The Heather Chronicles

Oh my god I said it. I can't believe I said it. My heart stopped.

Every relationship article I'd ever read in any trashy women's magazine always touted to keep some mystery in a relationship. Don't let him see you do this. Don't let him hear you do that. Some said to get ready in the morning without him seeing you. I scoffed at that one. I mean seriously, what bozo thinks you really look all made up and primped all the time like you're some natural beauty. And that wouldn't work anyways for me being that I often leave with wet hair, or just a section dried in the morning. And my makeup sucks into my face and vanishes within a half-hour anyways. You think it's an exaggeration? When I was an extra on a movie once, the makeup artists all told me they'd never seen anything like it. They'd do me up and then POOF, thirty minutes later I had mascara and one glob of eyeliner left on my face. I was told I should wear primer. Primer? On my face? I hate makeup anyways and rarely wear foundation, I'm not putting another layer of shit on my face.

So in all of the advice stuff on how to keep the mystery in your relationship, it basically (in my mind) came down to this...don't poop in front of him, don't pee in front of him, don't fart or burp, don't grab your muffin top and show him just how chubby you've become, don't ask him to smell your finger after you've shoved it in your belly button. Don't talk about sex in your past or about ex-boyfriends or husbands in general. Don't wear your period-stained panties EVER. And never, ever tell him you've thought about marriage with him.

In all of this I have never ever shat in front of Pete, ran the risk of being caught changing my tampon, nor admitted any retarded marriage thoughts. He has brought up marriage before, and I've told him I could marry him, but I've left it at that...until last night when I opened my big, fat mouth.

I blame St. Patrick's Day and three pints of Guinness. We were out with friends celebrating and having a great ol' time and Pete and I were having our own conversation at the table. I can't remember how it started, I was buzzed and I honestly think he said something to provoke it, but he made a comment about getting married as he got up to go to the bar and I laughed and said, "Sure! Maybe in like twenty years!" He stopped and turned around, kissed me and said, "Well I hope it's a lot sooner than that!" I was shocked! Did he still after seven months and a really rough bump in the relationship for a bit, want to marry me? ME? The girl who does everything without mystery? The girl who considers getting dressed up, wearing a NEW t-shirt and panties that don't have holes in them? The girl who farts all the time and has even gotten a bit lazy in excusing herself, and instead makes proud comments? ME? I was stunned.

He came back to the table and sat down, kissed me again and then my tourettes kicked in.

"Sometimes when I'm bored I look at wedding dresses online."

WHAT???!!! That did not just come out of my mouth. My mind screamed at me, "You dumb bitch! Do you KNOW what you've just done? Go home, pack your bags and leave...you're fucked. You can tell him you've thought about marriage too, but DO NOT tell him you've looked at wedding dresses online, you retard!"

I sat there with my mouth hanging open, wishing for a rewind button.

He smiled and said, "You know what, I think that's a good thing. You should keep looking."

And my heart melted. Mystery isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I have always been one who prides themselves on learning from their mistakes. Sure, sometimes it takes a few mistakes to point me in the right direction. Hell, sometimes it's taken me years to even realize that something is a mistake, but me...when I figure it out I'm pretty good at learning and changing directions. Dump Coke on my head when using that hand holding said Coke to open the gate...set can down or use other hand. Bleach my own hair to find it has turned pink...don't bleach own hair. Get blisters after using baby oil in the summer...realize I am entirely too pasty to use tanning lotion yet alone baby oil to try to darken my resistant skin. Of course there are major lessons learned as well. Moving will not solve problems that existed in wherever I was living prior...many of them travel entirely too well. Never do something because you feel like you have to, or because you assume it's what comes next...particularly when marriage is what you're doing. Sleeping with someone does not make them love you...it's just another trip to the doctor to ensure "that bastard" didn't give you an STD. There are much more brutal lessons that I won't go into, but trust me...I've learned. However, there is something I seem to keep fucking up over and over and over...Southern hospitality and niceties.

Now I am proud of the fact that I grew up in the Seattle area. There are so many things I love about that place, but let's face it, the attitude received by many newbies and visitors is what I have heard referred to many times as "the Seattle chill". It didn't always used to be like that. Growing up there, before Bill Gates took over the land, job market, and cost of living by driving all his minions to leave their shit homes in California and buy up mansions in the Seattle metropolitan area, it was a great place to live. People said "hi" as you walked down any sidewalk or at least smiled; you used to know your neighbors; and people were...gasp...really friendly. I'm not trying to say it still doesn't hold some realm of truth to the old days, but it's definitely changed. You only get the "hello"s or smiles when you are outside doing something physical like hiking, walking, biking or boating. You used to get waves when you let another car in, but now it's rare. Hell, my friend once got chased for MILES because she merged into traffic in front of another car and had to drive to the police station! People keep to themselves more in public, they don't smile at you when you walk down the street unless they think you're going to sleep with them or possibly buy some drugs from them. This is not to say everyone there is rude. Most of my friends are there and are fabulous, amazing, kind, good souls. Of course, I got to know them in other ways. I either met them through other people, worked with them, or was so drunk at some point in the night that I hugged them and exclaimed, "We HAVE to hang out!" and actually got their phone number. My homeland is full of good people, but we also keep to ourselves a bit more unless alcohol is involved.

My experience the first time I moved to Arizona was pretty much the same. You befriended your coworkers, friends of friends, and met your neighbors when you got high with their friend after you woke up to them beating each other up. Once again, most were really amazing people, but it's not the kind of warm fuzzy place where someone just strikes up a conversation with you while you check out in the line at the grocery store. My second move to Arizona was the same, but a little colder. I once again met great people whom I loved, but those were my coworkers and friends of friends. The people on the street were worse than what I had grown accustomed to in the ever-changing Seattle are because this time around Phoenicians thought I was HOMELESS! This threw me off guard a bit. Sure I dressed really casual in a city full of power suits in the downtown area despite the fact it was 110 degrees. But I didn't look any different than I had in Seattle. Then I got my eyebrow pierced while there, and this seemed to confirm the business folk that I was surely eating trash outside the dumpster of the theatre rather than dropping some stuff off for work. Hell, it was just my eyebrow, not my eyelid or forearms. But in their eyes, my casual dress and eyebrow piercing equaled homelessness. Both times of mistaken identity were while outside on the sidewalk, smoking. Once someone yelled for me to "get a fucking job" and the other time a man walked up to me and started counting out change to give me. "No! I'm on my break!" I explained. He looked at the building, surely making sure he was not in front of a mission, looked back at me standing there with my mouth agape, shrugged and walked away. I wanted to run to him and make him smell my armpit, which wore deodorant, just to prove myself, but I did not.

Flagstaff was much more different. Sure I once again met almost everyone through friends, but people smiled as you passed them on the street and sometimes stopped and chatted with you. People were extremely friendly, but most people were drunk or stoned. Still, you had to love them for their efforts.

Then there was Kentucky...my first taste of living in the South. I lived in the tiniest of towns and commuted to Lexington each day for my jobs. I met some really cool people through work and met some people I thought were cool, but ended up being psychotic. Still, out and about, people were super friendly and talkative. This is where I burned a hole in a cowboy's shirt who reassured me it was okay because his girlfriend gave him that shirt and he was about to dump her. This is where people would walk up to you at a bar and just start friendly conversation. It was a very new experience to me. And then I discovered the one-finger wave. I learned of this by an unfortunate mistake. My mom and I were leaving her house in the tiny town we lived in, and were making our way down the winding, country road (no really, it was winding AND country) when I passed a car coming the opposite direction. That's when I saw it with my horribly impaired vision...the bird. This old man driving by gave me the bird as we faced each others car. So I flipped him off back and screamed, "FUCK YOU!!!" My mom was shocked, "Heather! What the hell are you doing?" I explained that he flipped me off for no reason, so I was giving him the same gift.

"Heather, he waved at you with one finger...his index finger. They all do that around here." And then I think she explained that it's just safer to do than a full wave.

Oh my god. I just flipped off a country neighbor, and an elderly one at that! This is surely a qualification for my spot in Hell. We were living on five acres in the middle of nowhere and now he was surely going to send some inbred son to come and punish me for my sin. The dog had brought down some a piece of a spine out of the woods by us the other day, probably that of another poor, misguided Western girl who didn't know any better.

From then on I made sure to one-finger wave back at people. I'm so damned blind that I'm sure there were times that I was legitimately being flipped off, but if so, I just lifted my index finger to give a courteous "hello" in response to their "fuck you".

When I moved back to Seattle, all of this melted away and I was back to screaming and flipping people off if they honked, flipped me off, cut me off, etc. I learned once again not to expect small talk when you're checking out in the grocery store or anywhere else for that matter with the exception of the "Have a nice day" farewell most retailers give you.

Then it was off to High Point where I had to learn to chill the hell out. Parts of the town gave waves, but not everywhere. High Point's friendliness was all in the talk. People would chat your ear off anywhere. I didn't know many people when I was there, but one of the people I did say good-bye to was the guy who ran the self-checkout stand at Harris Teeter. I was always at the grocery store and he was always striking up conversation. People talk a lot all over the place there. It took me a long time to not roll my eyes, tap my feet or make loud huffing noise when the person in front of me started talking about their backaches or how their husband's job hunt was going, with the cashier. By the time I left I learned a great deal more patience because of this, and ended up leaving stores smiling a lot more because of friendly banter at the register.

Once again this went out the window when I moved back home. Traffic, constant gloomy weather, and a city's mentality of "go, go, go" will do this to you. I was back in my old ways. Temporary amnesia of a calmer life with more patience.

So now here I am back in North Carolina, but in a true city. People never wave when you let them in, but I'm on a crusade to bring the car wave back and make sure to do so whenever I'm let in. Hell, I'm waving a "thanks" at the person behind me even though they had three-cars length between them and me. I just want to make sure they see I have waved just in case. People do chat a lot more here like it was in High Point, but not to where you're ready to rip their face off and throw it into Aisle 2 because you have to pee and they won't shut up so you can leave. I like it here. Sure I've fucked up on the neighborly niceties, I mean when my neighbor's car rolled down his driveway into the yard of the house across the street as the impending victim screamed, "NO! NO! NO!" I ran down the hill not to make sure everything was okay, but to see the house get hit (a large bush stopped it) and then ran screaming back to the house, "Pete! Pete! You gotta see this!" Other than that I thought I was adjusting back to the South quite nicely until the incident with the white truck.

My first encounter was while walking the dog. I was approaching our house with Maxine when a huge, white truck slows down and says something. I jumped and being too blind to see who it was, and too deaf to hear what the man (I at least got that part) said, I assumed it was rude and scowled at him. Being that I had a leash in one hand and a bag of crap in the other, my middle finger was not available to flip him off so I shook my bag of crap at him. The truck picked up his pace and pulled into the driveway of what I thought was the souped-up Acura's house. A teenager for sure. One of the "I have a small penis" teenager's friends most likely. I silently cursed him and kept moving. That night I told Pete about it.

"Maybe he was shouting because he thought you were hot?"

I gave him a crazy look. "I love you for that, but no. You are blind, though I'm grateful for that fact, but there was no mistaking me for being 'hot' in my oversized sweatshirt, baggy gym pants, giant jacket and hat. He was an asshole."

The next time I was bringing up the garbage can from the bottom of the hill. As I started to tow it up the hill, I saw that same white truck slow down and honk and gesture. Once again being too blind and recognizing that it was what I thought was a rude teenager, I assume he was flipping me off remembering the fact I shook a bag of feces at him and scowled at him as I lugged the garbage can up the hill. "Stupid asshole teenagers," I murmured.

Then it all changed this morning. The truth revealed itself. I was outside smoking when I saw that same large white truck pulled out of not the teenager's house, but the house next door. And as the truck passed, I saw it was not a teenager, but a grown man who didn't look a bit smarmy at all. And in that moment, the last two incidents flashed back to me much clearer this time. It was as if I'd gone through the kind of self-hypnosis they do on someone when they try to get them to remember the license plate of the car they saw kidnap a child. The first time he had slowed down and simply said, "hello" and I shook dog poo at him. The next time I realized he had waved as I scowled at him while lugging the trash can up the hill. Oh my god! I'm the rotten neighbor! Sure I'm not as bad as our one neighbor who had Pete babysit her kids while she and another girl confronted their boyfriend who turned out to be dating both of them and others, but still...I'm a bad neighbor.

I quickly put out my smoke and ran inside and woke up Pete.

"Honey! You know that asshole in the white truck I keep ranting about?"

Pete opened one eye, "Yes?"

I hung my head in shame. "He's our neighbor and is a grown man, friendly in fact, not a teenager giving me the bird or shouting obscenities at me. He didn't honk, wave or say anything to me this morning. I am mean."

Both of Pete's eyes opened and he pulled back the covers. He lay there staring at me for a moment and then hugged me. "Oh honey, what are we going to do with you? We definitely have to send you to Washington Deconditioning Camp before we go to New York. You'll get shot for that kind of shit there."

I hugged him back, "I know. I promise to go to camp. I want to live."