Pity party

I'm throwing myself a pity party, and you're invited!

The family trip was a disaster. Not in the, "My family is so weird!" kind of way. A disaster in the "Do you mind if I spend Christmas with you because I've burned bridges with every person on the planet who shares my DNA and I have no where else to go?" kind of way. I'm working on several vignettes for you all to explain in a humorous way how exactly my family unit disinegrated in a few short days, but right now I just want to feel sorry for myself. I mean, "Long December" came on the radio today and I cried.

Is there a time when you can stop trying to put your Humpty-Dumpty family back together again? If all the king's horse and all the king's men couldn't do it, where does that leave me?

-Harper

National Lampoon's family vacation

I had promised tales of debauchery and sin but I got out-debaucherized rather quickly. Plus, I'm about to embark on a family vacation and there's nothing less sexy than forced family fun.

I shouldn't complain. While we've certainly had drama over the years (I mean, who hasn't had their own brother arrested?) my family is for the most part very nice and normal. In a way I wish we were all a bit more nasty-- it's hard for others to grasp the subltety of my family's form of warfare.

Let's take last Christmas, for example. My father's wife Karen (which, any child with a remarried parent will tell you is different from a step-parent) gave me some extra-special gifts.

Karen: Harper, this is for you.

Harper: Karen, thank you- it's the Van Morrison CD I wanted... But, what is this post-it note on it?

Karen: The post-it was to let you know that it's regifted. I already had the CD so I thought I'd give it to you. Open this one next!

Harper: Oh look, it's a book with another post-it reading "This has been regifted."

Karen: The cover may be a litte warped because I read it in the bathtub.

I admit that from time to time we take some creative license with this blog. I wish I could say that I had invented this scene, mostly because I wish I had never held a book that my father's wife had perused while soaking in the bathtub. But it's all true, down to the post-it notes.

Wish me luck during my family vacation. Anyone out there have equally horrifying family tales they'd like to share?

-Harper

An open response to an open letter

Trix,

I hope you two completely ruined the rooftop dinner party going on two floors below.

Brava,
Harper

The return of Harper

Trix is very happy. She and Ted spend weekends going to Ikea and eating pie in bed and they even have a cookie ritual. I bet when she and Ted tell these stories in person, they finish each other's sentences and break into synchronized laughter at the particularly charming moments. If they were any sweeter I'd be vomiting tiny marshmallows all over my keyboard.

I'm sorry, I'm being hateful. I really am very happy for her. She's one of my most favorite people in the world and she deserves to be with a guy who understands the importance of dessert, particularly for breakfast. But I do sort of miss the stories of her stuffing underwear in her purse and staggering home in the morning from somewhere she shouldn't have been.

I am a terrible blogger. I have abandoned my responsibilities and left it to Trix to entertain the masses. And look what happened-- stories of kittens and babies and sunshine and pppttthhh. So I have returned to bring you tales of poor judgement, alcohol abuse, and, yes, missing underwear.

Kisses,
Harper

Boost your dignity

I love how Gmail filters spam out of my inbox, but sometimes that means that you miss out on some promising e-mails. For example, I just got this intriguing offer:

Subject line: Boost your dignity!

Wow, a magical product could boost my dignity... Was it some sort of pill that would paralyze my hands if I attempted to call my ex-boyfriend after too many drinks? Or maybe it's a fabric treatment that would ensure that my skirt would not blow up over my head as I walked down the street?

Maybe it could have prevented the unfortunate Dove deodorant incident.



No, they were just selling discount Viagra.

-Harper

My hair smells like a spring rain shower

Dear Dove,

Thank you for your ad campaigns celebrating women of every shape, size, and color. Of course they all have shiny hair and no cellulite, but still, it's a step in the right direction.

I have one teensy request about your current marketing campaign. Would you please clearly label your aerosol deodorant product on the front? Right now it just says something about "silky-smooth," or "soft silkiness" but no mention of odor control or perspiration. And (a-hem) someone might confuse it with hairspray and douse their head in deodorant.

Sincerely,

Harper

A case of the Mondays, updated

I never know what to expect on a Monday. Sometimes, you wake up to a street strewn with bagels. I'm not sure what that means for the rest of the week.

Update: I got home from work and the bagels were all gone. Beatrix thinks birds ate them.

Giant jewish birds.

(And yes, they were sesame.)

Breaking old habits

I’m not going to get back together with Mark. Really. I mean it, stop giving me that look. Hey--it’s not like you’re perfect either. Remember the other night when you said that you were only going to have one more Oreo and then put the rest away? And then you ate three more but told yourself they didn’t count because you were standing up? Mark is like an Oreo. A self-esteem crushing, manipulative, deceptive, blue-eyed Oreo.

I admit it; I have no willpower (with Oreos or blue-eyed jerks). So how do I get out of a rut? How do I break bad habits?

Beatrix and I have always agreed that the only cure for boys is more boys. So, I guess that’s my answer. I vow to shave my legs daily (or at least three times a week). I will paint my nails. I will flirt. And I will go on dates. Whether I like it or not.

The end of Mark, the beginning of summer

Quick update on Mark:

We talked on Friday. He told me he wanted to marry me on Saturday. We spent Sunday with his family. By Tuesday, he informed me that he loved me, but he wasn't in love with me. (Seriously, do people still say that?)

The good news is that this time I did not go on a two-day bender. It hurts, it sucks, but frankly it wasn't as bad as I expected it to be. I haven't figured out why though. Maybe I wasn't in love with him either. Maybe it was just nice having someone miss me when I wasn't around. Or maybe I'm just so worn out that I can't fight anymore.

Also, it's summertime in the south and I bought a cute sundress. If there's anything that feels like hope to me, it's a cute sundress in summertime.

Update number two:
The zipper on the sundress broke and Mark's birthday is tomorrow. Ugh.

Stages of a broken heart

I have been absent lately. Absent from work, friends, blogging, even hair washing (gross but true). I have been going through the stages of a broken heart. These stages are similar to the stages of grief; After all, I suffered a loss. The main difference is that you only wish the other person were dead.

Stage one: Oversharing
“Mark was at the concert with another girl. And she was ugly. And he was wearing the shirt I gave him.” The bartender listened sympathetically. So did the guy sitting at the bar next to me. And the waitress. And the valet. And the guy selling drugs by the bathroom. Everyone looks like Dr. Phil to me when I’ve been crushed.

Stage two: Intoxication
Duh.

Stage three: Anger
Now that I’ve got a good buzz going, and the drunk guy next to me confirmed that I’m way hotter than the other girl, the rage sets in. Who is he to drop me? I’m fantastic. I’m cute and funny, and the drug dealer totally checked out my rack. I Am A Catch.

Stage four: Flirtation
For a drug dealer, he’s a great listener…

Stage five: Hangover/sadness
I wake up in the same clothes I wore to the concert last night. My head hurts and my mouth tastes like Parliament Lights. My bed is empty and I can’t call the person who always puts me back together, because he’s the one who broke me. I now remember that I left my phone at the bar on purpose because I knew I would call him if I had it.

I picked up my phone from the bar the next night after work. There’s a message from him:

"I broke up with her after the concert. I would rather be with you. Please call me."

I don’t respond. Hell, I’m already at a bar—time for another drink.

Repeat stages one-five.

I feel worse the next day, if that’s possible. There's an e-mail from him. His words were the emotional equivalent of pleading no contest to a crime: He didn't do it and he won't do it again. He misses me.

I've already called into work sick on account of the hangover and greasy hair, so I decide to go talk to him. We’re not in a committed relationship, he reminds me. And I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. And I should know that I am the most important person to him, and he loves me, and he has missed me for the last three days.

Of all the stages, the worst is the sixth: Reconciliation.

Crazy check

Is it crazy to sign up for clinical trials in hopes of meeting a cute doctor?

-Harper

Putting down the hammer

"You're making it much harder than it needs to be. It's like pounding your hand with a hammer because it feels good when you stop," Mr. Wilkes used to tell me.

Mr. Wilkes was my high school physics teacher. I was terrible at physics. It is the only class I've ever taken that I deserved to fail. I used to write apologies to him on the bottom of my tests.

Dear Mr. Wilkes,
Please don't take my performance on this exam as a reflection of your ability as a teacher. You may not even want to grade it. I totally guessed on questions 3 and 5, and I didn't even attempt number 7. I did, however, draw a picture of a cat wearing a bowtie and top hat.
Cheers,
Harper

I learned a lot from Mr. Wilkes, just not about physics.

"You're making it much harder than it needs to be. It's like pounding your hand with a hammer because it feels good when you stop."

Mark was surprised when he saw me last night. I was supposed to be at work.

I was surprised when I saw his arms around that girl. He was supposed to be in love with me.

He was wearing the shirt I bought him for Christmas.

-Harper

Harper signs on

Beatrix has done a fantastic job kicking off this blog but I have been errant in adding my entries. I’m excited about this project, mostly because I love Beatrix and I like that we’re doing this together.

B and I became friends quickly despite some major differences in our personalities. She's thoughtful and deliberate, I'm impulsive and blunt. She believes in love and romance. I think I did once (I must have, right?) but I have begun admitting to others that I have never seen myself married. I told the Mexican guys at work and I was met with confused faces. After a thoughtful pause, Umberto asked me, “Quien va a cuidarte cuando estas vieja?”

Who will take care of you when you're old?

Not only do I have to worry about who I will take as my date to a wedding next month, but now I have to worry about who will help me find my dentures when I’m 85.

-Harper