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Looks like lots of you are still reading this blog and not the new and improved site I switched to last week….

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The Heather Chronicles

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Click here! The Heather Chronicles

Heya world…

I won’t be posting here anymore. If you want to continue to read more nonsense, you can find me over here!

The Heather Chronicles
(or, if you’d rather: http://theheatherchronicles.com/)

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Unless you’re a guy, in which case, I’m sure you think you need this on your shelf….

If you have one, you probably already know how to live with it. Just guessing.

Book no guy needs ever. If you have the stuff, you don’t need a book. And if you don’t, the book just isn’t going to help you lying around looking all stupid and collecting dust.

Just saying.

Today, as I’m walking to get something for lunch, I round the corner and see two young girls have set up a lemonade stand on base. This obviously leads me to almost jump up and down with excitement because:
1. Who doesn’t love a good lemonade stand? Unless you’re German, because in which case you don’t have them because you don’t have lemonade. Add it to the list of things that confuse me about this country.
2. I was the owner and manager of many back in the day and employed 1-4 siblings over many summers. We had quite the operation, though some days it was Kool-Aid.
3. I believe kids should be put to work as soon as they can walk so clearly I was happy to see these kids keeping busy. Just because you’re a child doesn’t mean you get a free ride.
4. It was insanely hot today and I was parched.
5. I’m pretty charitable.

So. I approach the stand and as i do, I see a soldier walk up and give them a dollar and then leave with no lemonade. Hmmm. Too charitable, I think. Wouldn’t kill him to toss down a drink to show the kids that they need to actually produce something to get the dollar.

A respectable lemonade stand.

Now I’m at the front of the stand, which looks like this:

No frills, no lemon, no pitcher, no sugar, NO GOOD.

So even though I think their stand is bullshit already, lacks effort, lacks pricing and lacks enthusiasm, I start in with a “Hiiiiii, ladies. Selling lemonade today?”

“Yeah,” they state flatly, not looking up at me and not smiling. I remember back to the days where we used to jump up and down and scream for cars, doing cartwheels and high kicks and smiling up a damned storm for a quarter. Oh dear god, I just said quarter.

“Can I have a glass?” YOu wouldn’t really think I’d have to ask.

“Do you want Crystal Light (which is a damned diet lemonade) or Country Time (which is old school and awesome and used to come in the can at the country store by my house when I was younger)?” I noticed the lack of real lemons, sugar and a decorative pitcher filled with ice. Now I’m aware you want to make jugs of powered lemonade for affordability purposes, but could you just humor me and give me some ambiance at your stand?

“I’ll have the Country time. It’s the best. By the way, is that a friendship bracelet you’re making?” I ask one of them and I realize I am stilling trying to talk to them for God knows what reason.

One of the girls looks me up and down like I don’t need the Country Time and maybe I should consider the Crystal Light and I want to slap the look off her face but hitting other people’s children is apparently unacceptable so I consider just telling her she looks homeless. The other one, the one making said bracelet rolls her eyes, making them almost fall out of her damned head, sighs and informs me its a lanyard, not a bracelet, in a tone that I translate into, HEY OLD WOMAN, GO AWAY.

“Do you want a full glass or half glass?” Interesting enough, there is no pricing anywhere so I just pick the full one. Now as I reach into my bag to take out $5, which I think is a pretty nice donation, she goes to hand me my drink and take my money but before she does, she inserts,

“You really actually want the lemonade?” She looked at me like I was annoying her.

Yes. Yes I want the damned lemonade. Yes, I want what you are selling. This isn’t a damned tollbooth I stumbled upon, is it? Because if it isn’t, the way this works is I pay you for something and you give it to me. GOOD GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH KIDS THESE DAYS????

Do I want my goddamned lemonade.

This weekend, the Dynamic Gay Duo referred to me as Tater Tot. Like that was my name. In place of Rhonda. The minute I heard it linger in the air, I snapped my head and said, ummm, WHAT.

I’d put this head on my body but I have no ambition tonight.


Umm what was code for, DIDYOUJUSTCALLMEFUCKINGTATERTOT??? Like a fat, little, fried potato snack? One that goes in the oven and is better when greasy you tend to eat when you’re either poor or drunk? Like a rounded little square filled with mushy, lumpy potato with a crunchy, hard shell outside? You just compared me to a tater tot?

The tater tot isn’t even ZESTY. I’d like to at least think I am.


Yeah, they seriously did. I think when they saw me go dead eye, they went all, OHMYGODNOOOOO! Like you’re cute like a little tater tot. Like a little nugget. Cute. Cute, cute, cute.

There was no amount of times the word CUTE could have been used. Cute like a nugget was worse. Even my sister’s cat named Nugget has a weight (and attitude) problem. I was going to losemyshit.

“TATER TOTS ARE NOT CUTE.” I stated and I haven’t heard it since.

So last night I looked back to 500 pictures from two weekend trips in a row and I’ve come up with the following analysis. I can take the same picture three times and one I look skinny as all get out. That one gets posted. One I look awkward like I’m slow mentally and that one does not get posted, unless it’s super funny in which I will take one for the team and let you all have a good laugh. The third looks like it’s my Biggest Loser application picture and I look two hundred pounds heavier than picture 1. And I have no chin. And I gained a face full of bad skin. So out of 500 pictures, I had 400 good ones (most of houses), 70 awkward ones and 30 that made me look like a tater tot.

So I’m confused but thought best not to focus on my confusion but instead ask a friend from back home how her detox is going, because obviously this comparison to me and a fried treat is not optimal.

“How’s your detox going,” I ask, totally wanting her to succeed and hoping it’s as easy as eating butter, because if that’s the case, I’m totally in.

“Great. I lost 12 pounds and I can eat meat and cheese now!” After a week. A week of just vegetables and fruit and she doesn’t even sound like she wants to stab me through the computer. That and she bakes all damned weekend and didn’t even try her creations.

“Umm, 12 pounds in 7 days? And you’re doing this for 21 days? And you really ate NO CUPCAKES THIS WEEKEND?” I ate 5 macaroons half asleep at 6pm last night and GOD, do I need a damned juicer and then I remembered this detox is also alcohol free. Ugh. Now that is more problematic than not having a juicer.

“No, 12 weeks. And yeah, I didn’t have any cupcakes this weekend.” And she’s serious because she is always so responsible. Damn her and her sober and responsible hobbies and ambition.

“Did you say 12 weeks?? God. I’ve never done anything for 12 anything. Not even 12 days.” I would have said 12 hours but god, that really highlights my love of lazy.

But seriously? I can’t think of anything I’ve given up for 12 days. Except tater tots, as of Sunday. You can count on that.

I’ve googled that phrase “old men from around the world” a few times lately and nothing really pops up in images. I really thought someone would have taken this idea I have already and ran with it.

I want to make a coffee table book of pictures of little old men around the world. I’ve started to take pictures in the cities I go to and on the days I snap a few of older gents that seem to capture the essence of the country or city I’m visiting, I’m quite tickled with myself.

The thing about little old men is that they congregate. They get together every afternoon on park benches or by fountains or on stoops and then sit, all lined up, talking to each other about God knows what but I bet whatever it is, it’s a great conversation.

And they dress up to do it. They wear shirts and ties and coats and vests and hats and canes and shoes with buckles and pants with patches. They bring canes and cigars or pipes. They drink turkish tea or black coffee and they sit and they watch and they talk.

Little old men have a lifetime of things to share that you can see in depths of their eyes, in the deep wrinkles in their faces, the calluses in their hands, their laugh lines, their gray hairs, their slow walks, their silent nods.

Here are a few pictures that I took with this in mind in Greece and Turkey.

And up closer. Now tell me these men don’t have stories to tell.

And this one. All dressed up and just watching the crowds.

This was him when he saw me staring at him. Could be he was pissed at me, or annoyed that his wife was yelling and waving a broom around causing a scene.

And then this man, in Turkey. God, I just wanted to take him home with me.

Somehow I got him near his flag.

It’s the people I’ve met around the world and the moments I’ve shared with people nothing like me that I cherish the most. I just need to be sure to capture more photos and more memories like these. I’ll one day forget all the details of the crazy stories about beer fest and the time we got lost in the Alps and all the other random fun things I’ve done but the people, I’ll never be able to forget the people.

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