the TB report, day 1, pm edition

So I was in the waiting room/cafe here at the luxurious sindlefingen hospital and torture facility, staring out the window, counting cars. The counting of cars lasted all of five minutes and was somewhat distracting until I got this sinking feeling.

Is this what happens when you get old? Like smell like mothballs, death, lost your wits old? Because like airports, all people are here for a good or bad reason. And like airports, (my other hated location) a lot of what people do here is just wait.
For what? I don’t know.

And so I thought to myself, maybe after I leave I could come back sometimes and just sit with those that wait. They don’t seem concerned about the fact we don’t speak the same language. I’m sure half the people here think I’m mute. And sure, I can enjoy a cup of kaffe with the best of them and I think most people just want company. Seems like a nice thought, but then my very next thought ruined it.

You’re thinking like you’re drunk. I have to agree with myself. I’m thinking like an overly emotional, way too happy, drunk chick. Its just like earlier today when I found myself creating easter baskets in my head for random german nurses.

Lack of oxygen in the lungs, far less making it to my brain. Christ, its only been 29 hrs since I’ve been admitted and I’m either going mental or soft, neither of which I’m interested in.

Oh dear god, I almost forgot. So I skipped out on sponge bath hour this morning, thinking there was some stall option I could use my posh smellies in later. Not. A. Chance. As in sponge bath is mandatory. Without curtain. I cannot do this. And so I won’t. Ill either pretend I’m camping and use wipes, baby powder and the sink (you’re welcome for that visual) OR I’m going to cab home and back after lunchtime meds. Its 15 min each way, 30 min to shower and technically I have 6 hours in between check-ins w the doc. No sponge baths.

I should note that outside the terrible food, lack of space, lack of curtains, etc, its not all that bad. I have a window now and my roommate lets me keep it open at night, just a crack. And as long as I’m not out of my room for more than 3 hours, they don’t come looking. There’s no bracelet, no guards, no one watching you. And considering I’m strapped back in my bed to my iv, I’d say I’m a well behaved guest at the inn.

And so now its time for fuzzy socks and sedaris on tape.

More to come tomorrow.

the TB report. day 1

Thank god for wordpress and blackberries. If I have to be here for 7 days, everyone else is going to be in here with me. And the posting is going to be excessive, but for now, its all I have. Also, I don’t have spell check or patience so this could all come out looking crazy. Who knows. Let’s begin.

Song of the day: Feel it All. The Feist.

Today, 9-10:30am

I didn’t sleep last night because the old bags hacked all night and there was no chance of comfort with my iv and twin bed. This iv thing in my arm is annoying and would prevent any interest in a heroine addiction, not that I have one. Just looking at my taped up arm makes me sick. That and I had a little iv disaster this morning.

I had to answer my phone but was hooked up to my med bag so I just ripped it off its handle, hung it over my own head like mistletoe with my free hand and talked on the phone by the window. All seemed fine until I realized blood was shooting out into my iv and pushing against my meds. Guess that’s why they don’t want you hanging your own meds over your head. Lesson learned. I hit the red button and my nurse appeared and all was fixed.

Today’s nurse, by the way, is British Tina. I guess its British Tina by day and Frau Heidi by night. Both are nice, I suppose, but considering I’m playing a little game of, “The Germans have captured the Queen of Sarajevo” game in my head, I’m forced to find Frau Heidi suspect. Eh, it passes the time.

Holy fuck, this cannot be happening to me. They are bathing hag 1 in the bed next to me with sponges. Hag 2 has bolted upright and both hags and a german nurse are aggressively chattering on about something angry sounding, perhaps just the weather. Oh dear fucking god, I’m too young to be involved ina group sponge bath. I am clearly being punished for a number of things, just what, I’m not sure of.

That’s it. This sponge bathing in daylight thing has pushed me over the edge. I will only be able to discuss my stay here in the only way I know how…brutal, honest, unforgiving truth, exaggerated as it may be. And since I’m in rough shape, anything I say that’s too over the top will be blamed on medicine and sickness. Oh dear god, she’s being bathed on her stomach. I want to cry. Surely I’m not next.

Couple more things.

It wouldn’t kill them to slow down with the needles. I have arms like a dainty china doll (I do) and no one back home can ever find my veins. In fact, when I was ten, I was told that I was the reason the butterfly needle was created. Now, I don’t want to take credit for the least scary needle in the toolbox, but still…well, screw me. They don’t even know about that needle. ,o, they just whipped me with that elastic tube, strapped me down, tapped me three times and jabbed me with something mean looking. And so that was blackout number one.

I never said I could handle the sight of my own blood.

The second time I almost passed out was when I realized that I peed apple cider, or so it appeared. It was either that or the pregnancy test propped up on said cider cup. What the fuck?? A little warning?? The doctor announced I was still without child (clearly), clapped like a seal and smiled at me like a creep. That was blackout number two.

And then blackout number 3 was when they made me take off my shirt and lean up all sexy like against the xray machine. Fuck it, no need for those heavy xray bibs like back home. Just tits, metal and enough radiation to kill whatever you might be smuggling within.

I almost keeled over topless but grabbed for my shirt, envisioning what I’d look like lying on the floor, topless AND with a cracked head. Instead, I made it semi-topless to the toilet, where my eyes went black as I layed down the on cold (and very sterile) floor.

I am so pretty. Any takers this week? ūüôā

So that’s 3 blackouts in 24 hours. And in 24 hours, that’s where we stand. Me, the germans, and my triple sick room.

Until later.


There is a chance I’ll be punished for posting this, but I get a kick out of some of the fights we get in.¬†¬† This is a great example.¬†

I’m home from Sarajevo with some version of the flu that is far beyond man flu, swine flu, death flu…it’s like slow death, black lung and all that is bad all in one.¬† My body is revolting in every sense and I’m kicking my own ass and it’s not fun.¬† I’m a sweaty, hair matted, snot spewing, hacking, drooling, feverish, slightly delusional, wreck and yes, I’m acting like a brat.¬† I’m not trying to, really.¬† But considering I feel like my ears are bleeding, I’m wheezing black clouds of punishment and I’m swallowing knives, I feel like being nothing but selfish, which is wrong, I know.¬† And so here is how today went.

I stayed home sick, didn’t leave the couch, but found the strength to grab my blackberry and text, “Hon, please get me tissues, menthol cough drops and sorbet–in raspberry, strawberry or lemon. Please.”

6 hours later my sick shipment comes home in the arms of the loving caretaker, who is seemingly horrified by my appearance and lack of showering, though he should be used to it. 

Two more hours later, as I lay dying on the couch, eating the pancakes made for me, drinking the tea made for me, sucking on cough drops bought for me.¬† “What kind of sorbet did you get me?”



“Yes, Mango, Heather.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I wheeze, angry and spitting and now slightly resentful.¬† Mango was not on the list.¬† “Where is it?”¬† I jump from the couch, almost passing out and smashing my face on the floor.¬† The fever remains.

“Where are you going?¬† I got you Mango.”

“Where is it?¬† I really need to see that you bought me mango so that I can prove you’re trying to ruin my life.¬† It went Raspberry.¬†¬† Strawberry.¬† Lemon.¬† Not Mango.¬† Never Mango.¬† WHERE IS IT???”

“It’s in the fridge.”¬† He’s sighing now and clearly upset by my behavior.¬† I cannot stop, though.¬† I need to find this hated Mango.

And there is it.¬† In the fridge.¬† And it’s not just Mango.¬† It’s fat FREE MANGO.¬† GODDAMNIT SONOFABITCH WHO EATS MANGO.

“You hate me.¬†”¬† And now I am pouting and I’m 30 and I realize this is unacceptable but I’ve gone too far so I continue.¬† “I don’t even liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike mango.”¬† I am five again.

“It’s Hagen Daz.¬† You like Hagen Daz.”¬† He is trying to talk me down.¬† This never works.¬†

“It’s fat free.¬† Did I say FAT FREE?”

“All sorbet is fat free, Heather.”

“I know the others were all there, surrounding the mango.¬† The raspberry, the strawberry, the lemon.¬† WHY?????????”

“You are ungrateful.”

“You are out to get me.”

“You are delusional.”

“I am sick.¬† Leave me alone.”

And there.  That is today. 

And for the record, no one likes bloody mango anything.  Ever.

Hello again, Sarajevo. Good to see you, friend.

By the time I post¬†this, I will have hit the ground in Sarajevo for the second time in 4 months.¬† Who the hell knew I’d be in Bosnia twice in four months?¬† Of all places…seems surreal.¬†¬† Especially since Sarajevo has made it into my top five, as of my last and first trip there in December.¬† And it should be noted–December is a hard month for any city to make it into a top five.¬† With all the bad weather and freezing temps, you better bring a good game.¬† You did Sarajevo, you did.¬† Good to see you again.¬†

This week I’m going to¬†tell¬†the story of the assassination on the bridge (finally–I meant to do this in December), the history of the war, and my thoughts on the food, which in short is amazing.¬† And the wine?¬† Eh, please just leave me here.¬†

So, for now I have to get back to work, but later, there is more to come about my fantastic Sarajevo.

The End of Pumpkin

One day, long after I had moved out of my parent’s house, I received a phone call from my mother.

“Pumpkin has gone missing again.¬† This time he’s been gone for two months straight.¬† I don’t think he’s coming back this time.”

Pumpkin is our fat, orange cat.¬† He has been known to leave the house for weekends or weeks at a time for one reason and one reason only.¬† He’ s a whore and he has sexy business to attend to with the other kitties of South Berwick.¬† I don’t know where he goes or what makes him come back, but every so often he leaves, gets himself a good amount of tail, and then strolls back into the house innocently and starving, looking at us like, “What?¬† Can’t a cat get a little ass once in a while without being looked at like a whore?”¬†

I think it’s amusing.¬† I commend Pumpkin, that pussy hungry whore.¬† Literally.¬† Good for you, Pumpkin, good for you.

A few weeks later, I got another call, this time peppered with tears and sadness.¬† It was confirmed.¬† My mother had found Pumpkin by the mailbox, at the end of our driveway.¬† His vacation was over.¬† Apparently, on his way home from bedding his latest hussy-probably that of the Calico or Siamese variety–he was hit by a car.¬† Poor thing.

And so in realizing she has to bury our cat pumpkin, our mother does what seems logical.  She pushes a wheelbarrow a quarter mile down our driveway, out of the woods, out to the mailbox.  She picks up the cat, surely brushing him and talking to him, because that seems normal.  Then she puts him in the rusty, old wheelbarrow and pushes him back to the house. 

Later she buries him in the backyard, with the other animals that didn’t quite live a full life.¬† We all feel badly, but since none of us had seen him in a while, I think we all prefered to pretend he was just out chasing tail still.¬† That and¬†we didn’t live¬†at home anymore and I think Pumpkin was at least ten, meaning we were over it.¬†

That is until it got interesting, as  it always does. 

Katie calls me one day to relay a great, great incident at my house. 

“Pumpkin is back.¬†”

“I’m sorry, what?¬† Pumpkin?¬† The same cat mom buried a few months ago?”

“Yeah, he’s back.¬† You’re going to love this.”¬† Oh, I knew I would.¬† I live for these stories.¬†

One day, while washing dishes in the kitchen, my mother sees Pumpkin, ten pounds lighter, ragged and crazy looking, prancing out of the woods toward the house.¬†¬† I think any other person on the face of the earth would have thought, oh, jesus, is that our cat?¬† Or,¬† Good god, I hope that ragged ass stray cat doesn’t think he’s coming towards this house.¬† But no, no that was not the reaction.¬† Instead, my mother lost it, and called my sister to tell her that Pumpkin’s ghost was back, and that it waltzed right back into the house through the sliding glass door, as though the sliding glass door was a time warp or a gateway back into the here and now.¬†¬† And so then he was Pumpkin again, not the ghost of.¬†¬†

Holy fuck, sometimes it just doesn’t get better than a phone call from home.

“She buried the wrong fucking cat?”

“Yeah, someone else’s dead cat is in our backyard.”

Pumpkin ended up living a few more miserable years.¬†¬† That was his last whoring expedition, and the rest of his days were filled with stalking the front yard, hissing and spitting in the nastiest of manners and generally showing us all how ugly slow cat death can be.¬† My sister ended up having to put him to sleep on day while my parents were away.¬† It was about six months overdue, but we won’t ask her about that.¬† That little story tends to cause a lot of family fighting, even though it is another great story.¬† Maybe for another rainy day.¬†

Rest in peace Pumpkin.  You were always one of my favorites.

The Wedding Report

And so here it is, our wedding website. 

¬†I have no idea what I left out and what you’re supposed to do on these sites, but I tossed in some info, a few pictures and called it a website.¬† Another thing off the wedding to do checklist.

A few updates this website doesn’t feature.¬†

The Good:

I think I know who will be doing the bar for the wedding, clearly a top priority.¬† Also important, the fact that we agree on having a pumpkin martini on the drink menu.¬† Mmm, mmm, pumpkin martinis.¬† It’s going to get wild.

I had a dream the other night that we were watching the Sox during wedding week.¬† As in playoffs.¬† And so with that in mind, I think I might need to add a Sox cake to the mix, because everyone that knows us knows how much we love the Sox.¬† As in my wedding is scheduled for 4pm, but if we’re playing a 7pm game on the west coast, something is just going to have to change and I doubt it would be the MLB playoff schedule.¬† Just troubleshooting and prioritizing, per usual.

I think Chris and I have reached a compromise on some things–like how the food will be done and what type of food and the whole decorating thing is easy.¬† I’m leaving the music up to him because I couldn’t care less and I’m the most generic person on earth when it comes to music.¬† So generic.

The house is booked and I get to see it in June when I’m home.¬† Also good is Kyle, my fabulously talented and hysterical cousin who is going to come meet me in Maine and help me with all of the decorating, arrangements, flowers, etc.¬† I trust his vision, as we’re going with enchanted and warm and fall, of course.¬† He’s an art student in NYC and likes boys.¬† I think those two things alone make him more qualified than me to run the show.¬†¬† I knew he was really the one for the job when he sent me a picture of¬†baby lobster mac and cheese cups from a Woman’s Day magazine. Hahaha, he is a riot.¬† He’s also featured here because I think he’s just the cutest thing and I’m really looking forward to drinking excessive amounts of wine with him while we attempt to create flower arrangements this summer.¬† What’s more likely is drinking excessive amounts of wine and passing out on the beach, but we’ll see how focused we can be.¬† And he’s coming with to our dress fittings (the bridesmaids and also mine) because I know he won’t lie if we look 1. frumpy 2. pasty 3. fat 4. or our boobs don’t look yummy.

The Bad:

I can’t figure out if we should have a tent outside or host the whole¬†blasted thing in the house.¬† Considering we’re keeping it more like a cocktail party and less like a formal reception, the house could be doable.¬† What would be lacking, though, is a dance floor.¬† Without a dance floor, how can I have a few dance-offs?¬† We’re a dancing crew, my friends, and it just wouldn’t be right if there was no space for someone to do the sprinkler, the worm, the Umbrella (A Dan special), the shopping cart, or any of the other various moves we whip out to challenge each other.¬† And so then I think tent.¬†

And then we fought about the tent.¬† I said if we’re getting a tent outside, then the whole fing wedding is staying outside.¬† Food and drinks will not be inside, because that will give people a reason to stay in there and then the party will divide and anyone over 55 will stay in the house and then it will just be our friends in the tent, dancing and acting insane.¬† No.¬† I did not up my list by 40 people¬† to¬†enable¬†people go inside and sit.¬† Chris thinks I’m being insane and bitchy, but I don’t care.¬† It’s not like half my list of guests is near¬†death.¬† No one lost a leg that I know of.¬† And I hate weddings where everyone just sits the whole time and gawks¬†at the 15 30something women that dance like they haven’t been let out of the house in years.¬† I want EVERYONE dancing like they haven’t danced in years.

I don’t even want to have lots of tables and chairs.¬† I want it loungy and high cocktail tables and I don’t know why it’s so crazy to want people standing, mingling, eating and dancing.¬† I’m not serving a three course meal and you don’t need a chair to eat some filet on toast and cupcakes and so I’m not thrilled about this tent thing.¬† We’ll work it out, though, I’m sure.

The Ugly:

My guest list went from 60-100, making it not so much my guest list anymore.  That was **fun.

I don’t know 20 people coming.¬† That’s one rule broken.

I invited three members of my family (not as in my siblings or parents) that I despise.  As in want to choke.  Another rule broken.

And so nothing drastic has happened and I can’t really do too much planning until I get home in June.¬† I hope that’s when the fun starts.¬† Maybe a week with my favorite girls (and Kyle), at home, is just what I need to kick my wedding planning (and optimism) into high gear.¬†

**Fun in this case means fucking stupid.  And outrageous.  And not fun.

Mark Harmon, you’re mine tonight.

So I had a dream last night that I can’t get out of my head today.¬† Thank god, because I needed something to replace the horrible images I had of that girl from Paranormal Activity being dragged off her bed or her just staring at her boyfriend for hours in the middle of the night.¬† Good god, I’m never watching that movie or any other scary movie again.¬† Hate.¬†

So anyway, back to last night’s dream.¬† It has me all hot and bothered, and I even had to tell Chris, because I’ll probably lay in bed tonight, hoping for a replay.¬† It was Mark Harmon.¬† Finally Mark Harmon has come to visit me in my sleep.¬† Thank you, thank you, my nights are complete.¬† And not young Mark Harmon, featured here and after a little research, apparently featured in Play Girl circa 1986 (which i¬†will find), but the older Mark Harmon.¬† NCIS¬†Mark Harmon (Agent Gibbs) was in my dream last night and ahhh, I love you Mark Harmon.¬†

Apparently I was on some dock somewhere, clearly where he keeps his boat he’s been working on, reading a few books on a park bench.¬† We were chatting about books and writing and what we’d read on the boat for the next few weeks.¬† Clearly we were setting off into the sunset together for some unknown amount of time.¬† Then the next thing I know is that I’m walking out of a store, on the dock, towards him, wearing the bridesmaid’s dress I wore in my brother’s wedding, spray tanned and all. ( I have to say, it was a nice look, even though I’ll never be able to wear it again)¬† I stop in front of him to hand him a water, smile shyly his way and look up as he runs his finger beneath the strap of my dress and says,

“Taking this off isn’t going to be so easy with just one hand.”

To which I replied, as I turned my back to him to¬†stroll away, flaxen, curly ringlets behind me, “You only need one hand for my zipper.”¬†

Damn, that was a good line, even in my sleep. 

And that was it, hence the hot and bothered. So no, I don’t think it’s wrong that I want a roll in the hay with Mark Harmon.¬† I actually hope we get back to it tonight.¬†

Now.¬† Other men over 50 (or passed) that I’d like to have park their slippers under my bed.

Robert Redford.¬† Good God, I’ll take him young, I’ll take him old, I’ll take him up, down, around the block and back again.¬† Or him me, whatever.

Mmm, I just want to eat him alive.

Same goes with Paul Newman, god rest his yummy, break my heart with his eyes, soul.   

Ugh, I think I’ve got a case of I spring fever.

Dear Younger Me, circa 1995.

I spent an hour writing out some sort of emotional disclaimer for this post.¬† Why I’m writing it, what led to it, why I think it’s a great idea–basically a bunch of excuses as to why it’s ok to want to talk to your younger self.¬†

I deleted it.¬† I don’t need a reason to write to myself 15 years ago.¬† I’m just going to do it.¬† Here’s the letter I wish I had been sent by Older Heather, the 30-year-old version.

Dear Younger Self,

I’m not writing this letter to you so that you’ll change any of the things that happen to us.¬† I’m writing this letter so that I let you know that at least until you’re 30, you’re still alive, well, and you’ve learned a lot more than I could ever explain in this letter.¬† I just want you to be sure of yourself for the next 15 years because doubt can really tear you apart and you have a lot to take care of in the next two decades.¬† Yes, decades.¬† You’re going to be old. (And for the record, being 30 is great.¬† Remember that.)

You won’t believe much of what I have to say to you unless I can prove that I’m Older You.¬† Ok, how about this?¬† You’re in 9th grade right now and you’re really hateful and petrified of figuring out this thing called high school because you have hair like a clown and you have not been introduced to hair gel yet and I need you to stop brushing¬†our curly hair with a wire brush.¬† I know you want straight, brown hair, but you don’t, really.¬† I promise.¬† And stop worry about your braces and glasses.¬† Your braces come off Junior Year and you get contacts soon.¬† Junior year you also learn how to use hair gel. It’s a huge year for you.¬† No, you won’t be any taller.¬† I hate to break it to you, but you’ve already maxed out–so when people start telling you this year not to drink coffee, ignore them.¬† It doesn’t matter.

Another thing.¬† Don’t trust the safe our parents put in our room this year.¬† Really soon they’re going to wonder what you have to hide and so they’ll have a big surprise for you one day after school.¬† They will have put a safe in your wall “Just for you, so that you can keep all your private and important stuff in there.¬† And here’s the only key.”¬† Yeah, it’s not the only key.¬† They have the other one and they use it.¬† So don’t use the safe and we’ll be fine.¬† If you choose to ignore me, I know what you put in that safe and it gets you grounded for a month.¬† And you have to flush it.¬† All of it.¬† In front of them.¬† So just do what I tell you.¬† Give them back their key and keep a mental note that the safe trick isn’t the only spy tactic they use in the next five years.¬† Good luck, they are really sneaky.

And lastly, to prove I’m you…you know that boy you’re madly in love with?¬† The really athletic one?¬† The one that’s¬†a constant prick to you?¬† Yeah, he ends up being a car salesman.¬† Don’t worry about it.¬† Just ignore him.¬† You win.

So yes, I know you, I told you so.¬† Now I’ll tell you a few things that’ll help you along the way, because you’ll need a little help and reassurance from time to time.¬†

We’re 30 now–old, right?¬† We’re alive, well and living an unexpected life filled with love and travel and surprises and good fortune–for the most part.¬† You won’t appreciate that now and you won’t believe me as you face obstacles on the way to 30, but it’s true.¬† What’s also true, and it’s not a bullshit saying like I know you think it is.¬† You love cynicism and you hate this line, but really, you won’t be dealt with more than you can handle.¬† I don’t want you to change our path because 1. I don’t think we can and 2. I think everything that has happened to us has happened for a good reason, or maybe a terrible and unfair reason, but we don’t believe in changing fate and yes, we do believe in fate.¬†

Other things we believe in and things you should know.¬† Wishing on stars. Good things happen to good people and bad people choke in restaurants or get attacked by rabid squirrels.¬†It’s perfectly acceptable¬†to eat grilled cheese every day. Spitting is for rookies.¬†The nice guy always finishes last so please date him…¬†You’re going to¬†grow up to be a weird version of mom and dad and¬†I know, that’s worst case scenario right now but I promise, it’s really bizarre but also¬†kind of¬†nice but yes, you’re right,¬†really fucking annoying at the same time.¬† Katie and David are two of your best friends (I swear) so get used to that and stop beating them or letting them beat each other because you now believe you couldn’t live without (most of) our family.¬†You hate guns and¬†you¬†give up Republicans in 2007.¬† Hmmm, this might be a bit much.¬†

Here’s some advice…

Keep your major in college, but don’t bother with the Arabic.¬† You have no idea right now why you end up thinking it’ll be so important, but it will be.¬† Don’t take it anyway.¬† You never use it after college.¬† Take German.¬† I know, you think it’s an ugly language.¬† It is.¬† But you’ll need it.¬† In real life you end up needing to speak it because you move there (I promise) and the Arabic really seems dreamy but ok, I’m going to be honest.¬† You bombed the hell out of your GREs and you didn’t get into the Georgetown Arab Studies Program so don’t act irrational when the time comes and when you get to college, take German.¬† Also, I know in 8th grade you picked “AIDS Activist” as your dream career choice but I have no idea what we were thinking.¬† You don’t have AIDS and you don’t know anything about it and it’s kind of insulting to go around on your soap box on this one so I’ll give you another little hint.¬† Stop listening to that hippie guidance counselor of yours and just know that all you want to do is write books.¬† So take as many creative writing classes as mom and dad will pay for and write down every insane thing anyone ever says or does because later in life you will be dying to write about things you vaguely remember.¬† Save those journals and start writing the truth in them.¬† I know you’re paranoid that someone will read them so you write these awkward half-truths about people being “moody” when you meant wretched and vile and “he’s cute” means you want to know what he looks like in the boys locker room.¬† Stop pussy footing around and write it all down.

Now, moving to DC after college was the best decision we’ll ever make.¬† You meet some of the best friends you’ll ever have there and find yourself surrounded by people who¬†don’t take themselves so seriously, or some do, but they all keep you young and somehow you find yourself there.¬†¬† It’s in DC where you learn not to settle and you find the person you’ve been looking for your whole life–or not looking for, because we weren’t, but we found him!¬† The minute you meet him, and I’m not telling you where you’ll meet him, but I promise, you’ll know.¬† You just will, I promise.¬† (This will blow your mind. The,¬†I don’t believe in stars aligning, people are meant for each other, bullshit? Well, that just goes¬†right out the window, Younger me)¬† I will tell you that the timing won’t seem right for a very long time and that you will think he will never love you back with the same amount of insanity and depth, but he does and the years of bad timing, dysfunction and shameless, drunken declarations of love (you kinda turn into a trainwreck¬†one summer) will all be worth it.¬† This is important to us at 30, so keep it in mind as you sort through the assholes and others from 15-20howeverolditiswhenyoumeethim.¬† You won’t feel this way with anyone else you are with or meet, but please date them all the same, because they end up being really good practice and they teach you a whole lot about “who not to be” in a relationship and “what not to put up with (this part is fun)”.¬†

Now some fun stuff.¬† You end up living a life where you can travel the world so stop hating home so much and enjoy it while you can.¬† Older us misses home and everyone there.¬† You will one day realize that Maine is one of the most beautiful places on this earth–and we’ve been to 18 countries now–we know.¬† You also end up liking onions and peas.¬† Shocking, I know.¬† You have met a few Presidents and a lot of politicians and I’m going to tell you right now that one day, the President is going to be African-American, you have met him and he is quite a looker (he works out), which you end up telling him, which is a great story.¬† Another great story is the time you killed all of Mom’s exotic fish in a 60 gallon fish tank because you thought it was ok to let John Ricker pour beer in the fish tank, which you will never live down.¬† That happens this year to us, 1995, so if you can, just don’t let him near the fish tank.

Now, there’s one last thing, and it’s probably the most important thing you’ll learn and I want you to be somewhat prepared.¬† You will love people in your life and people will drive you out of your fucking mind. (We really grow to like swearing in¬†our 20s)¬† I need for you to love the people you love with every last ounce of passion you have and do not spend a second worrying about the people who are not worthy of your time.¬† Don’t be scared or upset, but one day, you will lose someone you will never be able to replace.¬† It will be the worst time in Our life, I’m sure of it, and every day you find yourself crying on the floor, or breaking something, or feeling this emotion called regret that you haven’t ever felt yet, I need you to remember something.¬† As long as you can promise me that you’ll love every person that’s important to you with every¬†drop¬†of you, and that you live like you aren’t afraid of failure, or disappointment or being different, you will be ok.¬† Bad things happen to good people.¬†¬†Life really isn’t fair.¬†¬†¬†These things suck, but they are¬†true and another thing you should remember,¬†¬†at 30, we really do end up believing we have a pretty nice life.¬† And so just know that when things get really hard or stagnant or sad, as they sometimes do for everyone, don’t be scared and just remember something…You will overcome anything, because that’s just how it has to be.¬†

Now, you’re probably really confused and excited and petrified and anxious.¬† Ha. Sorry, don’t be.¬† I just want you to enjoy the road to 30.¬† Our road is paved with bad intentions and lots of great memories.¬† You will laugh more than you cry and you will end up proud of who you are.¬† Just do the best you can between now and the next 15 years, and we’ll be fine.¬† ūüôā

Good luck, Younger Me. 

The Wise One

Office Progress!

Tonight I am really proud of myself.¬† It’s Monday, it’s 10:30pm and I’m in the middle of working on my office AND doing a brief for a 9am meeting tomorrow.¬†


And I think my office is starting to look cozy.