just to show i'm back...

okay, so i forgot about this site for, well, just about forever.

just a brief post to say i'll be back here soon.

though i'm pretty sure that i'm the only on that reads this thing anyway.


(so that means i can just repost my old myspace blogs on here, right? sweet...)

~heather

Chariots of Fire?

So I went running the other day. You know, trying to get back in shape and all. And while I'm running, I notice a smoky scent wafting toward my nostrils.

"It's not a burn day today, is it?" I pondered. Looking around, I saw no telltale piles of smoldering leaves lingering about anywhere. And yet, I still smelled something burning.

I kept running - pretty darn proud of the job I was doing, not having passed out and dropped to the ground or anything - and I began to notice a bit of a haze making its way up from the ground into my line of sight, and again my nostrils were assaulted by the smoldering pestilence. So I stopped running for a minute, in an attempt to ascertain exactly where this smoke was coming from. But then the smoke dissipated, as well as the odoriferous eminations which accompanied it.
Having thought nothing of it, I picked up and carried on with my jog, only to be molested, once again, by the smoke and haze.

I stopped... no more smoke. I ran again... more smoke.

At long last - and quite out of breath due to the extra strain of stopping and starting a ridiculous number of times - I ordered a cease and desist agaisnt my futile attempt at exercise. In frustration, I rested my hands on my thighs and bent down to catch my breath for a minute.

It was then that I noticed what had been eluding me for the past 10 minutes. How it escaped my attention I'll never know. But as I looked down, inhaling some extra oxygen for my tired body, I noticed the bright orange - and, at that point, faintly flickering flames - dancing skyward from between my legs.

That's right... the friction from my ample thighs was just enough to, over the course of 15 minutes, start a full on, smores-roasting, miniature campfire right where the chub meets.

Sweet. Where are the marshmallows when you need them?

Mystery solved, embarrassment at its peak, I decided to suck it up and run the rest of the way home, straddling an imaginary tight rope for the rest of the trip, determined to keep Smoky the Bear at bay.

Next stop: Walgreens... aisle 7... Desitin creamy.

Oh joy.

English 101

Once upon a time, there was a girl in search of her happily ever after; her very own Prince Charming; her knight in shining armor... slightly polished armor, anyway. That dreamy-eyed girl in search of the Hollywood happy ending is me. I have had two close calls in the past, relationships that came close to fitting the bill; either one of them could have been 'the one'. Lucky for me they missed their mark, because I have recently found bachelor number three. If the best things come to those who wait, then lucky number three might just be my lucky number one; the Lancelot to sweep this eagerly awaiting Gwinevere off of her feet.

The first encounter I had with a potential true love was the first encounter I had with love, period: my high school sweetheart. We started dating the summer before my sophomore year. He was 3 years older than I was, but the age difference didn't matter to him. He wooed and won, and we began down a path which I was sure would lead to marriage. Yes, at sixteen, I was sure that we were going to be together forever. But after two and a half years of love, jealousy, and leaving for the military, it was clear that we both needed to go our own ways. Years later, we found each other once again, and tried to make another go at things, sure that we had been reunited for a reason. But again, as before, our lives seemed destined to go their separate ways. And so passed Bachelor Number One.

A few long-term relationships - and several years - later brought the next potential man of dreams into view. The first time we met, we became fast friends, complete with instant chemistry, intense honesty, and a sincere respect for each other. We got along swimmingly, laughed endlessly, loved unconditionally, and spent every waking moment possible in each other's company. We shared a unique honesty and so many wonderful memories with each other that after a few years, thoughts of more than friendship danced across the stages of our minds. As it turned out I may have been the only one harboring thoughts of a harmonious future together. It wasn't much more than a year later when malignant notes of discord reverberated throughout our little corner of the world. And now we find ourselves barely acquaintances and no longer friends, pacing off in opposite directions toward lives that would no longer parallel. Say goodbye to Bachelor Number Two.

Which brings me to the present, and to my very latest candidate. He is my perfect match in so many ways. We have innumerable similarities in our personalities, and our likes, our hobbies, our intelligence, and our tastes are amazingly akin to each other. He's also tender, attentive, intelligent, well read, and a man with a very strong spirit and strong spirituality to match. He's tall, dark and handsome, athletic and fit, and doesn't mind that I'm short, freckled and a little extra round in the middle; heck, he even kind of likes that! We spend hours on the phone with each other, talking, listening, and gleaning as much as we can about each other across the wires. One major obstacle stands in our way; more of a hindrance, really, than a full-on stopping point: we live almost two hours apart. We do, however, get to see each other on weekends, usually every other, sometimes every three. This time we get to spend in each other's company goes beautifully, but always entirely too fast. So each visit feeds the desire to plan our next one, and we make our way forward, learning more about each other and enjoying the ride. Next stop for Bachelor Number Three - my heart. I hope he's gentle.

Distance in an established relationship is not always easy; it's even harder when a relationship is trying to get off the ground. Luckily, my fellow of late likes me enough to keep skipping hand in hand down Potential Relationship Avenue toward the intersection of Dating and More.

It's been a long, long, time...

Ok, so it's been awhile.

Quite awhile.

If anyone even reads this thing, I send out my very deepest and heartfelt apologies for neglecting the vramh (isn't that cute? i just made up that acronym for the title of this here blog... pretty cool, huh?)

So what's new in the world of you, you might ask? The first 'you' meaning me, the second 'you', meaning anyone reading this thing. A great deal, and at the very same time, not a whole lot else. A conundrum of sorts.

To speak bluntly and incredibly premature (or at least a little preemie anyway) I believe I may very well have found the perfect man with whom I'd love to spend... dare I say it... the rest of my life. THERE. I said it. It's true. He is the man from August 1st, my fairly distant yet consistently present beau. Actually, I don't think we've quite reached the 'beau' phase, but I'm there in spirit, so let's just run with that, shall we? Let's. He's my match, I feel, in so many ways, and he could quite possible be my Obi-Wan Kenobi. Think hard... you'll figure that one out. Not Obi Wan in a bad way, mind you, but in the most simply perfect way a person could hope for. Blissfully perfect. (Damn my incessant and recurring optimistic foreshadowing!)

But honestly, other than the man of my dreams running across my mind - and ever so occasionally across my path in person - there is not a whole lot else going on. But reader, that is a whole lotta plenty for me!

Oh, okay. I am starting school back up in about a week or so. That's kinda big... I guess. But really, not much else of note.

(did I forget to mention my recent affliction with 'the fleas' and the subsequent Vini Vidi Vici struggle and victorious overthrow? no? i guess i've got something to get back to later...)

"And my heart beats so . . . "

Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day...

I met a wonderful man yesterday. Well, we had been conversating for a week or so prior, but I got to meet him in person for the first time. He is the first guy in a long time, perhaps maybe ever, who fit the bill in almost every aspect; the 'bill' being the criteria I use to measure the marks of the man I'd like to meet. He is tall, dark and handsome, funny, sweet, easy-going, understanding, tender, talented, unique . . . I could go on, but for the sake of brevity - and those of you who could really care less - I'll stop here.

We enjoyed dinner, a movie, and a stereotypical walk along the river at sunset. Stereotypical, my arse! I don't think I've had a dating three-pack like that (not that I can remember, anyway) in my dating repertoire, so it was a lovely change of pace. He was a gentleman to a tee, playful, interested and sincere, and worth every second of anxiety that I experienced up until (and for the first hour or so after) his arrival.

But a monkey wrench there is in the workings of this foundling relationship: distance. We live almost 2 hours apart. Now granted, that's not the greatest distance ever traversed; we could be living clear across the world. But living in closer proximity would definitely be more conducive to the early stages of a relationship. Which we have not yet entered into, just to keep the record straight. There are also other considerations to be made, on both sides of the fence. But let me tell you, there would be no hesitation on this end, should the relationship invitation be posed in my direction.

Here is my theory: if something - an opportunity, a friendship, a relationship - feels like it could be worth fighting for, worth cultivating, worth a chance, then you should go for it. For better of for worse, the least you can expect is a learning experience. The most you can expect is the time of your life, maybe for the rest of your life.

So here I sit, thrilled with the memory of my yesterday, content with my today, and excited with the prospect of my tomorrow.

The Shaming of the Spew

I had a truly interesting experience just the other day. Let me take you back...

It was a sunny, beautiful, breezily temperate day. Rather perfect, I thought, for an outing with just the three of us: myself and my two young boys, who are 7 and 11 months. I thought it would be fun to start our afternoon off with a walk to our local supermarket and have a bit of lunch in the eatery there. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come.

In between the bites of my lukewarm pizza and perfectly scrumptious cantelope, I was feeding the baby his midday fare: Chicken Stew and Apricots. He ate his Chicken Stew with gusto, and - as usual - with nary a second to spare from one bite to the next. And then it was time for the apricots. This fruit portion of the mealtime regime usually goes even quicker than the first, since the fruit is practically a liquid and he takes it quicker.

But not today. He seemed, distracted, slightly uninterested. How unusual...

I kept regaining his attention, trying to infuse his not-so-little body with every last bit of the fruit, intent upon assuring his proper nutritional intake for the day. But it was getting increasingly more difficult to get the fruit from point A to point B.

At halfway through the jar, I set the jar down, resigned to finishing my own food, and getting back to him in a bit. But then it happened. While in his stroller, which was practically new from sheer lack of use, I saw him lean to rest against the backboard of the stroller and could never have predicted the event that followed.

He opened his tiny little mouth and from that baarely gaping 1 and 1/2" oriface erupted the entire contents of his stomach. It was as if someone had turned on a faucet, full force, letting rip the thickest, most food-group discernable sludge, never-before seen exiting a child of his age.

And it just kept coming! Layer after layer of chunky chicken stew slathered itself smoothly across his cute little outfit, seeping between his body and the stroller padding, wedging its way into the very fibers of the belt and latch. And as each new layer burbled its way up from the depths of his little belly, a gentle, 'sploosh' could be heard as it slapped down on the ever-thickening pile of regurge settling all around him. I sat there with my hands out to my side, my eyes wide as silver dollars, absolutely aghast at the unbelievable sight before me, as my older son laughed beside me saying 'it got on my shirt!'

The gastric flow finally came to a screeching halt, at long last, and not a moment too soon. My little man was sitting in his stroller, covered from neck to thigh in what can only be described as a weeks worth of Gerber's best, looking at me as if nothing had happened. Bless his little heart! I stared in amazement at his predicament, my hands still raised, mouth agape, wondering how in the world I could even begin to clean this up. And then one of the deli workers comes to my rescue with... a paper towel. ONE single, solitary, barely absorbent scrap of recycled tissue. The considerate nature of the worker's act was not lost in the ridiculous inadequacy of the single towel.

I looked worriedly around at the dozen or more customers peacefully eating nearby, and stared intently at my target: the restroom door. That was the light at the end of my puke-filled tunnel. But how to get there without driving the entire place into a downward spiral of nausea, swooning, and vomit? I told my older son to wait at the table and finish his lunch (of all things) and made a break for it. It was a straight shot, and I hollered out "Nobody look! Nobody look!" until I had made it safely to the confines of the public facilities. In retrospect, the warning shout probably only heightened people's awareness of the situation and peaked their interest enough to turn and look... oh well.

Once in the bathroom, I found myself staring helplessly at this chubby little fellow, wallowing in his own upchuck, wishing there was another way to go about things. But there were just no other options. I tried, with much futility, to swipe away some of the barf from around the buckle so I could free my son from the surprisingly (and gratefully) odorless goo. No good. So it was time to get down and dirty. I plunged my hands down into the sloppy, warm mush and unbuckled him successfully. And then I plopped him down into the way-too-small-for-a-22pound-baby sink and turned the water on him. For all he knew it was bathtime.

It took about twenty minutes - and a roll of paper towels - to scrape, slide, scoop and swipe off the spew that had decorated our beautiful little stroller. Add in another 5 minutes or so for rinsing off the baby and 1 or 2 for ringing out the chunky, juicy baby outfit and there you have it.

One happy family outing, one mediocre lunch, and one unforgettably exorcist-esque midday upheaval, the holy trinity making up the perfect day.

Oh, and we continued on the rest of our outing like nothing had happened. Hey, we're not ones to let a little puke ruin our plans... heck, not even if it's a lot of puke.

The cold hard truth

So I just discovered today that I didn't make the cut.

That's right. Missed the first round draft pick, and maybe even the second. It's possible, and almost probable that I've been benched indefinitely.

What sport do I play? Oh, none. I didn't make the 'friends important enough to share my sorrows with' team.

No, really, I'm okay.

I truly understand that there were friends before me, and that there will be friends after me, and also that there were most likely friends that popped in right around the same time as me. But I tend to think that I stand out as genuine, memorable, and, well, unique, of course. Doesn't everybody, after all? Think I'm unique, that is?

Oh well, it's just another tragedy that my shoulder will stay dry throughout. It's probably for the best anyway. . . I'm running out of laundry soap.