I am Maria Heinegg and these are inner workings of my half-hashed mind brought to you by the World Wide Webbing. I am a comedian as well as write for the Huffington Post Comedy Blog, ICanHasCheezburger.com and TheImpersonals.com. In addition, I try to optimize my mutual needs to cry yet maintain social acceptance by doing it in the middle of the night when I'm alone or, at the very least, on the weekends. It's a work in progress. Bon appetit.
The content on this blog is not mine unless otherwise stated, all rights belong to the respected owners.
This is Labor Day weekend. It’s the last Summer Friday at my office. If
you don’t know what Summer Fridays are, your life is probably simpler and less New York Jewish than mine. From Memorial Day weekend to Labor Day weekend, many workplaces in Manhattan let people leave in the afternoon on Fridays. And with good reasons: because they’re not total slave-driving monster chambers and they also acknowledge that nobody does work after lunch on a Friday, especially when it’s sunny and warm and sexy outside. In short, companies with Summer Fridays are non-dick realists. They get it or at least some of “it”. If they fully “got it”, I’d be quietly typing this at my personal-sized-Jacuzzi-tub-for-a-chair-with-adjoined-treadmill-desk while my pizza cooks in my desk’s toaster oven but whatever. Corporate America just isn’t ready.
But this perk, this Summer Friday I speak of, it’s also painful. Because, by the end of the summer, you’ve gotten so used to Daddy Friday taking you out for a spin that, come September, it’s back to the ol salt mines. You’ve had a taste of the good life but Daddy’s moving on. He loves you but he won’t be back til next May when the blooms on the trees make you start assessing your thighs.
Summer is ending and the heat is disappearing. Everything is preparing to wither and die and we all shortly have to start acknowledging the reality of visiting our families for the holidays. It’s not that I don’t love my family, it’s just that I’ve never felt more alone than in company of the people that raised me and care about me most.
I don’t mean to bitch about the facts of what happens when seasons change like it’s my first year on Earth but with Autumn, everything is getting darker including the days and my belief in the world. It wasn’t always this way. When I was still in school, September would roll around and I would talk myself into looking forward to “a new start”. And by “new start”, I mean that I was hoping to suddenly transform into a total babe (See the movie: “She’s All That”) and rule the school. I remember thinking, “9th grade is going to be my year!” No, Maria, no, it’s not. You’re going to wear a baby blue ribbed zip up sweater almost every day and a sophomore at your lunch table will call you a lesbian. But it’s okay. You can go to the bathroom and cry! Hey, Maria. There’s some Cheetos dust in your teeth. No, no. Leave it there.
Not a hottie? That’s okay. Maybe you’ll finally become the amazing student you have the potential of being but are too lazy to dedicate yourself to following through on. Oh, what’s that? No, you won’t? You’ll pour your heart into a paper about a girl that hates herself in sophomore Advanced English class and get a veritable check plus from a teacher that would never have been your friend in high school.
We had a “Welcome to 9th grade dance” at the end of our 8th grade year to help ease us into the high school experience. I didn’t realize at the time, but the Juniors-going-on-Seniors who hosted us at this dance were the most popular kids in high school, about to coast into their last year of domination. It’s a year round kegger, bitches! Let’s party on your dad’s boat!
I remember legitimately thinking, “Oh, these people want to become friends with me. We will continue to interact throughout this euphoric experience that is high school. Each Junior male student was tasked to dance with one female 8th grader and each Junior female with a 8th grade male. Along with the logistics of this being a perfect way to match up Amish teenagers for marriage (I’m just kidding, the men would be at monimum over 30 in that situation.) As I remember it, some boy came up to me after most were already paired and dutily asked me to dance which, I now realize was because I was not a Senior’s little sister who would be grandfathered into coolness based on genes nor was I a hot 14 year old (try as I did with my butch short cut mousy brown hair and pale, freckled skin.)
I cannot recall what I was wearing because I’m sure at some point my brain settled with itself that we needed to block that out so I’d be able to go on with my life and not have a suicidal episode based on a memory of a single outfit alone. But I can confidently guarantee you, based on likelihood, it involved bright blues and greens, giant floral prints and that my mom thought it was “really pretty!” I don’t know if you’ve heard but YOU CAN’T GO BACK, GUYS. And now I would do anything to have a picture of that ensemble. Perhaps recreate it and wear it to networking events. Wanna buy me a drink? Please don’t make direct eye contact.
But back to my dance with Prince Charming. He and I Christian-slow-danced and, because I didn’t realize this wasn’t his idea of a good time, I attempted to socialize with him like we would ever directly speak again. This is how Hollywood trained and ill-experienced with boys I was: I asked him, “So, what are you plans after you graduate? What colleges have you applied to? Do you know what you want to major in?” You know, smooth high school grown up talk. The kind of stuff that causes insta-boners in 17 year olds’ pants.. Was I a 14 year old girl or his 87 year old great aunt? Hard to decide. Bless his heart for what I recall being a few one word answers. It was so much better than the truth, “Look, I’m probably going to state school, I’ll pledge a fraternity and fuck all the size 4 blondes that mostly consent. Leave me alone, your hair doesn’t even cover your ears. I don’t care.” So, no. I’m not happy Summer Fridays are over at my office.
Who wants a pumpkin spice latte?