions to the most minute detail.

… But the truth is I’m no good at splitting hairs. Let’s face it–my expertise is in splitting pants.

15 comments

August 21, 2006

Switching Gears

I haven’t been writing much lately because there’s some stuff going on. And that stuff is kind of turning me all Sensitive Artist. And this blog is *not* about being a sensitive artist.

… But it is about being a sensitive smart ass.

And when it comes to being a smart ass, baby I’m the best.

But I digress.

One of the things I think about when I’m not writing posts on Britney, booty and boys- who-wear-makeup, is my job.

And boobs.

I actually spend quite a lot of time on the boobs thing.

But anyway, about my job—it pretty much kicks ass. It’s sweet that I get to make bank while doing what I love. And by “what I love,” I’m referring to writing—not eating organic raisins. Because while it’s true that organic raisins and I are romantically involved, my inability to make money off this union—like a pimp would a ho—makes having a day job necessary.

And so I write help files for a living.

The best thing about working in technology is the constant shift. It’s edgy, fast-paced, volatile. Entering the office each day, I don’t know what I’m going to tackle. Technology changes fast. To keep up with the changes, I have to be faster, smarter, better informed.

I’m not in aviation, but I’m pretty sure what I do each day is like working on a jet that’s in motion.

It’s always a crazy ride.

But with every thrill comes an element of uncertainty. The caged lion is a beautiful behind glass, but broken free, he can be a real killer.

And so it is with technology. To keep abreast of changing trends requires quick and constant adjustments. A lot of times these adjustments directly affect employees. A lot of times these adjustments mean people lose their jobs.

Working in this industry, it’s not unforeseeable that one day I’ll be handed a pink slip. I won’t take it personally—I’ve got mad skills and lots of ambition. I’m a square peg, you’re constructing a circle; it won’t be a surprise when I no longer fit.

Even so, switching gears would create *some* anxiety. Talking with SORM—who’s been through the tech-world shuffle and scuffle—has provided some insight.

“Well Hänni,” my dear friend told me, “if you get laid off, at least you’ll get severance.”

And that gave me comfort. Because after all, a nice package …

that’s all a girl ever really wants.

16 comments

April 30, 2006

My First Time

I was 19 that summer. The city—like its inhabitants—was sweltering hot.

Beautiful 20-somethings poured like water from subways onto street corners and into restaurants and bars and old buildings. An urban pheromone factory, sex oozed from these golden gods as beads of perspiration gathered on breastbones and thighs hidden beneath stylish suits.

We were young. We were eager. We had (most of us) come to intern in the greatest political city in the world.

Washington D.C. was a far cry from Wasilla, Alaska where I grew up. Back home, under my parents’ watchful gaze, I’d lived the kind of churchly, modest life that is the hallmark of rural America. I won’t bore you with details, but I will say that my landlocked upbringing played a major role in the delay…

It was embarrassing. Most girls—by the time they are 17 or 18—have done it. And I suspect that in certain places, like California for example, girls probably start doing it at 10 or 11.

That summer—the one I spent in the city—I was almost 20 and I felt a dire sense of urgency.

My intern group was scheduled for a weekend trip to Rehoboth Beach at the end of July. On this trip there would be no parental supervision. There would, however, be dozens of sexy co-eds wearing next-to-nothing. And they’d be slathering lotions and flirting and frolicking. The only thing hotter than these beachside babes would be the sun under which they’d bake.

It was for this trip, that I wanted to be prepared.

The week before Rehoboth, I stopped into J.’s. I’d been there before, but this time was different. I was nervous. And I think he knew that. A handsome boy, when he looked into my frightened eyes and asked if he could help me, I said yes.

That day, in some cluttered part of the city, I passed through a proverbial gauntlet of maidenhood.

With my breasts cupped in a J. Crew top (75% off!) selected by a sales dude with my specifications, I was glad I’d finally done it.

I’d finally … for the first time … worn a bikini.

And shortly after my first time wearing a bikini, I experienced the first time wearing a bikini whilst throwing up in a children’s pool in Rehoboth. But that’s a whole nother story.

Til next dear hannihaus readers, adieu.
—–
Did my story get you all hot and bothered? How about you vote for a nice, refreshing drink? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar. Next one gets kicked off tomorrow!

P.S. Maaa I’m sorry if I gave you a heart attack with this one.

16 comments

April 4, 2006

If I Had A Million Dollars

People always ask me, “Hänni, if you had a million dollars, how would you spend it?”

That’s easy. I’d buy a big house, a hybrid car, and this t-shirt .

Some people, however, would blow the million bucks on strippers and coke.

I don’t get that.

Mostly because soda is so bad for you.

…But I digress.

—–
What you do with a million dollars, dear hannihaus readers?

*Thanks mrtl, for the theme.

9 comments

January 2, 2006

Viva La Resolution

This is the last one folks. As we usher in the New Year, it’s time to bid a fond farewell to that charming game of word play that has sustained us so well.

On days when I could think of nothing better to post than stories of jock itch and mustachioed men, mrtl’s Motif Monday provided an entire arsenal of blogging ammo to thrill and delight you, dear hannihaus readers –all without having to resort to talk of fungal infections and fu manchus.

… Now writing about my hairy hobbit toes, well that’s a different story. I’m here to tell you, dear hannihaus readers, that no matter what – no matter if the sky starts falling and we’ve got to eat clouds for breakfast – as long as I have them, (pending nuclear winter or a bizarre farm-machinery accident), I will always, always blog about my ten tufted tootsies …

I hope this helps you to sleep well at night.

So yes, today’s theme and the final installment of Motif Monday is “resolved.”

Now I could do like everyone else and write about sleeping more, eating less, wearing deodorant and bathing on a regular basis, blah, blah, blah. Or I could tell you my true intentions.

In 2006:

I resolve to rock.

I’m gonna rock this blog hard-style, giving you the good stuff each and every day … or as often as I feel like posting anyway. And there’s going to be some amazing content. We’re talking really stellar stuff! I can’t really tell you what it’ll be, since I haven’t written it yet. But I bet it’s going to be really good.

Like organic-raisin good.

Or even like boys-who-wear-makeup good.

And in a nice segue, because every rockin new year needs a rock star, I resolve that in 2006 I am going to own (MCR lead-singer) Gerard Way’s sexy ass. Yes, dear hannihaus readers, I plan to purchase and play with the entire collection of My Chemical Romance action figures as soon as they become available at the Hot Topic in my area …

Or when adoring fans of the haus send them to me via USPS and I give those dear hearts the world’s greatest shout out *hint hint*… but I digress (and wait in anticipation – hee!)

Oh yeah, and from now on, every day is Gerard Way day. And that’s official. My new friend anissaannalise (who is quite possibly more obsessed with Geeheart than I am) says so on her blog.

And with that final proclamation, I declare this, the first post of 2006, and the last post of the institution that is Motif Monday, done. Let us all sing a verse of Auld Lang Syne as we toast this bittersweet occasion.

Cheers to you, dear hannihaus readers. I want to wish you all the very best for this fabulous New Year. Let’s do it to it in 2006.