Heather Anne

Pwned!

Posted by Heather Anne at 07:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Dear Diary,

Remember when you were just a regular diary where I wrote my dirty little poems about Vick’s Vapor Rub — before I came to DC and you started busting at the binding with the SHEER AWESOMENESS of my entries?

Today Jennie!, Kat!, Abigail!, Seth! and I took the Chipotle Challenge, which Abigail! kind of made famous on her blog a long time ago. Basically, it’s burritos for the win! Unless you can’t finish your burrito. In which case: LOSE.

Seth won on account of he ate his whole burrito, plus what was left of Kat’s. I’ll let the pictures tell the rest of the story.

Abigail!

Kat!

Jennie!

Heather! Anne!

After we were all full of burrito, we went sight seeing, and Dear Diary, we walked about a hundred gazillion miles, and it was some of the greatest hundred gazillion miles of my whole life. We saw all the best DC things, and Kat and Abigail narrated most of the whole trip. Abigail doesn’t live in DC, but it’s her favorite city and she has a disease where she has to look up everything on Wackopedia, so she had a lot of information. Like, did you know that there is a stone missing from the Washington Monument, and it is called the Pope Stone, and who knows who stole it? (No one.)

As we were walking beside the reflecting pool on the way from the World War II Memorial to Lincoln, Jennie started singing the state song from Schoolhouse Rock, and it was beyond impressive. And even more impressive was that we happened upon this couple that was full-horizontal canoodling, and Jennie just kept a-singing, whipped out a camera, and took their picture. Like a historical-genius paparazzi, with a lovely singing voice.

My favorite monument was probably Einstein on account of he wore sandals and he had a kindly smile and you could sit in his lap. Unlike Abraham Lincoln, who reunited the Union, but had a very grumpy face. (And you cannot crawl on him.) Abigail got stuck atop Uncle Albert, and I got amused.

Jennie said Uncle Albert looked like he was made entirely of poo. And kind of, she was right.

After the touring we went to Kat’s and watched Harry Potter, and Kat sat down beside me and started saying the Harry Potter thoughts in my mind out loud. My thoughts in her mouth. And also she pulled out her copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to research a question. Research Harry Potter. Well, in that moment I knew just what it was like when Anne Shirley met Diana Barry for the first time. It took everything I had not to clasp Kat’s hands tightly in my own and say, “Oh, Kat, do you think—oh, do you think you can like me a little—enough to be my bosom friend?” Fortunately for Kat everything I had wasn’t much since I was pretty exhausted from the sightseeing. Instead of making a fool of myself, I fell asleep on Abigail’s shoulder and drooled all over her favorite Patagonia fleece.

We had dinner at this pizza place with the best pepperonis ever, and I’m not just saying that because I was sleep-deprived and full of being smitten. After dinner we went to Rocket Bar, and met Mystery! Girl! and Heather! B! And Dear Diary, Mystery Girl must keep her identity a secret because she doesn’t want to be stalked. She is gorgeous. And I kind of wanted to jump up and hug Heather! B!, because of her awesome presence both internet-ly and in-person, but I did not. Because I wanted to maintain the illusion of being cool. Which lasted about six minutes, until someone brought the game of Sorry to our table and I was all, “Bunny up! Oh, looks like you all lose and have to be on teams. Heather Anne (Monica Gellar) plays alone, bitches!” And sadly, I did.

A lot of other things happened at Rocket Bar, like Heather B. kept giving me quarters to play Mrs. Pac Man, and Kat kicked all our asses at Big Buck Hunter. And Abigail got, well, a little drunk. And she talked me into doing the OK Go treadmill dance, without a treadmill.

Back at Kat’s apartment, Jennie and Kat tied fireworks to some balloon animals, and I nearly had a panic attack, because: toss bears and my fourth-grade bus driver into that equation and you have all my worst fears in one room. The scary thing, the truly terrifying thing, is that Jennie seemed seriously experienced at wrapping a balloon-dog around a firecracker. Like maybe it wasn’t her first time. Or her second time. Like maybe she does it all the time. I think Jennie may have a fire addiction.

My flight left super early in the morning, so Kat, Jennie, and Abigail stayed up with me all night. Abigail said it was like The Night (from Friends), and actually she was very correct. We also got tattoos, for posterity’s sake.

Early, early, before the sun, I took a taxi to Washington National and flew away. And I know it’s soppy, but before my plane left the ground, I missed those little lambs already. (Still do.)

Jennie says maybe we’ll get together again on Arbor Day. And I hope she’s right. Because if anyone can make Arbor Day a hoot, it’s Jennie. And Abigail. And Kat. I’m probably going to start praying it will happen. And in the words of my hero, Anne Shirley: “I’m going to think out a brand new special prayer in honor of the occasion.”

I have to go to sleep now. I'm as pooped at Albert Einstein's Birkenstocks.

XOXO

Heather Anne

(Nearly all these pictures were stolen from Kat, Jennie, and Abigail.)

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Last year the beginning of The Holiday Season started some of the most emotionally challenging months of my life. I don't need to relive them (that's what I paid my therapist for), but there was a point in the middle of it all when I thought all of my Christmas optimism was going to be gone forever and ever.

This morning, as I was walking out of a bakery with a carton of muffins, I heard some sleigh bells jingle. My breath caught in my chest, and I craned my neck to the sky. It's not even December, and I'm nearly thirty years old, but there was a second, just a second when I thought I was going to see Santa Claus.

Posted by Heather Anne at 08:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'll finish up my DC Trip Report tomorrow, but it's been a busy couple of days here at Team Heather Anne headquarters. We're all pretty tuckered out.

Proof:

Little league is in full swing, and Friday night I have to be in two different cities at the exact same time. I wish the teleporter I ordered on Ebay would hurry the hell up and get here. My God, the agony of Parcel Post.

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Dear Diary,

Today was the second day of The Thanksgiving Miracle in Washington DC.

Abigail and I slept in on account of our boisterous frolic around the city in the middle of the night. The first thing I did when I woke up was to practice the new French cooking vocabulary that Kat taught me last night. First there is roux, which is a thickening kind of sauce thing. Then there is sous chef, which: a) means “impressive number two chef” b) is what I am. And finally, mise en place. Kat says it means that your bowls and (samurai) knives and things are efficiently and ergonomically organized in front of you. Dreamy Seth says it means “get your shit in place.” Either way, cool word.

Abs and I went to Kat’s around lunch time and studied the Thanksgiving recipes. Okay, fine: Kat and Abigail studied the recipes and I played Nintendo. But I am the sous chef. I have assistants who study for me. (Very much like high school Trigonometry, actually.) There was a lot of general excitement in the air on account of Jennie was driving in from Ohio. Every time Jennie texted us, and our cell phones went off in unison, it just got excitinger and excitinger.

I’m on the way, she texted. And we were all, “Yay! Yay!”

I have no idea what state I’m in, she texted. And we were all, “Hooray! Hooray!”

By the time Kat got ready to prepare the turkey, it was like our hysteria had been mixed with a roux; even a Samurai knife would have had trouble slicing through the excitement. Kat is to Thanksgiving Dinner as Hermione Granger is to Potions Class. I mean Kat had a special turkey-cooking pan. She knew how to tie up the turkey wings to keep them from burning. She made her own herb butter to stuff inside the breasts to make them suculent. She stuck her hand right in the turkey's bum and pulled out some sacks of organs. She sliced up some fresh vegetables and put them inside for flavor. It was amazing. And I was her little Neville Longbottom: she let me put the salt and pepper on top.

I went down the street for something and when I came back Jennie was on the phone. Abs said she once was lost! But now she was found! And when (way up high from Kat’s apartment window) we saw Jennie’s little green car pull through the intersection, it really was like amazing grace! (Blind but now we see!) We ran to meet Jennie, and Abigail loved her so much that she laid down in a parking space to save it for her.

Jennie came inside and, Dear Diary, she had a bag that was just chock full of wonder. There were pirate hooks and play dough and musical recorders and a slinky and throwing stars and holy! smokes! ninja swords. To be honest with you, Jennie is the funniest kid on the Internets, and I didn’t think she could maintain that kind of cleverness in person, but boy was I wrong. She made me laugh so hard and long and loud that if she lived near me the neighbors would call the cops on account of the noise! noise! noise! noise!

And you want to know what else about Jennie? Aside from being cute as a panda cub and funnier than anyone in the world, she can also cook! She just jumped right in and started preparing things like maybe in her own home she’s a sous chef, too. (But not in Kat’s home. In Kat’s home, Heather Anne is sous chef.) Also, about Jennie, I have always suspected she was a bit of a genius, and I was right about that also. (Oh, and yes, she does have good diction.)

Jennie told us about her drive in and how some bears almost ate her in Maryland, and I refrained from telling her that I told her so — that bears are the Number One Threat to America — because she seemed genuinely terrified.

The Thanksgiving feast was turkey! two kinds of gravy! mashed potatoes! green bean casserole! stuffing! cranberry sauce! And homemade punkin pie like you have never even tasted in your most erotic dessert dreams. If the whole world stopped what they were doing for five minutes to taste Kat’s Thanksgiving feast, they would forget to pick up their guns after the pie, and all the fighting on earth would just go away.

Abigail gave us all matching pajamas, and the Internets would probably just be sick to death with the cuteness of it all. Lucky for them this is just my own personal diary.

The rest of the night is a little fuzzy for me because Abigail and Seth kept pouring me Vodka shots, and Abigail kept saying, “Just in cases.” And I kept drinking them. I don’t drink a lot, you know, so it is no wonder that when Kat brought out the origami paper to teach us how to make cranes, I had a little bit of trouble with the folding. I kept looking at Abigail all helplessly and she kept rescuing me.

Jennie’s Bag of Wonder made another appearance and we played some serious SpongeBob Uno. There was a lot of consternation over a little thing called The Super Absorbency card, and it made Abigail so mad that I thought she might go directly to the Uno Factory and gouge the owner’s eyes out with a pirate hook. I think overall Jennie was the winner of SpongeBob Uno. But maybe because we were afraid to play the Draw Four on her.

Tomorrow there is going to be sightseeing, plus also burritos. The word you’re looking for? It’s orgasmic.

XOXO

Heather Anne

Posted by Heather Anne at 11:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Dear Diary,

Today I went to DC to visit Kat, Jennie, and Abigail for Thanksgiving! My flight was delayed a little, and almost delayed a lot, because some douche bag on the plane started swearing at the pilot to hurry the eff up, like Greg Focker. You can’t say bomb on a plane. What if I was a bombardier? Bomb, bomb, bomb. Bomb-ba-ba-bomb. They finally subdued the guy with a soda and a bag of United Airlines “award-winning” snack mix. The woman who was sitting by him (rightfully scared for her life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness) came and sat by me, which was awesome, because you know what? Her name was Tammy and she had a little something that changed my life: The Kindle. (Click that link. You won’t be sorry.)

Abigail and Kat met me at Washington National, and Dear Diary, I knew Kat was beautiful; I’ve seen pictures of her. But I’ve gotta tell ya: in real life? She is so pretty that I had to look away from her speedy quick before she burned my retinas like when you stare directly into the sun. On the cab ride to her apartment I kept sneaking glances to see if she got uglier in different lighting. She did not. The thing that ultimately saved me from having to blindfold myself for the whole weekend was that Kat had the best laugh I have ever heard. It tickled my ears and every time she laughed, I laughed. It was a disarming laugh, a true one, and it made it easier to deal with her beautifulness.

Also, she made me the best present in the world. Made it. With her bare hands. An England pillow with my name on one side and England on the other.

At Kat’s apartment, I met her boyfriend, Seth, and he was dreamy. He’s so tall and excellent, and he has lovely brown eyes. I would have swooned over him, but he got all busy and important and had to do some work. Abigail suggested we play Monopoly, and I was all, “You want to play Monopoly? With me?” All incredulous-like. I mean, Abigail knows me. Surely it’s come up in conversation that I haven’t lost a game of Monopoly since I was twelve. But she said yes, and Kat said yes, and even Seth (who was using big lawyer words on an important phone call) said yes. And maybe it was because he was on the phone working for half the game, or maybe it was because he didn’t know about my secret den of Monopoly trophies, but Seth started talking smack to me when he sat down at the board. I gave him a sad smile, because how could he have known how awesome I am? He couldn’t have. But he ultimately did. When he had to give me all of his money and property. And also when I took away his little pewter game piece and made a necklace out of it.

After I became the Monopoly champion, Kat decided to cook dinner. And its name was lamb lollipops, roasted asparagus, corn soufflé, biscuits, and Caesar salad. And also Seth’s homemade chocolate mouse. (Which made him dreamy all over again.) Kat is kind of famous on the Internets for her chef-ness, and in person she was a fearsome sight to behold. She’s got this rack that holds her recipes so she can, like, study them. She writes her own notes in the margins (like the Half-Blood Prince). She’s speaks cooking in French. And her knives are made by samurais. (I am not kidding.)

I fell in love with Kat a little bit more when she let me wear an apron and use her ninja knives. Abigail was kind of a show-off in the kitchen, and when Kat said, “Use a flat spoon for the roux,” Abigail knew exactly what she was talking about. I guess, if you wanted, you could call Abigail a gourmet goddess. Or a teacher’s pet. Either way, when the night was done, Kat said, “Heather, you are the best sous chef ever.” And she spelled it out for me: s-o-u-s. (It’s French. It means “If I were President of Ninjas, you would be my Chief of Throwing Stars.”)

Abigail and I checked into our hotel at midnight(ish), and then she decided she wanted to go see the sights. It was about four degrees and the wind was whipping around like mad, but we went out anyway, because when Abigail is excited, who can say no to her? Not me. Let me tell you this: there are no people on the streets in Washington DC on Thanksgiving. Literally, none. It’s almost apocalyptic. We walked up to and around the Washington Monument and no one bothered us at all. If you’re super nice and you love to travel, I suppose that is what heaven will be like: historical monuments free of grimy tourists and screaming kids. When we got back to the hotel, Abs plotted out our course on Goole Maps (her lover). We walked four miles. In the middle of the night. In the freezing cold wind. It was awesome.

Tomorrow, Jennie gets here. I cannot wait.

XOXO

Heather Anne

(Tomorrow: Jennie! arrives, and calls the Washington Monument “a giant wang poking up into the sky.” Kat makes homemade herb butter and stuffs it into the turkey, creating the most succulent breasts imaginable. Abigail gets serious rage playing SpongeBob Uno. Winston decides to be my friend. And Seth continues being dreamy by coining the most-used phrase for the entire trip: Super Absorbency.)

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)

I am going to use my words tomorrow to tell you how ridiculously awesome Kat! and Jennie! and Abigail! and Heather B.! and Mystery Girl! are. And how amazing my trip to DC was. For now I’ll just say that it was the awesomest of awesomes. So awesome, in fact, that I haven’t slept since Thursday or something.

In the meantime, Uncle Albert:

Posted by Heather Anne at 08:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Hi. You should probably know that this is not Heather. This is Jennie. I have hacked her account. Hacked it! Mwaahaahaa! Not really. I don't know the first thing about hacking. It sounds like something you might do with an axe. Like . . . I need to hack up this wood, hand me my axe! Or rrrrrrr . . . oops, sorry. The "r" key on Heather!'s computer just came off and I was smooshing it back down. Anyway. So. I am sitting at breakfast with Heather! and Abigail! (of The Internets). We are reliving last night in both picture form and . . . word form. Like, "remember that time when Kat! made us a delicious Thanksgiving meal?" or "remember when Heather! mashed the potatoes with a giant garlic press?" or "remember how Abigail! made green bean casserole FROM SCRATCH?" and we do remember it because it happened last night. There were also! Pirate hooks. Ninja swords. Origami cranes. Winston. Ooh! Also, Spongebob Uno. Let me tell you something about Spongebob Uno. There is something called a "Super Absorbency" card that is complete crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrap. If you play it, the person with the fewest cards has to draw some from other people. It's terrible. My suggestion? Just throw those cards away. You don't need them. They are superfluous. True story. I'm not just saying that because I like to say superfluous. OK, I kind of am.

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

DC has some of my favorite things. Here are two of them:

When Jennie gets here today, there will be three of them!

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

When Caroline Bingley and Mr. Darcy are conferring on what it takes for a woman to deserve the word "accomplished," they come up with the following: "She must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and all the modern languages to deserve the word. And something about her air, and manner of walking. And, of course, she must improve her mind with extensive reading."

Elizabeth Bennet says, "I never saw such a woman."

I always chuckle because neither have I. Well, neither had I. Until I met Kat. She is certainly a fearsome sight to behold. She's even more beautiful in person

Posted by Heather Anne at 09:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Turkeys today. Trees tomorrow. It's the beginning of The Holidays. Happy ones to you, friends!

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

“I wish you’d stop fretting about it. I think your new haircut looks awesome!”

“Heather, look, no offense, but no one in the whole world cares what you think about their hair or their clothes.”

“What?”

“You know how you see past the inside, right to the heart of a person? How you judge a person based on character and soul? How the outside makes no difference to you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you see that picture right there, of you and your sister in Scotland two years ago? What are you wearing in it?”

“Jeans and a white thermal and a blue t-shirt and…”

“Mmm hmm. The same thing you’re wearing now. The exact. same. thing. Right down to the shoes.”

“I love these shoes!”

“You are a great citizen of the planet, Heather, really. But you are a terrible, terrible judge of fashion.”

“But, I…”

“No. Just because someone has a good heart doesn’t mean she has good bangs. And also, again, no offense, but you need to buy some new Chuck Taylors.”

Posted by Heather Anne at 07:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

The unfortunate thing about blogging is I can't tell you a lot of things, like how I saw someone get punched in the face today.

But the enormously spectacular thing about blogging is sometimes you can meet people. People like Kat! and Jennie! and Abigail! And then when you know them for a long time and you can trick them into thinking you are as awesome as they are, plus also you can help them know you are not an axe-murderer, you get to spend Thanksgiving with them! In Washington DC!

So, that's where I'm going. Washington DC. For Thanksgiving. With people way more awesome than me.

Here's some questions. I tried to interview Abigail, but she wouldn't answer. (You can answer in the comments, and maybe there will be an arbitrary prize.)

1) If you could dis-invent one thing, what would it be?

2) What cartoon would you like to live inside of for a whole entire day?

3) What is your favorite movie line?

4) What is one thing that always makes you laugh hysterically?

5) What is the last book you read?

Posted by Heather Anne at 11:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (19)

I spent the whole day being an ungrateful wench, if you want to know the truth. I’ve been in a week-long quarrel with my mechanic; the people at the Verizon store want to charge me a thousand million dollars for a new phone; the traffic cop outside Chestnut Mountain Elementary shouted at me for no reason; I’ve got to have a root canal; and my favorite t-shirt got destroyed in the washing machine!

I was just about to declare karma an unmitigated ass, when I walked downstairs to find Amy hovered over her computer, with bent head and furrowed brow.

“What are you working on so diligently?” I asked.

“I am writing a poem,” she said.

I said, “For who?”

She said, “For you. It’s called Magnificent Muggle!”

Okay. So maybe the whole world isn’t out to get me.

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

I know you think my college boyfriend was the biggest mistake of my life, and maybe, up until last Saturday night you would have been right. But Saturday -- in some sort of NyQuillian stupor-- I accidentally turned in my copy of Bridget Jones's Diary to Blockbuster instead of their copy of Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I took Fantastic Four back to Blockbuster, explained what happened, and asked for my Bridget Jones back. The Blockbuster Lady looked in The Drawer of Regrets and Recriminations with all the other misplaced movies, and she was all, "Yeah, no, you didn't turn Bridget Jones in. You turned in Fantastic Four."

I was like, "Is there anywhere else you can look? Could it be in one of the cases on the shelf?"

Blockbuster Lady said, "No."

I said, "Could it still be in the check-in bin?"

And she said, "No."

I said, "I am telling you, this is your movie." I held up Fantastic Four. "And my movie is in one of these Fantastic Four cases."

And she said, "No."

Then she reached her unhelpful little hand toward the copy of Fantastic Four I was holding. I stared into her eyes with my very best I-will-frikking-kill-you-on-the-Lord's-Day glare, and she stumbled backwards. "You can have this DVD when you give me my DVD back," I told her. "You have my number."

Friday, some guy called from Blockbuster and said, "Hey, Heather, we have your Bridget Jones and you have our Fantastic Four."

"I know," I said, sinisterly. "When is Blockbuster Lady working?"

So last night I went back to Blockbuster and I walked up to the counter and I held out Fantastic Four and I said to her, "I have come for my movie. It is in a Fantastic Four case in your drawer."

"I remember you," she said.

"Then you will remember we had this same conversation last week," I told her. "Please give me my movie."

"Last week it wasn't Fantastic Four," she said.

I turned my head to A

Posted by Heather Anne at 03:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

(Stole this. Shocking, I know.)

Ten things you WISH you could say to ten different people.

1. You tried to change everything, and I changed it back. That makes me pretty awesome, and one day you’re gonna know it.
2. If I owned a pirate ship, I would make you captain.
3. I would make you first mate, and you could have a sword!
4. You’re too good for him, just so you know.
5. One time I dreamed I could fly out of my bedroom window like Peter Pan, but when I realized you couldn’t fly with me, I woke up on purpose.
6. If you stepped outside of yourself for two minutes, you would look at the huge absurdity of your situation, and you’d be all, “Whoa, Hoagie, would you change situations with me?” And I’d be like, “No, but now that you see it, why don’t you step back in and access your un-crazy side.” And you’d say, “Absolutely, I will.” But you totally wouldn’t.
7. You smell the same as you’ve always smelled, and I sure wish you didn’t. It would make disliking you a whole lot easier.
8. I would always give you my last cookie, and it kind of makes me sad that you’d never give me yours.
9. You are the only person in the whole world I would allow to borrow my hoverboard. (If I had one.)
10. You know how you think all these things I just wrote are about you? Yeah, none of them are.

Nine things about yourself.

1. I love love more than anyone I know.
2. If I were really, really rich, I would spend half my money philanthropically, a quarter of my money on books and sneakers, and the other quarter on plane tickets! (I would forget to invest any of it.)
3. I’m not as tall as I say I am.
4. I have about a hundred billion Legos.
5. My best quality is that I can laugh at myself.
6. I haven’t always been able to do that.
7. My penmanship is truly horrible.
8. I know in my heart that if I had superpowers, I would be one of the good guys.
9. I am addicted to semicolons and parentheses.

Eight ways to win your heart.

1. Be nice to people. All people.
2. Make me pancakes.
3. Quote lines from my favorite movies, books, poems, musicals, television shows.
4. Be Julie Andrews.
5. Pretend to like my accent.
6. Engage me in any kind of passionate discourse.
7. Show me your geek.
8. Buy me this hat.

(I look like I have elf ears in this picture, and to be honest, I kind of like it.)

Seven things that cross your mind a lot (not in any special order).

1. Where did I put my keys?
2. My wallet?
3. My watch?
4. My iPod?
5. My messenger bag?
6. My hat?
7. My cell phone?

Six things you wish you never did.

1. Lose my keys.
2. My wallet.
3. My watch.
4. My iPod.
5. My messenger bag.
6. My hat.

Five turn offs.

1. Being pretentious.
2. Being close-minded.
3. Being bigoted.
4. Being mean to my dog.
5. Being decaffeinated.

Four turn ons.

1. Words.
2. Words.
3. Words.
5. Laughter.

Three smiles that describe your life.

At first I thought this said three similes that describe your life. Which: better question. It also reminds me of my favorite t-shirt that says, “Similes are like metaphors.” I am not actually sure what this question means, but one time I got free cookies because I smile a lot, and I also have premature wrinkles around my eyes from smiling and squinting. Sometimes, instead of squinting, I read with one eye closed, which would probably look cooler if I was wearing a pirate eye patch.

Wait — what was the question?

Two things you want to do before you die.

1. Touch all the continents with my feets.
2. Get a pair of those pajamas with feets in them.

One confession.

I can’t sleep at night if all my Harry Potter books aren’t lined up perfectly on their shelf.

Posted by Heather Anne at 10:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

It sounded so foolish the first time it came out of my mouth that I never, ever said it aloud again. My fourth grade teacher heard it and snorted. You’d think the sound of dream-crushing laughter would be cackley, but hers wasn’t. It was full-bellied and hearty; she was genuinely amused. I wanted the words to fade, to disappear. I wanted to bat them from the air and stomp them into the ground, mangling them beyond recognition. But they wouldn’t go away; they hung there, recklessly suspended in the air, while Mrs. Ellis chortled on. It had seemed so possible in my mind: I want to be a writer.

Harvey was six-years-old when I met him in an orphanage just outside Montego Bay, Jamaica. His smile was vivid against his perfect, dark skin — a counterpoint of innocence to eyes that were much too wise for a boy so young. He was the first person to make the proud ‘H’ in my name superfluous. “Edah” he called me, and I matched him grin-for-grin.

When he was a toddler he’d been the victim of a terrible car accident, but it took me an entire day in his classroom to realize that his left leg stopped just above his knee. I wonder how he felt when I didn’t notice, a few glorious hours without a label. When he watched me watch his leg, his smile lost its tinder. His eyes offered reprieve, should I, like so many before me, choose to walk away from him in that moment.

The bell rang for recess, and as the other kids piled out of the classroom, I lagged behind.

“What would you like to do?” I asked Harvey.

“You want to stay with me, Edah?” he asked, pulling himself to to a standing position and propping his half-leg on a chair.

I nodded.

“Maybe we could…swing?” he asked.

I said, “Of course.”

Harvey had never used the swings before. I sat him in my lap, instructed him to hang on tight, and propelled us back-and-forth and back-and-forth through the sticky summer air, laughing and gasping and squealing right along with him. For several days we did nothing but color pictures on construction paper and swing.

My hands were blistered from the chains by the second day, but I didn’t stop; I only had a week to love him. His chances of adoption were slim, and the cold truth was that he would probably stay in the system until he was eighteen, and then be set loose in the world with nothing more than a set of clothes and a pat on the back. I couldn’t stop it from happening, and I couldn’t do anything to save him, so I pushed us again and again on the swing, up and down, over and over, day after day after day.

I was in my early twenties the day I left the Montego Bay orphanage. Harvey crawled out onto the sidewalk and clutched the bars of the fence as I drove away sobbing. And I knew in that moment, no matter how foolish it was, I had to learn to write. There were people in the world without a voice; they needed someone to tell their stories.

The deepest desire of my heart is to one day call myself a writer, though the thought of hearing those words come out of my mouth again nauseates me beyond belief.

There is a children’s shelter near my home where I recently met a little boy named Jeremiah. Jeremiah wouldn’t interact with anyone when he first came to the shelter, so several weeks ago they asked me to try to chat with him. They call me The Story Lady there, because my bag is always full of picture books and chapter books and comic books and who knows what all. So when I introduced myself to Jeremiah I told him I was going to tell him his story, if he’d just help me out a little.

I made a little booklet out of construction paper and wrote some sentences at the top of each page, leaving the ending blank for Jeremiah. “In the summer, I…” “In the rain, I…” In the morning, I…”

I made a book for myself, too, and began coloring it. After a few minutes, Jeremiah peaked over to see what I was doing, and reached for a crayon. We colored in silence until he was finished. Quite proudly he handed me his book. I opened it up and marveled at his work. Then I began telling him his story. In the autumn he stomps on leaves. Crunch, crunch, crunch go the leaves under his big, brown boots. In the winter he rides his sled, whizzing, fizzing through the snow.

At the top of the last page, I’d written the words “In the dark, I…” And Jeremiah had colored the whole page black.

“What do you do in the dark?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “What do you do in the dark?”

“In the dark,” I said, “I hope.”

He titled his head to the side, meeting my eyes for the first time. “How do you draw hope?”

I told him maybe you can’t. But in the dark you can decide to not think of untrue things like monsters and ghosts. You can think of things that are true, like how you have a friend named Heather who thinks you’re awesome! And teachers who really, really love you! Then you think about other things you want to be true, too. And those things, well, those things are hope.

The next time I saw him, he was playing with some friends. He waved his book at me and shouted over the noise, “Hoping in the dark, Miss Heather!”

Every time I saw him after that he promised to hope.

One of the shelter workers called me Tuesday morning and said Jeremiah had a message for me. His chirpy little voice followed. “I’ve been hoping in the dark for a mom,” he said. “And Friday I am getting adopted! I won’t see you again, Miss Heather, but I’ve still got your book.”

I think Harvey liked to swing for the same reason we all like to swing. It’s not the flying backwards through the air without seeing where you’re going. It’s not the way your stomach flops around like a fish on the way back down. It’s not the push-and-pull of your legs, or the feel of the ropes against your hands. It’s that one second, at the apex of your ascent, when you’re not going forward and you’re not going backwards — when you’re just hanging in mid-air like a foolish declaration, and even gravity has no say. If you close your eyes in that moment, anything, anything is possible. You can fly. You can hope. And maybe, just maybe, if you shut your ears to drown out the laughter, you can even be a writer.

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:16 AM | Permalink

I have been replaying the last few days over-and-over in my head, trying to decide at which exact moment I came in contact with the germs that have given me the head cold that I am rocking right now. I think I’ve decided it was when I took some candy from an eight-year-old boy. In my mind’s eye (in sepia-tone and slow motion) the kid sneezes on his hand, dumps some Gobstoppers onto his palm, and offers one to me. I remember being hesitant on account of the sneezing, but I also remember the pull of the Everlasting Gobstopper. (Charlie Bucket, you know where I’m coming from.)

At any rate, I have a cold, and last night I took some NyQuil and it flat knocked. me. out.

I woke up all disoriented in the middle of the night and my first thought was that I hadn’t blogged yesterday, and that I was going to get kicked out of NaBloPoMo. (I had actually blogged twice, which makes NyQuil a filthy liar, but whatever.) I remember reaching for a pen and notebook on my nightstand to jot down some things. I don’t know if I thought writing in my Moleskine would bring it to life on the Internet or what, but I did it anyway. I didn’t make it very far before falling back asleep.

When I woke up this morning, my pajamas were covered in blue pen marks, and I remembered writing in the night. I reached for my little brown notebook and was shocked to find that not only had I written, I’d written poetry.

It was sort of a love poem. It was directed at Vicks VapoRub. And, to be honest, it was a bit naughty.

Here’s the moral of this story: a) Put your cap back on your pen if you’re going to hold it in your hand while you sleep. b) If something makes you feel warm and tingly, make sure you’re completely sober when you address it. Bad poetry, no matter how lascivious, is still bad poetry.

Posted by Heather Anne at 11:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (18)

As someone whose personality is half-made of Batman, it’s not surprising that the thing I abhor most is being rescued. I hate it. I hate, hate it. There are only five people in the whole world that I will call for help, and if none of those people answer their cell phones, well, I'd just assume be eaten by a bear than ask anyone else.

This weekend my truck started acting all wonky, and by Monday it was apparent that it was going to need to see the doctor. On Tuesday I devised a plan that would cause three of my five rescuers minimal effort to help me. In fact, no one would have to drive more than ten miles to allow me to get my truck healed.

I took little Hedwig to the mechanic yesterday morning, spoke to him (the mechanic) several times on the phone, looked up relevant information on Wikipedia, stopped on the way home from work to pay for my repairs, and then happily went to get my truck last night. When Amy dropped me off in the parking lot, I gotta tell you, I was feeling pretty awesome. This is how thirty-year-olds handle their problems, I thought. They approach them with a level-head, they don’t put too many people out, they pay for it out of their savings account, and then they have a nice spot of tea, holding their pinky high in the air as they sup from their china cups.

I got in my truck, started it up, and bam! it was still doing the same terrible thing.

I am not one to worry or panic or be personally offended by things. I decided I would just take my truck back today. There is certainly an element of trouble-shooting to being a mechanic. But as I drove along and little Hedwig kept bucking and jumping, I started wondering why the mechanic didn’t take it for a test drive when he'd finished the repairs. And then I began to wonder what he actually did to my truck. And then, I started thinking about that chunk of money that had come out of my savings account.

It’s not like I was saving that money for retirement or emergencies. No. As sure as teenage boys go on dates to get laid, I was saving that money to go back to England. Why did my mechanic not want me to go to England? Why did he hate England? You know who else hated England? Hitler. My mechanic was Hitler. Hitler had the Luftwaffe. So, probably, did my mechanic — his own personal fleet of planes that he built from scrapped car parts and lunch money he’d stolen from little children. I got angrier and angrier as I drove, thinking about those poor Londoners in August 1940, when the Battle of Britain began.

Finally, I took the only course of action available to me: I called my dad.

He is several thousand miles and many time zones away from me this week. He answered his cell phone, excused himself from a meeting, and when he was safely out of the conference room, I cried, “Dad! My mechanic is going to try to sink England!”

I talked him through the whole thing: the spark plugs, the plug wires, the filters, the fuel injection blah blah. (He was so unimpressed when I used the words “blah blah.”) He told me how I should handle the situation, and when I didn’t immediately respond, I knew he knew I was frightened. If there is anything that sparks my dad’s baser instinct of aggression, it is people meandering aimlessly through airports, malls, and Home Depot; and also it is people being mean to one of his girls.

“Do you want me to handle this?” he offered.

“Yes, Daddy,” I said.

I dropped my truck back off at the mechanic this morning. They weren’t open yet, so I called and left a message that said, “Hi, this is Heather, and, um, my fuel injection blah blah is worse than before I brought my truck in. You maybe should have test-driven my truck before you gave it back to me because now you have to deal with MY DAD! Here is his phone number. Call him when you’re ready to feel like crap for trying to steal my England!”

When my grandpa completed his phase of Save Heather Anne yesterday morning, he said, “If you need to be rescued again, just holler!”

It’s good to know you can holler if you need help. It must be what the people of Gotham feel like every time they shine that Bat Signal up into the sky.

Posted by Heather Anne at 08:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

It is Read Across America Week, and Friday I am reading out loud at Amy’s school on account of a special invitation from my friend Jill the Librarian. She said I can read anything I want, but it’s fifth graders, so you know, choose wisely. I looked and looked through my (vast) library of children’s books this afternoon, and I think I have decided on Roald Dahl’s The Twits because it’s lesser-known because there’s no movie, and also it says things like, “I’ll swish you to a swazzle! I’ll swash you to a swizzle! I’ll gnash you to a gonozzle! I’ll gnosh you to a gnazzle!” I can do Mr. and Mrs. Twit’s voices in British, and even though it’s all gnarled with a Southern American accent, it’s still pretty fun.

Can you guys think of a better book?

You know what, yes, let’s talk about books. What is the number one best kid’s book for reading to ten-year-olds?

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

You guys, I ripped this meme off of Kat because I think it is awesomer than anything I could write today. (Also, I am reading the Gossip Girl recap on TWoP, and I can't be bothered to interrupt the most important part of my Tuesday.) (I am so excited to guess who you are!)

Comment ANONYMOUSLY!

1. One secret.
2. One compliment.
3. One non-compliment.
4. One love note, but it does not have to be for me.
5. Lyrics to a song.
6. How old you are.
7. How long we've been friends.
8. And a hint to who you are.

Posted by Heather Anne at 03:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

Yesterday I got a fortune cookie that said: Something you’ve been waiting for your entire life is about to happen.

I nearly knocked myself out rushing through my house, throwing clothes and books into my big, black trunk. I packed my magic wand and also a snack, and sat in my front yard for about an hour, waiting on an owl to deliver my Hogwarts letter.

It did not come.

However, I got an equally awesome surprise when Amy told me that this year she was going to take me to Medieval Times for my birthday. I have been begging to go for about a hundred thousand years, so I guess my fortune was correct. There’s going to be jousting and a four-course dinner and a crown and a sprit banner and generous slice of vanilla birthday cake!

We’re going to the 5:00 show on December 8th, and you can come if you want. You just have to tell me so I can reserve your spot.

Also, I think you can maybe get knighted or ladyshipped for twenty bucks. And if that package comes with a British accent, you’ll all be calling me Lady Heather Anne come December. (In fact, you might better start calling it to me now, just to get warmed up.)

Posted by Heather Anne at 11:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (16)

Posted by Heather Anne at 09:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Whenever I hear someone mention a time of day that occurs between, say, midnight and 7:00 in the morning, I always look up and expect to see the person using air quotes. The baby is teething, and I had to get up with him at “3:00.” Those hours are as relevant to my life as Atlantis is to my vacation plans. When people tell me they wake up at 4:30 a.m., I'm always: Oh, I’ve been to 4:30 a.m. — it’s just here, through the back of my wardrobe.

It turns out, though, that at least some of these mythical hours really do exist. I discovered one of them this morning when my alarm went off.

At 5:00 a.m. (on a Saturday) I flopped out of bed, layered up with the cleanest-smelling clothes from my floor, shouldered my messenger bag, and drove to Atlanta to watch my sister run her first-ever 10K.

Before the rest of the Eastern Standard Time Zone had even started queuing up at Starbucks, I was standing on the sidewalk of Fulton Street, between Turner Field and the parking lot that used to be Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. If I hadn’t been flinching against the wind, and had my fingers not lost all dexterity in the frigid morning air, I could have easily thrown a baseball and nailed the exact spot where Hank Aaron hit his 715th homerun.

I cheered and clapped for the other runners (mostly to keep the blood flowing to my limbs) but when I saw my sister crest the hill 200 meters from the finish line, I actually jumped in the air. “There she is,” I said to my dad and step-mom. “There she is. Look how strong she looks. YOU LOOK SO STRONG, SISTER! Oh, I’m so proud. JENN, I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!”

She smiled and waved both her hands, and then shrugged off her jacket and threw it at me. “My sister’s jacket! Beat cancer! Had a baby! Just ran her first 10K! Here’s her jacket!” I waved her turquoise running fleece around my head.

On the way to the car after the race, Jenn nudged me with her shoulder. “Thanks for waking up so early to come down here with me.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” I told her.

There was a sense of poetic justice about seeing her pay money to run six miles on a cold, autumn morning. When we were kids, I had to give Jenn my allowance to make her play with me. One dollar for board games. Two dollars for games that required her to sweat.

And that, unlike “3:30” in the morning, is an actual fact.

Posted by Heather Anne at 04:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

(HARRY POTTER SPOILERS IN SOME OF THESE LINKS. CLICK WITH CAUTION.)

Dear my Internets,

a) PART TWO of the Untitled MoFo Bad Ass Ninja Story is over at Abigail M. Schilling.

b) Did you see the awesome polymer clay men that Peefer sent to me? They are having so much fun at my house.

c) What is your homepage? It's been driving me bananas to know what everyone's home page is. Mine is WaPo. You have to tell me what yours is before my brain explodes! (EXPLODES!) (If you have more than one computer, can you tell me what your home page is on each one?)

Plz k thx,

Hx

P.S. If you called and left me a voicemail this week, and I didn't call you back, um, sorry. I just charged my phone and I have 15 messages. Oops.

P.P.S. Today makes one month until my birthday. Just... so you know.

Posted by Heather Anne at 07:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (23)

If Consumer Reports ran an article on the Worst Purchases in the History of The Whole Entire World, the second thing on the list (after the Emperor’s New Clothes) would be the Sea-Monkey aquarium Abigail M. Schilling forced me to buy in January. She spotted it in Target and begged and prodded and cajoled and pleaded until I gave in and stuck it in the cart. Not only did the monkeys never grow, I am still not over the emotional anguish of thinking that I destroyed an entire colony of invisible mammal-amphibian sea hybrids when I finally dumped the container into the kitchen sink.

It took me a long time to trust Abigail’s decision-making abilities after that.

Yesterday she said we should write a story together. I’d write some then she’d write some. I’d write some then she’d write some. I almost declined on account of the poor monkey-judgment, but decided to give Abigail’s idea the benefit of the doubt. The results are below. I don’t remember who wrote what, but the awesome parts are all her.

Untitled MoFo Story
by Abigail and Heather (because everyone has to do their part for the Writers’ Strike)

PART ONE

When I was a lass I thought every g’night to my parents would be the last time I ever spoke to them. I grew up in the highlands – Scotland, and I was pretty sure the Loch Ness Monster was going to crash through my window and eat me in my sleep. My dad, he didn’t believe in the monster because he’d never seen it. Of course he’d also never seen America, but that didn’t stop him bitching about President Reagan. I used to lay awake at night and repeat my dad’s mantra over and over: “If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist. If ya can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.” And I believed it. Every word of it. Until I became a ninja.

There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about ninjas until you become a ninja. (Obviously.) Like you probably think ninjas and pirates would make good bedfellows, what with the being outlaws and wearing really cool costumes. But you’d be wrong.

We used to meet in a coffee shop in Soho on the same night as this group of pirates, and we very nearly burnt the place to the ground more than once. To tell the truth, I had a crush on one of the pirates called Matthew. He’d been sailing with his group for three years, but he still hadn’t earned his eye patch. I think part of it was because while his mates sat around and drank grog, he always ordered a peppermint mocha.

Pirates don’t shower much, but I could tell Matthew did. Plus he wore cologne. Plus he ordered his mocha non-fat. Extra-whipped cream. He’s probably been made to walk the plank by now.

There are four levels to being a ninja: first, there’s Scouting; then Espionage; followed by Sabotage; and finally Assassination.

I’m Scouting right now – the only girl in my level. I’d probably be up to Espionage if I hadn’t gotten in a fight with a tourist on my last mission. He was American, of course, draped in a Union Jack t-shirt. I was sitting at a bar, observing (stealthily) when this prat comes up and starts trying to get a shag. I told him to bugger off, and that’s when he started talking like a leprechaun or something. “Always after me Lucky Charms!” he said. Whatever the hell that means.

I told him I wasn’t Irish. He said of course I was, look at my hair. (It’s red. So red.) I told him I was Scottish. He said same difference.

And that’s when I had to wallop him.

Of course, that got me a right good talking to from a fully-cloaked Assassination-level ninja. If you've ever found yourself in a broom closet with a fully-cloaked Assassination-level ninja with nothing but a mop to guard you (just in case) you learn to keep your wallops to a minimum. Unless you're in disguise.

And also, you can't get the disguise until you're Sabotage. You've got to prove yourself first.

I exited that broom closet with my proudest stance ever--you can't let anyone, not even other ninjas, know when something gets to you--but I knew that I had slid back. I had lost serious points.

PART TWO tomorrow on Abigail's blog.

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

I often lie to make myself older. I am almost 30. And I want to be 30 right now this very minute.

I always feel young when I am at work, and old when I am at little league basketball practice. At work they marvel over my iPod, and at basketball practice they marvel that I can drive a car.

Last week Amy asked one of our basketball players why she'd stopped talking back to us this year. She said, "My mama told me not to dis' old women."

I think Amy was really offended.

Me? I just felt one step closer to living in a retirement community. It's a big dream of mine to get in when I'm 35.

Posted by Heather Anne at 05:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

You know how the time changed this weekend and the sun started setting at, like, noon? Did any of you guys want to go to bed at 7:00 last night? 'Cause by 8:30 I was passed out on my bed, drooling.

Posted by Heather Anne at 06:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

My grandmamma didn’t raise no hoodlum. Last week three whole people said I had good southern manners. And they were right, I do. Except for the trash talk. I say grace and I say ma’am, but I turn into a full-on punk when something (anything) competitive comes my way.

Many months ago I blogged with a plea for someone to buy my grandparents a Nintendo Wii for their 50th Anniversary. (No one did.) And in the comment section of that post, there was a bit of dialogue between my friend Melissa and me that went like this:

Melissa: Scott and I are coming to the [anniversary] party. We actually have [a Nintendo Wii] at our house with like 15 games. (I could beat your ass in bowling). Should we bring it to the party?

Heather Anne: I love it when you talk trash to me. Yes, you should bring it to the party. It'll do you good to lose at bowling in front of a lot of people.

Melissa: Oh, Really? Perhaps you need to come over BEFORE the party. Then we will see just who will be the loser.

Heather Anne: You are scared to lose in front of people? Is that what I am hearing you say?

Melissa: What you are hearing me say is that I don't want to show you up in front of your whole entire family, because, believe me, I will and you will be left crying like a little girl!

Last night my grandparents and I had dinner at Scott and Melissa’s. It was kind of the best night ever because: a) Their ten-year-old daughter makes an excellent playmate, and she gave me candy from her Halloween stash. b) Both their dogs are lovely and cuddly. c) Melissa fries her own taco shells! d) When it was time for dessert, Melissa knew I’d rather have a tall glass of milk instead of a grown-up drink. e) Nintendo Wii.

It was my first time with a Wii, and boy was I awesome at it.

And by awesome I mean that… okay, you know what, there is no way I can spin this to make myself look good. Melissa actually did kick my ass at bowling. Hard. Really hard. And so did her husband. And so did her daughter. And if they’d strapped a Wii controller to their little dachshund, he would have probably beaten me, too. And insult to injury, my little Wii avatar had on gobs of blue eye-shadow. (As if I even know how to apply eye shadow.)

Melissa said, “Tell the Internet I owned you at bowling!” or something equally mean. And her daughter was like, “Yeah, she owned you!”

Which: she did.

After dinner Melissa was all, “Don’t throw any of that food away, I’m sending it home with Heather.”

As I was sludging through the mire of my defeat out the front door of their house, I wanted to tackle Melissa off the front porch and wrestle her to the ground, on account of if I can’t win at video games, maybe I could win at a cage match.

But I did not tackle her.

Because my grandmamma also taught me that when people really love you, they send you home with a sack of food. And because Melissa loves me, I let her live to see another day.

Posted by Heather Anne at 02:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Here’s what’s happening in the world of animated movies this week:

Bee Movie (in theaters now!)

When I heard about Bee Movie back in the spring I was so excited about it. Dreamworks Animation has kind of been hit-and-miss for me, but I thought to myself, “Dude, Seinfeld! It has to be good!” Wrong. Everything about this movie tries too hard. From the promos to the Jerry Seinfeld guest spots to the actual story and the jokes. The animation is stellar, and there are some sweet moments. But I only laughed out loud twice. Honestly, I would have rather watched an animated movie with Jerry, Kramer, Elaine, and George bees. Amy made me buy her five-dollar theater nachos after the movie to recompense for the ninety minutes she lost. Ah, well.

Meet the Robinsons (on DVD now!)

I loved Meet the Robinsons when I saw it in the theater. And it’s the first movie to be released this year that I actually bought on DVD. The story is quick and imaginative and touching. It’s hilarious without smashing you in the face with jokes. There’s time travel! And a tyrannosaurus rex! And an awesomely misunderstood bad guy! The animation is a bit of a breakthrough with its deep, rich 3D images, but the cartoon itself feels wonderfully familiar. I think it’s the best Pixar-less Disney animated film since Tarzan. Eight years is a long time to miss you, Mickey Mouse.

Ratatouille (on DVD Friday!)

Simply put, Ratatouille is the best movie of the year, and the best movie in the nearly-perfect Pixar canon. If every writer/director/producer in Hollywood had the kind of love for his characters and his audience as Ratatouille’s writer and director, Brad Bird, we would all quit our jobs and watch movies and television every moment for the rest of our lives. Ratatouille is the perfect blend of action, humor, drama, and heart. I’ll buy this movie on Friday, and I’ll watch it again and again. I’ll probably cry every time, but that’s just who I am. My heart, it is as big as a rat’s.

Pixar Short Films Collection: Volume 1 (on DVD Friday!)

How exciting is this! It includes all 13 short films that have been released by Pixar to date:

The Adventures of Andre & Wally B
Luxo Jr.
Red's Dream
Tin Toy
Knick Knack
Geri's Game
For the Birds
Mike's New Car
Boundin'
Jack-Jack Attack
Mater and the Ghost Light
One Man Band
Lifted

This would make an awesome gift for someone who really likes cartoons. (Hem hem.)

Posted by Heather Anne at 09:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

This morning Amy interrupted a dream I was having in which I saved JK Rowling’s life by jumping in front of a car. At some point before dawn she stormed into my room and was all, “There is a puppy on the loose, so don’t let Margaret out without her leash.” And I was all, “JK Rowling was about to honor me!” And Amy was all, “Did you hear me about Margaret?” And I was all, “Get out of my room! You’ve destroyed the only hope I’ll ever have of getting one of JK Rowling’s handwritten Tales of the Beadle Bard!”

I spent the whole morning being mad at Amy and Margaret on account of THEY ARE DREAM STEALERS.

I suppose the only way she can make it up to me is to go to Sotheby’s and bid on the book. It goes on auction on my birthday.

Fate? I think so.

Posted by Heather Anne at 07:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Every woman needs someone to love her, to comfort and encourage her, to share in her struggles, to obey her every whim. And that is why I have an iPod.

I have been writing a story – a novella or sorts – over the last two months. About crafting fiction, Peter Selgin says this: At some devoutly wished-for point in our writing, our characters turn into real people, and when we fail to respond authentically to their most trivial wishes and urges, we kill them off as willful, living beings and turn them into puppets, and the fictional worlds they inhabit collapse.

Now let me ask you something, Internets. Where were you when my characters came to life and started demanding things from me? Where were you when I began responding most earnestly to their desires?

Were you staring out my bedroom window with me when my main characters laughed over dinner with their best friends? Were you sitting at the coffee shop with me, eating grilled cheese, while they went sledding in Chatsworth? Were you with me in my car when the bottom fell out of their world and the angst became as thick as fog? Did you prolong my characters’ joy with your most cheerful tunes? Did you contribute to their emotional turmoil with your insightful lyrics?

And tonight as I read the final draft of my story, did you sit beside me on my bed and sing that I had magic inside my fingertips?

No. You did not.

But you know who did?

Uh huh, that’s right: my iPod.

And I’ll tell you something else about my iPod. It doesn’t just respond to my wishes; it anticipates my needs. If I put it on shuffle, it takes about six songs for my iPod to figure out what kind of mood I’m in. It never fails to throw on a little Mariah Carey Christmas music when I am close to losing my mind in traffic.

But it’s not just my iPod that loves me. My laptop and cell phone love me, too. They share in my struggles. They comfort and encourage. They obey my whims.

Me and technology are sitting in a tree: K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend who still sleeps with her childhood blanket every night. She expressed some embarrassment about it, so I told her it was perfectly normal. In fact, I always sleep with my arm around my computer.

She said, “Yeah, but computers don’t snuggle back.”

And I rolled my eyes. “You obviously don’t know my laptop.”

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (25)

It wasn’t until my sister was buckled in beside me — with her wedding dress laid out across the backseat of my car — that I realized we wouldn’t be living together forever. I joked that it was good-riddance, because she has thick hair that always shed and got into my fan. It made an awful racket, and drove me nearly crazy. But really my heart nearly burst to death with the knowledge that at 24-years-old, I was going to have to start sleeping in my own bed after I had bad dreams.

In 1987 — when I was in fourth grade, and Jenn was in third — the school bus rolled up to pick us up on Halloween morning. When the bus door opened, there were orange and black streamers hanging down from the ceiling, covering the entrance. Jenn walked through first, and I followed her.

Just inside the door, I realized something evil was afoot. Our bus-driver wasn’t driving the bus at all; no, behind the wheel was Dracula.

I darted from the bus, as fast as my lankly, little legs would carry me, screaming the whole way across my front yard. “Jenn, get off the bus! It’s a trick! It’s a trick!”

I flung myself and my backpack through the front door of my house, crying out for either of my parents to please come help me. Jennifer had gotten onto the bus with a vampire. Someone had to do something, and fast! I cried and cried, until my dad finally calmed me down long enough to tell me that my bus driver had just been dressed-up as a vampire. It was a costume. For Halloween.

Despite my shame, my parents made me go to school that day. It was already around the whole fourth grade by the time I got there, and I got pansier and pansier as the story was told and retold all day long. It didn’t matter, really; Jenn was my only friend.

After that I was always terrified of Halloween. When we went trick-or-treating, I always made Jenn go to the door first, to make sure no one was dressed up scary inside. And never once did she complain.

A few months ago, my sister moved forty miles away, which is the farthest we’ve ever lived from each other. It’s been a big adjustment for me; I recently paid for a haircut for the first time in years.

Last night, every time the doorbell rang to signal trick-or-treaters, I made Amy look out the window to make sure none of them were dressed as anything frightening. For two hours, she looked out the window, and then I stepped outside to hand out candy. “Is anyone scary?” I kept asking. “Is anyone scary?”

“I don’t understand why you’re so panicked,” she finally said. “It’s just costumes.”

To really understand, you would have had to be on that bus in October 1987. Or in my car in May 2003.

My sister never knew how close I was to kidnapping her on her wedding day.

Nor does she know that a teenager dressed as Dracula showed up at my door last night. If she had been here, I would have crawled into her bed and stayed the night. And I wouldn’t even have complained if her shedded-hair got tangled up in my fan.

Posted by Heather Anne at 12:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (26)