Flashing the people of the world, balls and vagina, per usual.

I wish I felt worse about not writing but there has been no time to sit down and bang out a post while in Lisbon.  I have been dividing my time between excessive pastry eating, wine drinking, WORKING, seeing the sights, bringing in people from 38 countries, “interoperating” with said people (drinking wine) and entertaining and flashing locals.   Yes, I said flashing, which should really shock no one. 

So this’ll have to be quick but really.  I wish I could just make it one day without horrifying people. ONE DAY.  

So yesterday I decide to be a little different and wear a shirt that has buttons.  Weird, I know, right? 

Kind of like this but with short sleeves.

 If it’s not a dress, a sweater or a tee, I’m typically not interested.  However, I found this shirt with tags in the back of my closet before I came here and it’s just a black, short sleeved button down that is simple enough to feature a nice necklace, accentuate the girls and someone take off an inch around my middle, which is probably what really sold me on finally deciding to wear it.  So.  There I was, racing around the hotel in my black shirt and jeans, checking in around 250 participants and tending to requests, putting out fires and reducing the general level of hysteria all while remembering that if I smile enough, no one will know when I feel like my head wants to explode. 

Which it did, right after this one person who is typically beyond miserable gave me her typical eye rolling, sighing and dramatic  head bobbing when she thought she wasn’t staying in the hotel she wanted.  *Note to self, eye rolls and sighing to nothing for me except get you banned.  God, people are so fucking dramatic sometimes.   Anywhocaresaboutannoyingpeople.

So, there I was, racing up to the front desk to check on a few participants that did not show up for their rooms.  As I approached the desk, not one but all three (male) receptionists glanced at me, glanced down at their table (which is their normal, oh dear god if we pretend we can’t see her maybe she doesn’t exist or need something again tactic) but then, surprisingly, all three simultaneously whip their heads back around at me and seem very interested in what I have to say. 

If my tits could talk.

So I’m all, (in my head) yeah, yeah, the breasts are perky, thank you for noticing, participants need rooms blabbity blah and they’re all, Sure, Miss Heather, eyes never focusing, what did you say again?  And then maybe that’s when I felt a breeze.  Who knows. 

Immediately after leaving them, I run directly across the hall to the very nice and helpful and seemingly innocent Portuguese soldier at the welcome desk, who is helping everyone get badges and the like.  I spend five minutes with him going over agendas and participants and while he didn’t stare right at the below my neck region, he did seem really uncomfortable but I just assumed it was me being loud and chaotic again and maybe he was just scared of me.  That happens a lot.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I run up a flight of stairs to the host nation office, where three more very nice and very professional soldiers are sitting and chatting, who all look up at the same time and I notice that all of their eyes are kind of big considering I know they’re really tired so who knows what they’re all wide-eyed about.   So I jump into the room, wave and say hello and ask if there’s anything I can do for them to help, which now in looking back is slightly forward, and by slightly I mean jesus, it probably looked like I was whoring myself out.  They didn’t seem to need any help so I skipped on out and ran straight to the bathroom for a pee break. 

As I swing open the bathroom door, I am instantly greeted by an image of myself in the full wall mirror.

Me, unbuttoned down to my middle, five buttons undone, showcasing my pretty teal bra for all the world to see.  In its entirety.  In fact, only two bottom buttons were actually still in place.  

And now you know why I fucking hate buttons. 

Now.  Because I have to get back to my international pals, I’ll leave you with today’s search items from Google that brought people to read The Chronicles between 7am and 9am today. 

Search Terms Today Views
big balls 31
toilet cleaning 7
heather chronicles 7
cleaning toilet 6
marky mark calvin klein 5
montenegro europe 4
man cleaning toilet 4
brooke burke 2009 4
chubby kids 4
cuddle 4
cherry blossom side tattoo 3
big balls men 3
brooke burke 3
maine lobster 3
man with big ball 3
watermelon vagina 3
cuddle party 3
the heather chronicles 3
girl clown 3
balkan people 3
female clown 2
vaginas 2
good husband guide 2
where is montenegro europe 2
bosnian burek 2
yummy gay 2
brooke burke ass 2
cleaning the toilet 2
watermelon skin 2
brook-burke 2
woman big balls 2
demotivational poster tard cart ass fuck 2
1955 good wife’s guide 2
lobster claw 2
shotting things from your virgina 2
good husband’s guide 2
sam top chef 2
cute chubby kids 2
hazel nut coffee starbucks 2
eu flag 2
squirrel and chipmunk 2
go athletics compression pants 2
top chef sam 2
montenegro – europe 2
key items for a man cave 2
germany flag 2
german flags 2
vagina demotivational posters 1
bob harper shirtless 1
women in bed 1
36 hours in yerevan 1
he’s an emotional train wreck 1
shooting water out of vagina 1
pin up girls ass 1
reasins i live my sister 1
crazy frizzy hair 1
military alphabet 2011 1
girls shooting water out ass and vagina 1
reasons why i love you my siter 1
cutest babies ever 1
cherry blossom tattoo 1
superhero medicine 1
europe montenegro 1
shooting things out of a vagina 1
cleaning a toilet bowl 1
ugly riesling 1
layla ali 1
husband does not compromise 1
inspiring riddles 1
15 reasons i love my sister 1
pin up girls photos 1
theheatherchronicles 1
cherry blossom tattoo on girls side 1
lesbians in ship 1
cappucino 1
pretty cute baby 1
reasons i love my sister 1
chris rock rub some tussin 1
demotivational posters down with the sickness 1
licking gays 1
gay big balls 1
shooting stuff out of vagina 1
cherry blossom tattoos 1
female happy clown 1
husband blow husband 1
clean the toilet 1
reasons why i love my sister 1
reasons to love you sister 1
blowing your husband 1
‎’almost complete life’ 1
hooters in germany 1
sewed vagina after pregnancy 1
cinderella doing a poo 1
large watermelon 1
1950s the good wifes guide 1
cute chubby babies 1
heather gays 1
dog fuking grils 1
cherry blossoms tattoo 1
alphabet e england, g golf 1
biggest male testicls 1
care bear checks 1
candy stripper 1
shooting shite out of vagina 1
how to you get someone to compromise 1
girl clown pictures 1
eloping in germany 1
broke burke 1
grammy blow jobs 1
opening a jar of pickles- sedaris 1
vagina birth 1
cherry blossoms up the side tattoos 1
cherry blossom wrist tattoo 1
brook burke measurements 1
hansel and gretel photoshopped 1
cute chubby baby 1
red abc block 1
lent is bullshit 1
balkan countries 1
cuddle parties 1
pictures of large testicels 1
pin ups – swimmers 1
can pussy get frost bitten 1
big watermelons photos 1
watermelon in vagina 1
star side tattoos for girls 1
“blow your husband” 1
la ink cherry blossom tattoos 1
how to clean a toilet 1
frizzy hair 1
cute chubby baby and dog sitting next to each other 1
watermelon comes out of pussy 1
renaissance working class woman costume 1
crazy chubby watermelon 1
david sedaris hero 1
brooke burke before implants 1
heathers gnome 1
cherry blossom tattoo wrist 1
girls shooting stuff out of pussy 1
pictures sexy good husband cooking 1
shooting things out of pussy 1
dear younger me 1
girl pushing a watermelon out of her vagina 1
eloping in denmark 1
shoot grapes out of vagina 1
naked german woman 1
john bobbit 1
colognes for someone who likes cool water 1
men it’s what they do demotivator 1
angela bassett walking from burning car 1
frostbitten vagina 1
baby chubby cute dogs 1
cherry blossom tattoos with no black ink 1
the balkans 1
gay lick ass video 1
whatsis the military alphabet 1
marky mark ice cream 1
тема its a good wife that make a good husband 1
german doctor naked 1
juodkalnija europa

Really, people just can’t get enough of balls and frozen vagina in the morning.  Because that makes sense.

So I survived one more evil person trying to kill me

Today, you will all be thrilled to know that I am still alive and have survived to see another glorious day in Germany.  And so to celebrate, I ate spinach pizza and had a glass of the liquid acid, Schwarzriesling, to celebrate the fact that I foiled the evil plots of terror that consumed me after work today.  True story. 

Today was like any other sunny day in Germany.  Coffee, work, half chicken at lunch, work, rave on the iPod, work, phone calls, work, leave to drink vino so I can, yes, live the dream to do it all again 12 hours later.  *bliss.

So.  Around 5pm tonight I meander out to my car, enjoying the sunshine and on a mission to go home and pack for Lisbon this week.  Thrilled to be out in the warm weather and sunshine, I practically prance to the car.  I am ready for some windows down and loud music on my ride home.  As I approach my car (the always environmentally conscious Prius), I notice a large white object strategically placed directly behind my driver’s side tire and also directly beneath the engine.  I assume it’s trash.  As I get closer, I see that it is a big white ball, so now I assume pain in the ass children have been kicking balls near my car and I am prepared to check for dents, those irresponsible bastards. 

I’m now at my front door, but three feet away, cautiously surveying the area.  I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sickness of paranoia, fear and a very strong understanding that someone wants me dead.  I bend over to have a closer look and though I see one of those round, styrofoam craft globes, one we all used in 4th grade to create Earth with paint and then hung by a string somewhere in science class, I know better.

Someone had used the innocent craft ball to plant a bomb under my car.  Unlucky for my contract killers, I had just taken my latest terror and security class online and I know better than to fuck with unmarked packages left under cars.  In fact, I believe this was situation number 23.  I do what all normal people do.  I slowly, without drawing attention to myself, smiling and still wearing my sunglasses, like I don’t have a care in the world, case the situation by only moving my eyes to seek out my hunters behind trees, buildings, and perhaps those tricky enough to be crouching behind other parked cars, though the lot is cleared out, which is great because I am trying not to move my head.

I’ve seen this shit go down in movies and there is not a chance I am getting in that car.  Clearly once I insert my key, hit unlock or open the door, the Prius is going to blow to shit and I am going to be a firework in the Stuttgart sky and no thanks, I haven’t quite finished my work on this planet yet. 

But where is my Mr. H, I think?  Surely he should be here already, or is he being held up on purpose, those people of terror knowing that I would obviously make him open the car, start it and kick away the ball while I watched from at least 200 feet away.  At this point I’ve calculated that if I stand across the street, I will survive any sort of mid-day personal vengeance bombing.  I have also calculated the number of people who may or may not want me dead and am not alarmed at all when I can think of at least 3-5 people.   I consider jotting down their names and putting a note somewhere, just in case.

Just then, as I pace around the car and try to figure out if I remember how to cut wires of bombs…red or green, red or green or is it yellow?  Must be yellow, no one ever snips yellow, I have it.  Obviously I need to take a picture of the styrofoam craft sphere bomb.  Evidence is key.  I get on my knees, wearing a dress and tights, strategically taking a picture with my beyond worthless blackberry.

I promise, that thing that doesn't look scary could kill you.

 

Just as I was standing up, looking at my picture, wondering who I should send it to in case I am blown to bits in a few minutes, I hear,

“Ma’am, is that your car?”  I turn and look and an innocent looking American soldier is walking toward me.  Good timing, I think.  And I hate the ma’am stuff but now is no time to fight him about making me feel old.

I consider telling him no, it isn’t, as I’m parked illegally.  But I give in to see what he has to say.  “Yes, it is.”  I realize he has seen me on all fours, taking a picture of a craft ball under my car.

“Yeah, we called the military police about that today.”  He points at the ball.  “But it’s moved locations, so it must be fine.”

Or, I think, it’s been hooked up to a remote control. 

“Mmm, I’ve seen this in the movies.  This never ends well.  I own the Bourne series and we all know what happened to that pretty girlfriend of his.”  Except then I can’t remember if that girl died by a car combing or if her jeep was driven off a bridge because really, she ended up drowning but either way, at this point, it didn’t matter.  And for the record, my exchange with him seemed normal, regardless of the fact that he started looking at me with his eyebrows up and in a way I would consider mocking and therefore unappreciated. 

“Seems fine, though.”  Full of worthless comments, that one.  I stand firm in staying away from the car.

“Would you like me to get it for you?”  He asks, now seemingly laughing at me on the inside.  Keep laughing, I think.  As you swipe away the craft bomb, I’m going to stand back and watch with my blackberry camera.  “Seems to me they would have removed it if they thought it was something to be concerned about.”

“Removing it would be lovely.  I’m refraining from entering the car, not feeling like a good bombing today.”  We are on base and I am not supposed to be saying such things but obviously this was a textbook case of local terror about to go wrong.

He picks up the ball, looks at it like he has x-ray vision, moves it around a bit and offers it to me.  I flinch and stand still. 

“No, I’m good, thanks.”  He’s not handing that ball to me. 

“You don’t want it?”  He seems confused why I’m not interested in taking home a styrofoam craft ball.  At this point I’m sure it’s actually on a timer.  He thrusts it at me and I’m now upset with him for making me get all superhero on the world.

I consider my options.  I toss it in the front seat, quickly roll down the windows and drive the car straight across the street to the dumpsters that reside behind our buildings.  Mr. H is nowhere to be found still meaning 1. He is late making it to the car AGAIN and 2.  He is about to miss me saving myself and potentially the world.

I throw open the car door, tuck the craft ball under my arm like I’m about to score a winning and very important playoff touchdown and race to the dumpsters, tossing it as gently as you can from five feet away and then bolting back to my car, cringing and flinching while running, just waiting to hear the explosion.  I make it back to the car and peer around the corner, wide-eyed and now further convinced it’s on a longer timer, one that would have gone off when I made it home, therefore destroying me AND Moxie and MY HOUSE.  Fucking bastards. 

Just then, the Mr. strolls from behind another building and yells, “Hiiii,” but then looks at me like he knows I’ve been up to something and gives me the look like he’s not sure he wants to hear it, considering last time he talked to me was twenty minutes ago and I was mellow and had nothing to share.

“You ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE IT.  Well, you will.  But you won’t.”  He just stares at me and waits for it as I pull out of base.  I spend the remainder of the car ride telling him about my close encounter.

“And they chose to bomb the Prius?  THE PRIUS?”  Like those type of people discriminate over what kind of car you drive.  Must I teach him everything?  And must he emphasize words that come out of my mouth?

“I have access to the WORLD.  Unlucky for them, I was too smart.  I foiled their plan and…”

“Stop saying foiled.  And what would they want with YOU?”  I am only slightly offended.  “You have no value,” he so rudely continued.

“They know very well that I am a very important bargaining tool they could use.  But I won.  I won and I outsmarted them and now I will go home and write and tell the world that I have restored order.”  I am beginning to understand comic book writers.

“Who is THEM?”  He really asks this many questions all.the.time.

“If THEY wanted you to know who THEY were, they’d tell you.”  He has watched the same movies I have.  I have no idea why we’re even having this conversation. 

“Can we just go get some chicken at the grocery store?”  He is now uninterested in me and my story.

“Yes, perfect.  Because I am out of wine and tonight we are going to celebrate me defeating those novice bombers who underestimated my spy tactics and awesome bomb removal skills.”

And then, with the window down, I stuck out my arm, pumped my fist and yelled, “I win AGAIN!”

Thank you, Danke, Muchas Gracias, Merci

Just wanted to write a note to anyone that reads my daily nonsense to say thank you.  This week I hit 20,000 readers and wooo, I feel bigtime. 🙂

Normally, I try not to care about who reads and if anyone is interested in what I say but I was feeling pretty proud and since it’s because of YOU, I thought this morning’s post should exist only to express my gratitude. 

I write as often as I can to stay in practice.  I write what I write to entertain.  So thank you for keeping me going. 

And to show my thanks, here is one of the most awesome videos I’ve seen in a while.  Please note that at minute 1:05 and 1:25 are my MOST FAVORITE dance moves.  They.are.SICK.  And, you’re welcome. 

Darkness, German evildoers and being pathetic

Today I will be discussing the fact that most 6 year old children are more suited to be left at home alone than I am.   I don’t even feel ashamed admitting that.  It is true and I am over it. 

So.  Darkness.   There isn’t much to go over with this one except that I am becoming increasingly worried about myself and my fear of being alone at night, unless I’ve been drinking wine, in which case I forget I’m afraid and could parade around the backyard not acting like a paranoid, jumpy freak.  But really.  It’s not so much that being alone in the dark, and by dark I even mean with just the TV on…It’s my reactions to scary noises that bother me.  Honest to God, if something were to really happen, like say a break-in, I would be worthless.  Let’s take last Thursday for example.  

I’m lying on the couch, watching Footloose, when one of the dogs starts whining and I hear the hall door pull shut, which is odd because I already shut it and the wind wasn’t blowing and I was the only person home.  It was then that I heard a thud out on the back porch.  The back porch that was ten feet behind me, outside behind big glass doors that do not have curtains.  So clearly if some German was out on my porch with a mask and wearing an animal skin coat, waving a torch around yelling, I would be fucked. (that image really has crossed my mind) 

Except with a torch. And a coat made of animal skin and fur. And yelling.

So. 

First, I kind of tried to hide in plain sight. I do this sometimes when I’m home alone and I get scared.  I freeze right where I am, and shrug my shoulders so that they almost touch my ears.  Then I close my eyes really tight and stop breathing.   Then I wait.  This would be my defense mechanism against break-ins, rapings, kidnappings, assaults and the people who break in your house to just burn them down, which I’m not sure when that actually happens but I’m pretty sure I’d leave if the house was on fire.   Either way, somehow along the way of life, I convinced myself that bad people leave you alone when they think you’re either dead or sleeping.  Holding my breath with my eyes shut on the couch is neither death nor sleep but it is still my go-to move.

While my eyes were shut, I realized I have no idea what the German version of 911 is.  That’s problematic.  What the fuck would I do?  Then I realized I had no idea what DO was. 

Then I remembered that I had bought cookies at the store earlier that day, forgot about being scared of the dark or the fake German on my porch with a torch.  Instead, I just wanted cookies.

And yes, that’s really how things are in my life.  Really, really nonsensical.

The start of Spring

Today is perfect.  The sun is shining, the flowers are popping up and the sky is bright blue.  It’s warm, the dogs are lying around in the yard and I’m lying around typing with the windows open.   Feeling guilty that it is so nice out and I was inside, I went on out and took a few pics of my yard.  Then, in coming back in to upload, I read it’s the first day of spring!  What a coincidence.  And so here are a few spring-y images and quotes for you.

It’s spring fever.  That is what the name of it is.  And when you’ve got it, you want – oh, you don’t quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!  ~Mark Twain

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.  ~Margaret Atwood

Am excited to watch these bloom

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold:  when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.  ~Charles Dickens

Tiny and yellow
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.  ~Rainer Maria Rilke

Red and vibrant

If you’ve never been thrilled to the very edges of your soul by a flower in spring bloom, maybe your soul has never been in bloom. 
 ~Terri Guillemets

Purple and dainty

Now every field is clothed with grass, and every tree with leaves; now the woods put forth their blossoms, and the year assumes its gay attire.  ~Virgil
 
*Sigh.  I love these days.  They just remind me how great of a season Spring is.  Typically, I only enjoy it for a week or two, thankful to be done winter, and then, acting completely selfish, start wishing for the sun and heat of summer.
Well, Spring.  I’m glad you showed up today.  Rain and bloom all you want.  Today, I think you’re fantastic.

Hooters in Germany

The pictures in this post are going to have to explain themself because I’m going to be busy tonight drinking some vino and writing a more interesting post but I love how whenever my girlfriends and I go anywhere, the question always ends up being, What’s wrong with us?

I’m beginning to think I’ll never have the answer.  Behaving ourselves is just a continuous (but really fun) epic failure.  But hey, we’re here to make memories, not behave, right?  Right. 

So we go to Hooters today an hour away because it’s rainy, we were bored, and after having American wings in Munich on Monday, we all had a craving for more wings, so why not go to Hooters?   (there are plenty of reasons why not…just none that seemed that compelling)

I just wonder how it always goes from a completely normal trip to a shitshow.  This was no exception.

This was upon arriving.  Beer one.

Note that I'm wearing clothes and looking normal

 

And then, three beers and one brilliant idea later, I morphed into a Hooters’ girl.  Which was obviously going to happen anyway but let’s remember it was 2 in the afternoon and no one else was in the place but old people and small children.  Which makes complete sense.

Missing my sweater and now really thrilled with myself

So that’s normal.  3 beers and a $20 purchase later, I have a new, potential job opportunity.   Good thing.  You know, in case that whole thing I have called a career doesn’t work out. 

Fucking ridiculous, I completely agree.

Meeting David Sedaris–The Final and Complete Edition

Earlier this week I just couldn’t bring myself to write about the best.night.of.my.life, as I was just too exhausted and figured if I wrote something half-assed, I’d regret it.  And so today I’ll give the overview of what it was like to meet my most favorite author (hero, idol, comedian) of all time.

I'm NEVER this happy. Ever.

The signing was in Munich on Monday and originally I had planned on going with my Mr. H, JPritch and PHern, but alas, the Mr. was sent to DC to save the Pentagon from IT meltdown, JPritch was stuck saving Libya, and PHern instead made a trip to get married in Vegas.  So.  Because I don’t trust myself in big cities alone, I bribed three girlfriends to attend the signing with me.  Girls that had never read DS until I forced it upon them.  Friends that ended up catering to my every demand and doing it with enthusiasm.  Without them, I wouldn’t have walked away with such great memories, three signed books and a shameless plug for The Chronicles.  They were awesome.

Right before they showed up, though, I found myself in a bit of a frenzy at my house.  I had to finish my gift for DS but it just didn’t seem quite right with just the pen.  I really wasn’t fucking around.  I had my bullet shell pen from Bosnia, but knew there had to be some sort of note attached.  And so after looking all around my office, I knew I couldn’t just attach one of my plain cards.  I couldn’t go the Hallmark route.  Not my style and this was David.Sedaris.  He’d expect his readers to do better.  And so I did.

First, I needed a picture to glue to my note, something that really just screamed I’m kind of out of my mind but hey, if we can all laugh about it, it’s not really a problem.  And so I remembered the picture I took of Moxie one trip we took in Salzburg.  She looks like she did enough cocaine or speed to kill a cat.  I love this picture. 

Who doesn't want a picture of Mox?

Second, I took a notecard and wrote out what I had come up with one day in my office, as I had stared dreamily out my window.  I needed a thank you note that was also a love letter.  Something that showed that I adored him, but wanted to be him at the same time, minus the gay man part.  But not something that scared the shit out of him.  Here was the note I brought with me.

Flattery meets self promotion

The note reads:

Dear Mr. Sedaris,

One day, when people buy my books off Amazon, I hope it is  you that the recommend as a similar author.  Then, I will know I have made it.  Thank you for pushing me to keep writing and entertaining. 

 It was all true and it was a thank you I owed him and thought he’d appreciate.  And I squeezed in that I write. Bonus.

So.  Off to Munich we went.  Arriving early, we had enough time to squeeze in some wine, sit in the 60 degree sun and chat about all things random.  So, after 4 glasses, here is where we were at: This is first part of the dream team.

Car and Kokes, pre show

and then the other half–me and Trace…. 

I imagine at the time I thought this face was sexy.

So.  Now you know who you’re dealing with.  ANYWAY, after the wine, because I was dead serious about being early, we found the venue.  Here is the sign out front. 

In case you can't read.

And then here is me, acting like a moron, insisting I remind everyone exactly why we were there. PS, the hat was just a funny prop.  In no way would I want anyone thinking I wore that shizz to be trendy, because I didn’t.

I have no idea why I behave like this.

So.  Upon entering the building, I asked for our tickets.  When I was told there were none booked for us, this is what happened. 

This look clearly says, Give me my fucking tickets.

After this minor (potentially life ending) crisis ended with tickets in hand, we took our seats and started waiting.  And then, minutes later, there he was, 22 rows from me, walking in and then sitting down and then speaking.  Live.  In the flesh.  It was almost more than I could handle.  This is about the time I started acting like Rain Man.  Apparently when I’m overwhelmed and in the presence my idol, I can’t contain myself and I begin rocking like I’m insane, scratching at my jeans like a mental patient and freaking out, all while getting  this ridiculous look on my face that while I think it reads, I’m smitten, it most surely just says, I’ve lostmyfuckingshit.

As I acted like a crazy, he read a few stories from his newest book, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk (which happens to be my favorite story within said book), which I guess in German translates into, Welcome to the Petting Zoo, which he just thought was the most delightful thing he’s ever heard of.  But then I looked it up when I got home, because I was obviously suspect of all this and it actually translates into, Squirrel Chipmunk Investigates.  So the Germans are wrong again. 

So. After a delightful hour of reading, I was pleasantly surprised.  Not only did I NOT have to skip the Q&A, it was going to take place in the same room as the signing and la dee fucking da, I could have my cake and eat it too.  Wooo.  So this is when I started secretly convincing myself not to speak.  I hadn’t planned on being able to attend both so you’d think I could just refrain from getting all selfish and shrieking out random thoughts or questions.  And besides.  No one else in the room should be privy to the answer of any important question I would ask.  Second, I didn’t write anything down because I thought, if I have to choose, I’m getting my book signed.  I could look up the answer to most of my questions anyway.  But, we all know that’s not what happened. 

The Q&A was moving slowly.  Barely anyone had a question, which made me bullshit.  GODDAMN YOU MORONS.  He was right here, for all the asking and you all just want to SIT HERE?  (that’s me screaming in my head)  And so as the tall German lady waltzed around with her huge microphone, I thought quickly about whether or not I would speak up.  Then some moron asked why he was eating a jar of pickles.  GOD.  PICKLES?  That was the best she had?  Did any of us REALLY care? Ugh. No.  So. The question asking consideration part lasted 32 seconds.  This is the point of the story where I started to half raise my arm whenever the lady looked in our direction, then I’d shoot it back down to my side, knowing I couldn’t contain myself.  It was the last time that I shot my arm up, kind of all awkward, like a chicken wing  waving around, that she pointed at me. 

Oh good fucking God, what have I done?  Why why why couldn’t I just sit there?  Please, please, PLEASE behave, I thought to myself. 

Of course, that is always out of the question. I couldn’t behave.  Even when I set out to, I fail.  Here is what I said, which again, in all fairness, was a question I wanted to ask, just not quite as I had planned.

“How much have you paid your family to write about them, so you know, they don’t disown you?  Or, at this point, after this many books, are you just like fuck it?” 

Jesus Christ.  I had to drop fuck it in a room of 100 people who said nothing.  I’m so charming. 

But, hurray!  He didn’t skip a beat, so technically, I still win.  He just smiled and told us a story about writing a story about his father.  He ended with, “And you just write the truth.  They can’t argue with the truth.”  And that’s the point where I decided that he was right.  I didn’t have to wait until my whole family died.  The truth was the truth, my version or not.  And technically, anyone I ever end up writing about has asked for it in one way or another.  Thank you, DS, for backing me on this.  I was tickled with our little exchange.

The reading ended and the lines formed.  You would have thought making it to the front of that line was the most important thing on earth.  For me, it was.  And so I stood, waiting, behind 2o or so people.  The girls stood behind me.  I had given them books to be signed for the other above friends that couldnt’ make it, as well as gave them strict instructions on picture-taking and video taking.  This shit was going to be documented if it killed them.

And so after about ten minutes, I made it to the front of the line.  The girls were laughing at how excited I was.  Like laughing hard.  I was lovesick, helplessly swooning left and right, unable to stop shaking with excitement and wipe even the smallest bit of my smile off my face.  Yes, it was that bad.

Yes, we are mid conversation.

Conversation being (*some of this is paraphrasing, as I think I was having an out of body experience):

DS: “Well, hello.”  His voice made me giggle. He was captivating.

ME:  “Hi.”  Then I stared.  Then I remembered what I was there for.  “Oh!  So,” I asked confused, “no one’s given you a gift yet??”  I acted surprised as I looked around, like a whole pile of them should have filled the table.

DS: “Why I suppose not.”  Good god, I thought.  Say something quick before you make him feel bad about himself.

ME: “Well, isn’t that your thing?  You give gifts and people give you gifts? Pocket sized things, from what I’ve read, which I’ll tell you, isn’t that easy.”  And so began the big bag of ramble.

I pushed across the note with the pen attached.  “Here,  I brought you a gift.”

DS: (who LAUGHED) “Why thank you.”  He removed the pen and looked at it confused.  “What is it?” 

ME:  “It’s a shell casing pen.  I bought it when I was in Bosnia.  I figured every writer needs a pan made from a shell casing.  And what says creative than writing with death, right?  Umm, or something like that.  And, the card.  I wanted to thank you.  But I figured you didn’t need another bullshit Hallmark card, so I made you one.  That’s my dog.  She’s insane.”  I was talking outrageously fast.  I was determined not to ruin this, but I had never felt so flustered in my life.  This is coming from the girl who once told (in 2004) the President of the United States he’s yummy in an elevator.  (that’s a true statement, swearonmoxie)

He flips over the card.  “You’re Heather?” 

Me: “Yep, I’m Heather.”

DS: “Well thank you.  What brings you to Bosnia and do you live in Germany?  What do you do for work?”

ME:  “I went to Bosnia for work.  I help put on military conferences. But I really just came here to bum around Europe.  And yes, I live in Germany.  I do not speak German, though.”  I have no idea why I offered that, outside of the fact that I was nervous and I had heard him practicing German to the people in the line before me.

DS: “No German?  Why not?” 

ME: Insert face of disgust.  “Why?  Well, because it’s ugly.  Same reason you didn’t speak French when you lived in Paris, though really it’s because German isn’t as easy as say French or Spanish…well, I suppose I will one day, but for now, I say enough to get around.  I’ll probably move to France next.  I’ll learn French.”

DS:  I think by now he had figured out I was slightly excited.  He signed my book and looked at me.  “Thank you for your fantastic gifts.”

ME:  “You’re welcome.  Thank you for coming.”  And then I smiled like I might make my goddamned face crack in half.

And then I floated away.  Yes, I said floated, which if I was back to thinking clearly, I’d be ashamed that just came out of my mouth.  But true story.  I floated my ass all the way to the back of the room to sit by myself, to stare some more and to enjoy (one of) the best moments of my entire life.  I had met David Sedaris.

Then, to make it even better, Tracy dropped him this card she made as she went to walk away from her signing experience.   Yeah, she made it, just for me.  She’s awesome.

Do not care if it works or not. Am also lying.

And then, to end our fabulous Sedaris journey to Munich, we raced across the city to grab beers at the Hofbrauhaus and then later ate some wings at Hard Rock, drank more wine, and spent the rest of the night chatting and laughing until 2am.  Shortly after, we made the journey home.  I made it safely to bed around 5:30am, only to wake up 2 hours later, exhausted, dehydrated, beaten up and yep, still floating.

It’s going to take a whole lot of perfect to top my Monday night with David Sedaris.

And that is the full story.

Hong Dong and the photoshop challenge

Please meet the world’s most awesome dog, Hong Dong.  I had to take a few minute break to quickly discuss this because I’ve been feeling some insane guilt about:

1. Not getting the full Sedaris story up.  I just don’t want to post something that doesn’t cover my whole night.  Considering how important it was to me, it deserves a good post.

2. I get wicked guilt whenever I don’t post when I want to.  Work is kicking my ass.  So is mothering the world’s most annoying dogs and chasing famous authors.  I will be better soon.

Back to this dog. 

Would getting this dog mean I'm cheating on chows or no?

I don’t have anything too riveting to say about him that’s not already printed but wow.   Wow and a few thoughts, of course.

1. Hong Dong is a great name and I do not care what it means in Chinese.  I’m keeping it Hong Dong and I am considering calling anyone I feel like HD.  Especially people who are stupid.  It’d go something like,

Stupid person: Blah blah shit I don’t care about blah

Me: (acting uninterested) Alrighty, Hong Dong.  Whatever you say.

That seems fun.

2.  This is borderline a lion.  If I were rich, I’d get one of these dogs and stay home all day and brush his hair. 

3.  I wonder if he has a black tongue like chows do.  That creeps me out and makes me nervous.  Black tongues.  Eh, not a fan.

4.  This is one expensive dog.  I would say it should be able to do tricks like one of those bears at the circus that rides a bike but considering it can grow to about 286 pounds, I suppose the dog can do nothing if it wants.  And if it’s that big, do you have to walk it or can you just ride it around? 

5. This leads me to the fact that I now want this dog so I can ride it around.  He’d be like my very own Falkor, but a dog, and we probably won’t star in a movie but a reality show would do. 

Like we don't all need our own animal to transport us around.

Alright, parting challenge of the day.  I’ll send $ to the person that can photoshop me into the picture with Hong Dong.  I’m sure you can find some ridiculous picture of me to use on FB and then I’ll put something in the mail for you.  $30 (or euro, if you live here) and a small gift that you can bet your bottom dollar is going to be random and awesome.  The best picture wins. 

Send it to my email or fb account….Get to it, tech geeks.  I know some of you are BRILLIANT at this type of game.

The David Sedaris Report

My life is complete.  I met and talked to David Sedaris.  He signed my book and I asked him a question in the Q&A and I gave him my gift and he laughed at me. And my friends taped it, because they are awesome. 

Those are the only words I can put together right now because:

1. I only slept 2 hours before coming to work today.

2. Because I was so lovesick for a week straight, I haven’t eaten in days and I may or may not die.  Now that I have met DS, I can go back to eating.

3. I’m not sure how exactly to explain how epic last night was.  I have said the phrase best night of my LIFE at least 3,000 times since last night.  And I mean it.

So.  I will be sure to write more later, when all my pics and videos and thoughts are gathered.  For now, I’m going to go lay on the floor of my office and go over last night’s events again, smiling to myself and staring at the ceiling, like the lovesick goon I am.

Now.  Do I drive to Cologne to see him on Thursday or do I stay home??  Priorities, priorities.

Do gay men appreciate cleavage?

Because I know straight men do but what about gay men?  Same effect?  Probably not. 

David Sedaris, David Sedaris, DAVID SEDARIS.  Seriously, I’ve never been so excited to meet someone in my whole life.  You’d think I was meeting Becks or Rinaldo or  Brady or someone else that I want to tie to a bed and teach a lesson.  But I’m not.  I’m meeting someone even BETTER.  Someone I crush on so much that it’s not even healthy.  I am so crazy about tomorrow already that I’ve spent the last two hours pacing around my house like a nutjob.  I’m nervous and excited and I’ve been laying on my couch staring at the ceiling, sighing and tossing and turning like most people would do only if they’re heartbroken or depressed.  I’m neither.  I’m plotting.  Plotting because I need to be memorable tomorrow and cannot show up in Munich and blank and look like a moron in front of David Sedaris.  Of all people, I cannot fuck this one up.

I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know what to wear.  I have turned into a groupie.  I feel like I’m trying to impress some guy, which I do not care about BUT JESUS.  Becoming memorable in a matter of 2 minutes, during a book signing, is much more difficult than seducing someone into wanting to see your pants on the floor.  And so tomorrow, on a VERY big day, when I’d normally opt with jeans, a necklace and a healthy dose of cleave, I’m feeling helpless.  What in the world to you wear to a book signing to catch the eye of someone who likes a daily dose of penis?  Do I stuff a sock, put a picture of his face across my chest or wear chaps, sans skivs?  Who fucking knows but everything I own is in the dryer right now.  I even considered straightening my hair for this shit but then I realized I was going over the top.  And so crazy and curly it shall be. 

And so what am I doing for the rest of the day, while parading around wearing different outfits and practicing my captivating one-liners?  Charging the camera and staring at my gift I’m bringing.  Which I’ve already announced but I’m not talking about it anymore because I’m so proud of it and if anyone in the greater Munich area thinks for a second they are going to outdo me, they have something coming. 

So, best case tomorrow is that I’ll have two minutes to burn myself into the mind of a genius.  But that’s not my only goal.  I want to make him laugh.  Out loud, and if possible, I want him to accidentally spit water or something on the table.  Or slap his knee.  That, friends, is fucking pressure.  I can certainly fill a two-minute slot.  I can blab about the most random of shit that will make him wonder if I just escaped the psych ward.  But I’m so jazzed up about wanting to make him laugh, you’d think the world will end if I don’t.

Mine might.

And also.  I don’t want to scare him and it’s becoming very clear to me right now that I am going to be overly aggressive and I promise you, that is never good for anyone.  Ask around.  Furthermore, I’m paying three of my friends to join me so that I can get all MY books signed and I may even get pushy and make them let me use their 2 minutes.  That, or each one gets $50 to mention again that I’m in love with him and that technically, my only legit goal in life is to be a younger, straight, vagina version of him.  I may actually have one of them say those exact words.  That is what good friends do for each other.  Shamelessly plug and praise.  We will be practicing on the ride up tomorrow.  They are going to hate me.

And so.  From now until I get back from Munich, I will be talking about nothing else.  Feel free to ignore me.  And if all goes well, I will NEVER talk about anything else, which is going to be really fucking annoying for us all.  So, sorry in advance.  Now.  I better get back to practicing my quickest, most effective short story EVER.

PS-I know this post really doesn’t do much except prove I’ve lost my mind.  I’m fine with that.