Chirky

HONK!

A little over a year later, Bianca HONK! and I returned to Hot Springs with our
friend Heather. The three of us wandered down the main strip of the historic
district, taking in the sights, poking our heads into the little shops and
falling in love with the eclectic music we found in Romancing the Stone.

That night we bought tickets to see Maxwell Blade, the Magician, which was a
surprisingly good show. One night, we also found a fabulous German restaurant. I
say fabulous, because I actually liked the food, which is a rare occurrence when
I eat most anything German.

During this trip, we were pampered again at Buckstaff. Instead of getting the
regular package, we also indulged in a Swedish massage and a hand paraffin
treatment. As always, the bathhouse was fantastic. When they came out, Bianca
HONK! and Heather looked so relaxed I thought they might float away.

I, on the otherhand, was given a massage by a "woman" with a very deep, scratchy
voice. She "massaged" me with what I still believe was mayonnaise, barely
touching my skin. PEOPLE, THIS WAS NOT A SWEDISH MASSAGE. SHE WAS TRYING TO
SEDUCE ME WITH MAYONNAISE. When it was FINALLY over, I crept out of the room as
she called after me, "Come back soon…" in a deep, husky voice. I almost felt
violated.

Afterward, Heather and Bianca HONK! and I sat at a table, laughing and
repeatedly dipping our hands in extremely hot wax. It was a little painful, but
at the same time it felt soothing, and for me, cleansing, considering my recent
mayonnaise incident.

* * *
Tomorrow, Part Three in a Three-Part Series somehow involving Bianca. HONK!

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New Year's Eve 2000, Bianca and I decided late in the afternoon to go out of
town to ring in the New Year. Unsure what to do, we reserved a room in Hot
Springs, AR through Priceline.com, packed our bags, and headed out. We took
Bianca's car, because mine didn't have a heater. We also took a portable stereo
and lots of batteries, because hers didn't have a radio.
This only supports my theory that Bianca and I were SO GHETTO during college.

Along the way, we stopped at every Wal-Mart within visible distance from the
highway to search for sparkling grape juice. But not ANY brand. THE brand. THE
one that is better than them all. THE One that my mother special-ordered twenty
cases of for my wedding. (Thank you, mom!) Several times we had to exit and loop
around until we figured out how to get to the Wal-Mart.

Unfortunately, we could never find it and had to settle for a lesser brand.
We were still in the car by the time midnight rolled around, so we looked at
each other, sleepily, and said, "Happy New Year!" We knew we would celebrate
again when we got there, which was "probably in thirty minutes."

When we finally reached our hotel, it was 2am. Even still, we broke out the
bottle of sparkling juice, popped the confetti poppers we brought, and toasted
each other in our plastic hotel cups.

We woke up in the morning to a closed town. Nobody could understand why we
wanted to get OUT of Dallas for New Year's. We wandered the streets, drove
around the city, and discovered an overlook from a hot spring mountain, part of
the Ouachita Mountain terrain in Arkansas.

The following day we had classes. Determined not to miss them, we each scheduled
a 7am massage from a local masseuse. He was a man, and it was kind of shady, but
thankfully neither of us were harmed.

We quickly hurried out and to the Buckstaff Baths, one of my most favorite (and
inexpensive!) pampering places in the world, where we indulged in a hot spring
soak, a steam bath, Sitz bath, and a needle-point shower�

(Tune in tomorrow for Part Two of Three.)

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As a wedding gift, Roger's parents gave us (among other items) tickets to the
Philippines, where Roger was born and raised. These tickets came with
instructions that they hoped to see us visit within three years.

A few nights ago, after much planning, we received confirmation that we will fly
out January 21 and not return until February 4, 2006. Roger and I would like our
schedule to look something like this:

Our first 5-6 days we plan to spend in Manila, discovering the city and touring
the sights. We'll also visit friends still living there, and Roger's school that
he attended (except when home on furlough) from Kindergarten through his senior
year. Our next 4 days will be in Baguio, the mountains where Roger and his
family vacationed each year while living in Manila. Our last 4 days will be
spent on the pristine beaches of the Philippine coast.

You must know that I love to plan. Especially plan trips, because I am
completely obsessed with the Internet and all the information available to me as
my fingers glide through the pages. I don�t know how this world ever survived
without the Internet. I cannot remember the days when I actually had to go
research library catalogs for information that I needed. Since we received the
ticket confirmation, my extra time has been spent on the Internet in this way:
1. Researching hotels in the Philippines
2. Researching beaches in the Philippines
3. Researching how to get my passport changed into my new last name
4. Planning to lose weight, but not doing anything about it. Just being
honest, folks.
I've taken care of the third item on the list, but the others are still a
work-in-progress.

I was sitting on the floor on Sunday morning, getting ready for church. As I
shut one of my dresser drawers, I realized that I had no clue what was in the
drawer above it. I thought to myself, "This is my drawer. How can I not know
what is in it?"

Curious what I might have put in this drawer, I opened it.
Excerise clothes sprung toward me.
Finding that drawer should help with number four.

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Don't tell my mom, but today I was sniffing white out. en I was in high school, I remember kids getting expelled for doing this stuff.

The only difference between them and me was my intent. I wasn't making a lame
attempt at killing brain cells or getting high. My left hand was innocently
resting on the desk, holding the bottle. I leaned over until my eyes were
approximately 3 inches from my paper, and with the skilled hands of a surgeon I
spread the white out over my tiny mark. I should go to medical school with this
talent, folks.

That's when it happened. The delicious scent wafted beneath my nostrils, and it
was like a guilty pleasure. Like fresh-cut grass, or a baby's hair, or a freshly
painted room, or gasoline. The latter two I can only take in small portions, but
I love them just the same.

It's okay to admit that you like them too, SUCKER.

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A couple weeks ago, I was standing in my bathroom admiring my belly. A few minutes later, Roger walked into our bedroom. I turned toward him, lifted my shirt to expose my stomach, and said, "Don't you think I have a good tan?"

The expression on his face reminded me of a deer in headlights, and I knew he was trying to figure out how to answer the question without getting himself into trouble. His eyes began to dart between my eyes and my stomach, and he slowly said, "Ummmm..." with a questioning look as he pursed his lips, twisting them to the side, and tilted his head.

In those few seconds that Roger was deep in thought, I clarified, "I know it's winter, and I know I'm not as dark as I am in the summer, but for being winter, and for having my skin hidden for several months, I still think I'm pretty tan.
Well, maybe not ta-aannnn, but certainly not pasty, don't you think?"

He furrowed an eyebrow and glanced toward the door, planning his escape route.

"Roger, don't you think?"

"Ummm, yeah. You don't look too bad."

* * *

Today I ate my lunch outside, since it's nearly 80 degrees. In hopes of getting toasted, much like you toast a marshmallow to a golden brown perfection and not like you seek help in the bottom of a bottle, I propped my pantyhose-less legs up on the next chair.

After a while, I noticed that the color of my legs faintly resembled my napkin. As I continued to stare at them and twist them in the sunlight, I realized with horror that my legs, indeed, were pasty and in desperate need of mass quantities of sunlight.

* * *

In hindsight, I now understand that I should have interpreted "the look" from Roger a bit differently. I think he was actually trying to say, "Sweetie, I don't want to hurt your feelings. But you must remember that you are only 1/8th
Romanian, and your skin tone has faded through the generations. You are not pasty, but you are not tan. Please never ask me this question again unless you have just spent four weeks in the South Pacific and no one can tell if your brown shirt is long sleeve or short sleeve. Then, and only then, will it be appropriate for you to ask me this question."

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This morning, as I was backing out of my parking space, I noticed Roger walking behind my car on his way back to our apartment.

I braked and heard the words forming in my head: "Whoa! I don't want to run over my husband. That would suck."

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When Roger and I first married, I was without a job. I had the entire day to plan an entire menu, shop for groceries, and cook him dinner. Nay, a gourmet meal. Roger would come home after work, and dinner was served within half an hour.

Now that we both work full-time, things have changed some. For example, last night Roger called me and asked what my plans were for dinner. Our conversation went something like this:

(Ring, Ring)
J: Hi Sweetie!
R: Hi! I was wondering what you were thinking about dinner.
J: I'm not thinking anything. What about you?
R: I'm fine with PB&J.
J: Great!

Just doing my part to shatter the expectations of my single friends, who might believe that marriage is punctuated with all gourmet meals and romance.

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My husband, and his romance with romance:

In case you haven't yet realized it, I believe that he's the most romantic soul on this planet. Last night I got home and unlocked the door to find a candlelit dinner on a perfectly-set table. A vase overflowing with multiple shades of
plump pink tulips. Opera music gently drew me into our home.

A card was propped up on the table, and behind it a puzzle box. Inside the puzzle I found a sliver of paper folded super-tiny. Let me guess...you're nosy, and want to know what it said... right?

He got us tickets to see the ballet Swan Lake! Needless to say, I'm feeling very mushy and newlywed-ish. Of course, I am still officially a newlywed, so this is excusable behavior. Last night, we celebrated our TENTH monthiversary.

I know, I know. It's not like we're breaking records or something.

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Last night Roger and I had a date night. And, as you incorrectly guessed, it did not involve him playing computer games and me watching 24. Well, not at first. We did that AFTER our date night. C'mon, folks! Give us some credit!

Instead, we watched Vanity Fair. Now, I love Reese Witherspoon. And the scene with the Indian dancing alone was enough to make me want to buy this movie.

BUT DID THE MOVIE HAVE A POINT? At the end of the movie, it just ENDED. All of a sudden. With no warning at all. I looked at Roger and I was all, "Is that it?!? They can't just end there. Did they just decide that they were tired of writing scenes for the movie, and so they just stopped filming?"

He rolled his eyes and laughed at my devastation, and I was all, "That's a horrible ending to a movie. They can't just END IT ALL OF A SUDDEN WITH NO WARNING AT ALL." And Roger said, "Well, maybe it was a movie that was supposed to be an irony, because she ended up with him and was flirting with him in the beginning."

And then I scoffed, because, WHO DOES THAT?

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One of my favorite moments during the year (because it happens so rarely) is when I walk into the ladies room at work and the lights flicker on. This little electronic signal means that no one has been in the restroom for at least a
certain number of minutes. I know this because the lights shut themselves off after a certain amount of time of not being used...to conserve energy, got it?

Somewhat related, I think it is important that you know that my bladder has its own brain. And when it wanders into a public restroom and realizes that the lights are flickering on, it begins to send messages to itself to relax, and
skips toward the middle stall. The middle stall, because there are rules:

Rule Number One: You cannot go to the first stall, as this is too close to the door. Going to this stall means that you are being hasty. Take the extra two steps.

Rule Number Two: You cannot go to the last stall, because we all know what that means.

Rule Number Three: Either the second or the third stall is acceptable; provided, however, that no one is occupying the adjacent stall. If someone is occupying the adjacent stall, it is acceptable break either Rule Number One or Rule Number Two.

My bladder is introverted, and when forced to be in the restroom with other bladders it becomes a wallflower. My brain spends several long seconds coaxing my bladder's brain to just forget about the other person. And when that person has done the same, or when the sink faucet is turned on, or when any toilet is flushed, my bladder is finally convinced that it is acceptable to be in the ladies room with other people who are in the ladies room for the exact same reason.

You may consider this as Too Much Information, but then, why did you continue to read it if you thought that? You only have yourself to blame.

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Last night Roger and I were discussing the possibility of him visiting a friend in California this summer to go hiking.

Roger wants to hike the High Sierras. I just want him to be careful and not die.

I started to get sad at that thought, and internally felt compelled to tell him that I loved him. So I did. Nevermind that he was drifting off to sleep and only managed to mumble, "Sweetie Pie..." When he didn't respond with pledges of his own love, my heart sank. I looked out the window, and then heard the sweetest noise. A snore. A snore that was barely audbile, but it was there. And then it rose into a low, deep growling snore.

I laid in bed giggling because his snoring brought me such delight. Except I was trying to stifle my giggles, because I didn't want to wake him up, and if you know me, you know that my giggles are full-body affairs. As he continued to
snore, I became more and more overwhelmed with how much I LOVE THIS MAN!!!

Even if he doesn't proclaim his love to me with wide-eyed adoration.

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If you must know, I stayed up two episodes past my bedtime last night watching Season Two of 24. After six episodes, this season has FINALLY started to become addictive for me. Today my life has been full of yawns and pinching myself so I don't fall asleep.

Sunday afternoon I babysat my most adorable nephew ever (and my only nephew), Chase. He's 18 months old, and chatters a lot, but I can't understand a word he says. I just fake it, and say, "Oh my gosh, really?" and "I think so too!" and "Yum! It is such a pleasure for me to eat this chewed up goldfish cracker. Thank you so much for taking it out of your mouth and putting it in mine while I'm trying to yawn. No, really. The soggy cracker is great." Everytime I get to babysit him always make me want to see him more.

That, or have a baby of my own. I want my own baby to go see-sawing in the park with and chasing the giant dog. I want my own baby to turn around and point at the dog every few steps, showing me that my sweet little baby can chase the ferocious animal. I want to tell my own baby, "You're doing so good! Keep chasing the ferocious mammoth that could gobble you up in one bite!" Roger gets nervous when I babysit for that very reason. Not because Chase could be eaten by the dog, but because we're wanting to wait a few years before having our own edible children. Until then, I'll just have to nibble on the fat thighs on my nephew.

* * *

Saturday night Katie and Eddie came over. We ate, and played games, and took pictures. I have so much fun with Eddie and Katie, and Roger and I have to clear our entire calendars until Eddie tells us when he is available. HE IS THAT POPULAR. And then we plan a game night, and rejoice, because it's so fun to play with friends. At the end of the night, Katie started a food fight with the Cool Whip. Imagine a Wet Willy of Cool Whip. Katie thought that the flowers she brought just weren't enough, and gave us the Wet Willy Whip as a parting gift. Eddie just got it in the face from her. AND I GOT IT ALL ON CAMERA. Yeah, you just wait a few months til I get THOSE developed.

* * *

Friday night Roger and I had a date night. For seven hours. Seven hours of pure bliss, during which Roger played his computer game in the study, and I watched 24 in the bedroom, and every once in a while wed go say hi to each other.

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

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Today Mel and I went to lunch to celebrate her last day at work. We walked over to Campisi's and ate out on the patio, soaking up the sun rays and laughing as we gossiped about our lives. Eating on the patio is always fun because Mel and I both like to people-watch. There were lots of interesting people.

Like the tall, thin dwarf. Or "little person." Most little people that I have known have been sort of short and squatty. And they made their own clothes, which is so cool because I don't know how to sew. But this guy was different. It
was obvious that he was a little person, but he was very thin for a dwarf, and tall. Maybe 4' 10". He's probably one of those guys who lies on his personal ads, and says he's 4' 10" but truthfully he's 4' 8 1/2". (Okay, fine, all guys do that.)

A friend of mine recently put an ad on match.com. We always talk about the guys who contact her, and she shows me their personal ads and I read them and tease her about most of what they say. Then I tell her which one I think she should go on a date with. It's been entertaining. But it seems men have an issue with lying about their height.

Then Mel pointed out this woman in jeans and an enormous plaid shirt. To clarify: the shirt wasn't enormous, just the plaid print. And Mel says, "Isn't that the lady who got fired because she kept stinking up the bathroom?"

And I immediately snapped my head around and my eyes darted back and forth trying to figure out who she was talking about, because I remembered it being a serious issue among the women in our office, and I remembered the rumors that someone finally got the can for it (ha)! I also remembered the stinky bathroom and I remembered the rose-colored bottle of air freshener that was always in the bathroom. And I cannot forget how disgusting it smelled when the two scents were mixed together.

"Where? Which one? I never knew who it was!" I exclaimed, and Mel pointed her out to me. And then I stared at her as Mel confirmed to herself that she is infact the one that always stunk up the bathroom. When she turned the corner, I couldn't help but stare at her butt as she walked away, wondering why it was so stinky.

Since I was already staring at Stinky's behind, I started noticing other people's too. And this man walked by in jeans, and he had the most gigantic butt i've ever seen on a man. It was round, like his jeans had been stuffed with balloons. Like two big rump roasts waiting for the crock pot. Except you'd never want to season it and sink your teeth into that. Sick.

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When I was in middle school, or maybe elementary school, I hated washing dishes. My distaste for the task was so great that on one occasion I actually hid from my mom after dinner.

My childhood friend, Megan, was at my house, and we concocted this plan to hide in the bathroom after dinner. We cleared the table and successfully snuck away. I hid behind the shower curtain and Megan crawled inside the linen closet.

We were in there, whispering and quietly giggling, when we heard the door open. Someone flipped on the light, and then the door shut. I didn't know what Megan was doing, so I held myself as still as I could, and breathed as silently as possible hoping that our mysterious disappearance wouldn't be short-lived.

I heard pants unzip, and the quiet creaking of the toilet as someone sat down. Then, the sigh of relief. As I recognized the voice behind that sigh, my entire body tensed and I became afraid. If my dad caught me hiding in the bathroom, I would be in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. I finally decided just to wait it out, because How Long Could This Take?

The scent filling the air informed me that this trip might take longer than I originally expected, and after a full minute of absolute torture to my nostrils, my tiny and timid voice reached my dad's ears: "Daddy?"

Silence.

"Jessica, what are you doing in here?!?"

"Ummm" ... (long pause) ... "hiding from mom?"

An eternally long ten-second silence ensued.

"Dad, can I leave?"

"By all means, please do."

"Dad? Megan is in here too."

"Girls, get out!" he bellowed.

I don't know how Megan managed, but I closed my eyes and darted for the door.

Since that day, I've been traumatized. I am entirely unable to use the restroom in anyone's home without first checking behind the shower curtain. EVEN IN MY OWN HOME, EVERYTIME I WALK INTO THE RESTROOM.

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There was a dark time in my life when I was just an irresponsible college student. I was a freshman and I lived in the dorms. It was my first time away from home. I fully embraced my freedom.

I went to Wal-Mart at 3 AM, just because I could. I stayed out dancing until the bars closed, just because no one was there to tell me not to do it. I dated impossibly wrong men for me, just because I was young and stupid and had no sense.

I don't remember much of my time at SFA. I'm not sure if that's because trauma has blocked it from my memory or because I was inebriated from Thursday to Sunday nearly every weekend, or at least during some part thereof.

I did nothing but exercise and party (odd combination - I know) and I left after my freshman year with 12% bodyfat and a 1.55 GPA. I dated a body builder at the time, whose only addiction was protein shakes and dumbbells.

And women. No explanation necessary, but I will say that there was a period of several weeks wherein I would see him on campus and immediately become ill because I knew what he had been doing and I didn't like it. Jerk.

I will have you know that I didn't hold my grudge for longer than two months, a perfectly reasonable amount of time if you ask me, and once I transferred to another University I eventually graduated with a 3.4 GPA. Considering how I finished my freshman year, I think this is important.

It is also important because it helps me remember the darker days in my life, and I become not-so-embarrassed about bending over and splitting my pants into three different pieces. And then telling the Internet all about it.

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Today a sound occurred that you never want to hear when you are squatting under your desk, ready to rush off to lunch. My entire body went into shock, and I remained motionless for a full six seconds before I settled back into my chair, where I sat very still for four more seconds, all the while thinking, "Oh, God. What was that? Don't let it
be true. Sometimes it is easier to play stupid and pretend that you don't know, even when you do because you heard it AND you felt it. It was The Feeling. I even prayed that I was mistaken.

But God doesn't bargain, and perhaps He would like me to exercise rather than sit like a sloth in front of the TV for eight hours at a time while I watch 24 until 11:30 pm just to be forced out of bed in the morning by an alarm clock that WON'T. SHUT. UP.

I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, so I quickly stood up, swiped my hind parts, and ducked into the ladies room to view the area affected by The Feeling. I stood staring at myself in the mirror, at all different angles, for a full two minutes, and then went into the stall to assess the damage.

Thankfully, that ripping noise I heard was the lining of my pants and not my slacks. Little flaps of ripped lining folded over and caused odd-shaped lines and wrinkles in my hind parts, which I happily accepted considering what COULD have happened.

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In third grade, I participated in an Easter Celebration at Samuell Farm. My friend and I won the three-legged race, and in return we each received a five pound bag of Jelly Belly's. We also tried our luck at the Easter Egg Hunt,
on the farm, in our pretty dress-up Easter clothes and white patent leather shoes. Whoever found the golden goose egg won the grand prize. It should have been easy to find, because:

a) what egg is gold?
b) a goose egg is about 4 inches tall
c) did you read a & b?

I never found the golden goose egg.

Last night I had a dream about it, though. Except we weren't at Samuel Farm, and I wasn't a third grader, and my little friend didn't exist. Mary Anne and Megan (family friends we've known my entire life - Mary Anne is my mom's age and Megan is my age and we played in our cribs together) and my mom and I had been given a special invitation to an Easter Egg Hunt in Donald Trump's home.

Every egg was a golden goose egg, and twisted apart to reveal a prize inside. Some eggs had a car key, one had a set of walkie-talkies, some held cash. As we searched further and further, the golden goose eggs became more like gigantic, slimy skinned peaches. The gift held within the last golden goose egg was a silver dinner fork, still in its original packaging, complete with a pricetag of $24.77.

Megan excitedly reached within the neck of her shirt and pulled out the silver chain she wore around her neck. On the chain were two dessert forks and one dinner fork that matched the fork that Trump had hidden within this egg.

I don't know the point of this dream, but I thought it was pretty odd that Megan was wearing forks on a chain around her neck.

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