The Hick, the Mick and the Dangerous Ironing Board Incident

Once upon a few shots of Jameson, in a black hole far away (Grafenwoehr), the shots were plentiful, the conversation ample, the flirting aggressive, the stars shining and aligning and two fine people, The Hick and The Mick, met over pizza. Granted, they were surrounded by about 6 other international pals, but regardless, there they met.

The Hick. We’ll call him Tennessee, as “The Hick” doesn’t really do him justice. Don’t get me wrong–he’s a hick alright. He drives a big truck, his drawl is thick and charming, his smile is boyish, chaotic curls peek out from under his (of course) Tennessee camo hat, and he probably owns stock in Single Barrel Jack.

The Mick. We’ll call her Darling Dublin, though no doubt she’s a Mick, but I’ve only known her for 30 days so I’m at a loss for a better nickname that doesn’t end up horrifying her or her associates. (you’re welcome) The Darling has gorgeous blues, soft, caramel, straight hair that swings when she step dances, which she does when red cheeked and fiesty. She wears cowboy boots with skirts, drinks Jameson like water and has her very own pant dropping accent, which come to think of it is perhaps why I have a story to tell.

Damned accents.

So one chilly evening I make the very unlike me decision to stay in with Moxie alone to watch made for TV movies, eat popcorn and cry about planning a wedding from abroad (I was just having a moment, no worries). I tell all international friends that I will not be joining the festivities, drink half a bottle of nyquil (was sick, not addicted to cough medicine) and fall asleep spooning Moxie by 10pm. Am in heaven thinking I have a full night’s rest and will perhaps be refreshed and rejuved by sunrise.

No chance.

I look at the clock. It’s 2:15am. Why is the phone ringing off the hook? And why is Tennessee calling me? He knows I’m not coming out and considering the normal time to come home ranges between 2-4am, I’m sure they’re all still out. I hit silence. It rings again. And again and finally, on the third phone call, I pick up.

“Hey, sorry to wake you up or bother you but I think I might need you to get up and bring me to the hospital.”

Oh dear god, what has happened, I ask. I’m freaking out. And then he not only reassured me, but tells me the best story in about two lines.

“Oh, no worries, I’m fine. I think I need some stitches because I split open my knee and it won’t stop bleeding.”

“How did you split open your knee? Good god, are you ok?”

“Oh, just some accident. We were just hanging around and I ripped open my leg on the ironing board.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ironing board?”

“Yeah, don’t ask. But since you’re up now anyway, feel like walking over and taking a look?” Of course I wanted a goddamned look. He just said something about an ironing board and hanging around and blood and injuries. I wanted a look. And I wanted to know what their version of hanging around was because mine never ends up with me stabbing myself in the leg with an upsidedown ironing board.

Moxie and I walked down the street and found Tennessee and The Darling sitting on the sidewalk, laughing to themselves and admiring Tennessee’s impressive gash, which really was bleeding everywhere. I was fine with viewing this interesting situation until Tennessee pulled open the gash without warning to show me how deep it was. I wanted to throw up. Unneccessary.

I wasn’t so much concerned with his wellbeing anymore as I was this story. “Ironing boards are smooth, not sharp. I’m going to need you to explain further.”

“Not the top of the ironing board, the bottom. Like the bottom of the leg. Where that rubber foot part should be, but I guess it wasn’t there and part of my knee is now in it.”

“What the fuck was the ironing board doing upsidedown?” This was a great story and poor Darling. She looked somewhat sheepish. I’d be proud of such a story. In retrospect, I wish I had high-fived her. Probably too soon in our friendship but I appreciate good work and that is some really great work.

“Oh we were just watching tv and doing this and that and there was some moving of the furniture involved and”

I had to interrupt. “Holy shit, YOU WERE DOING WHAT? hahaha. MOVING FURNITURE? At 2am?”

Moving furniture AND hanging around with a side of this and that? Wow. I’m so impressed.

“Yeah, don’t be jealous,” he says and I think he kinda means it. Ha. I love Tennessee.

“I’m going to need you to draw me a diagram.”

I’m still waiting for said diagram, BY THE WAY.

Poshy, posh, posh.

Just a quick post to put two of my favorite pics from this weekend’s wedding to prove that I did indeed I am quite proud of myself. In fact, I am going to start making this feather wearing a weekly thing. Tonight or tomorrow I hope to update with this weekend’s stories and more pics, but for now, here are the feathers. And the pearls. And the lace. And the lipstick. Ta da! I am fancy. 🙂

Also….just something I meant to bring up last week and since I don’t have a lot of time today to post about something substantial, let’s go with this.

I wonder if what people search on Google to re-find my blog are any indication about what’s the first thing that pops into their head when they think of me. I’ve mentioned this before but in just checking my blog stats and searches since I’ve been gone for the past 30ish days, I’ll have you know what has led people back to my stories. Take these searches for what you will.

female clowns 3
men with big balls for women 2
john bobbit 1
housekeeper found my vibrator 1
funny john bobbit 1
nipple womanbig 1
menstruation 1
theheatherchronicles wordpress 1
bed+marrid 1
guys with big sacks 3
picture of germans flag 3
art menstruation 2
big balls. sacks 1
ill woman in bed 1
the perfect man cave 1
sam talbot 1
theheatherchronicles 1
the good husband guide 1
pepe le pew and cat 1

I think it’s the nipple womanbig and menstruation thing that bother me the most. Anyway, just thought I’d throw that out there while I try to catch up from my weekend in London.

Welcome back, life, and hurray for team Nardi-Dei!

I hesitate to start this post because it could be a million part series with that heading. Today I’ll have to keep it simple and then in time, get into the details of how my life is forever a work in progress (hopefully not FOREVER), how during my most favorite season, when it seems fitting to start over, start fresh and be optimistic, the rest of my life will begin. That’s what weddings/parties/trips home/life lessons/the start of new seasons are for, right?

Well. So I’m back from Graf. 30 days away from home. I’m only 5 days home now and I have quite the sorting, cleaning, dusting off, organizing and fixing to do. There is never enough time, though. Instead of getting my shit together this weekend and staying home to relax, Chris and I are jet setting to London to celebrate the love of some of our bestest friends, Mark and Kate Nardi-Dei. Instead of using my first post back on the Chronicles to go over my life, my realizations, my wedding and the start to my new life, I’d like to instead talk about Mark and Kate and the start of their new (2.0) life together, as Count and Countess Nardi-Dei of London/Florence/Washington, DC.

No shit, they’re really a Count and Countess but we’ll get to that later. I’m just jealous. So jealous in fact that while I was away, Chris sent me this site to entice me into buying us a title.

We got nowhere, though, because I wanted to be a Dutchess, the Dutchess of Aidlingen, but he didn’t want to be a Duke. He wanted to be a Baron, but I hate Baroness and unless he was the Red Baron, it makes no sense to me and the Red Baron is a plane, well, Manfred Albrecht Freiherr von Richthofen, a German fighter pilot, and jesus CHRIST, we are not naming ourselves that further associates us with German fighter pilots. So then it’d have to be Lord and Lady because Mark and Kate are Count and Countess and we’re not trying to one up them, but let’s be honest, we are pretty regal, too. So anyway, Lord and Lady are fine and dandy but even Lady Marian wasn’t THAT luxurious and I don’t know of any other LADIES that quite exemplify the life I was looking for in buying this title and so we bought no titles but no worries, there’s always Christmas. Ah, I have missed expressing the inner-workings of my brain.

Mark and Kate. I’m so excited to see them. The Beauty and the Brit should be their couple tagline. They are a beautiful and warm and funny and engaging couple that screams timeless and makes you want to put them in a glass hutch for all the world to see, because they really belong on display.

Mark. He is grand and civilised and sweet as biscuits, with a fancy accent to boot, of the London variety, which is the poshest of all posh, or so I’m told. He is a lover of toys, a real Peter Pan at heart, but of the best kind–the one if you win over you can catch and lock in a townhouse as Husband. He would give you the world if you needed it, share his life with you in the quietest and most modest of ways. He brings great, huge steaks to bbqs, has fantastic taste in champagne, uses the most charming British words to describe things (swoon), I think he still sleeps with this monkey stuffed animal thing he seems to love so much, he has a way of making you feel small with one of his hugs and he is a dear friend that I know both Chris and I hope we are never without.

Katherine, or Kate to me. She is classically beautiful. The kind that rivals Audrey Hepburn and closely imitates Jackie O. She has beautiful skin that glows and boasts fantastic hydration. Her teeth sparkle and her eyes light up when she smiles. And she has lips made for lipstick in every shade and we all know I’ve failed in that lipstick trend that looks so fancy. She looks like she belongs on a sailboat and she’s quick with the wine in a crisis, or a non-crisis. She tapes pictures of her shoes to perfectly kept boxes and has taste to die for, taste I will never understand, because if we’re talking taste, she’s always been Nordstrom or Burberry and I will forever be Target. She is a strong, lovely Midwestern girl and if you met her, she’d teach you a lesson instantly about class, without ever having to open her mouth.

So. That is the happy couple. They are hosting a small and intimate wedding in London for close friends and family and we feel very lucky to be on the guest list. Lucky and frantic and white trash. Why white trash, you ask? Because when I asked her what to wear to this high-class affair, she told me to think Four Weddings and Funeral. My wardrobe rivals Pretty Woman, and not the scene where he fixes her. They are really rolling out the red carpet and it’s a 5 star affair. There are fancy dinners involved and penthouses and tours on the double-decker bus that I hope stops at a place where I can get fish and chips. And so tonight. What am I doing tonight. I’m finding a classy and appropriate and modest dress and I’ll be damned if I don’t find myself the biggest, most aggressive, most absurdly outrageous, why is there a nest and a bird on your head, hat IF IT KILLS ME. And long gloves. And maybe one of those long, plastic cigarette holders that allows you to smoke a cigarette that’s a mile away from your face. And pearls. Where the fuck are my pearls.

And so I’ll be sure to take lots of pictures and report back on the Nardi-Dei 2.0 London affair. It’ll surely be an event to remember. 🙂

Cheerio, mates. I’m off to London.

Accent Envy

So just when I think I’ve mastered not acting like an ass in front of my euro friends, I outdo myself. Well, not today, but the other night.

Accents. I have a real problem with accents. Problem being, I want one. I have this mindset that since I’m from the States, that’s the universal accent, like it’s standard to sound like me because I don’t have a sound, and everyone else in the world is lucky enough to have been given an accent that’s exotic (Russian) or romantic (Spanish) or just makes girls wanna drop their panties worldwide (UK). So here’s what happens, which is never awkward for me until the next day when I realize I’ve done it.

On nights that involve alcohol, I’m surrounded by a group that sounds nothing like me, in the most fantastic way possible. In fact, we all technically speak the same language, but none of us ever understand what the fuck we’re saying to each other. Example: people from Ireland shouldn’t ever really have a problem with lisping, because they never bothered to learn the TH sound to begin with. Three is tree and thump is tump and the poor Irish really get it from the Brits but I don’t know who the fuck they are to talk. You’d think they’re asking a question with every statement they make, as though someone forget to tell them not to emphasize the last word of each sentence like they’re asking a question. That and they’re always adding “mate” at the end of every sentence, as though they’re reminding you that they either have friends or that you’re their friend. The French (the real kind, not that throaty, weird, nasally French Canadian accent that makes me think of that damned skunk Pepe Le Pew) actual sound quite poetic, unless you’re one of those skeezy French individuals (Parisians) that make you feel dirty about yourself by only listening to them violate your ear drums with their chatter. I actually think all of this is very charming, and honestly, I’m just plain jealous. Whenever they mock my accent, it sounds awful. Awful as in spot on, in a whiney, boring, high-pitched way that sounds like a cross between shrieking and white noise.

So, back to where I started. When we’re all out together, I get this accent envy and I have this really weird habit of picking up the accents of my friends. It starts slow. I start saying fuck like I’m straight out of Snatch. Then I start saying absurd things like “Just going to the loo, mate” or “Don’t act like you wouldn’t shag that filthy bird.” Cunt all of sudden isn’t the worst word in the world but sometimes a compliment like, “How ya doin’, ya cunt?” and all my statements come out as though I am requiring an answer. I catch myself doing it from the start but I can’t stop. It’s like a trainwreck. By the time I’m on drink 5 everything is fag, bloke, tree, loo blabbity blah blah. And I know they must be horrified. I mean who wouldn’t be. If one of my French friends started all of a sudden talking like a trucker from New Jersey after 5 drinks I’d think they were slightly touched. And so I will be the first to admit that it’s not normal, it’s probably not even that comical, and I really need to stop it.

Or maybe not. Who fucking cares.