Chirky

If you haven't already read Part One, please do so.

With a copperhead snake slithering nearby, neither Roger nor I slept much that first night of our celebratory anniversary weekend. As such, the second day would prove to be too much for my already-frazzled emotions to handle.

As soon as light hit our tent, my eyes popped open and I was too restless to stay there any longer. I grabbed the camera and headed outside, feeling proud of myself for being so woodsy and adventurous. I timidly walked back to where we saw the snake the night before, just to ensure it wasn't still lurking, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

A few minutes later it occurred to me that I could be doing something useful with myself. Like pumping water! I grabbed the equipment and headed to the stream, and after I had the pump assembled I picked up the water platypus that I had just carried, in my hand, to the stream. And then I noticed something black. And bumpy. And a web that wasn't on the platypus the night before. The nightmare continued.

A black widow spider hovered on the dromedary, taunting me. I stopped moving, staring at it, and several seconds later I realized I wasn't breathing. Questions flew through across my mind as I carefully watched the spider: Can these things fly? Or jump? And, how fast do they run? Will it hurt when it bites me? I know they're poisonous, but just how poisonous are they? Will I die on the spot, or will it happen after I've limped my way out of this God-forsaken forest?

It was my second near-death experience in a twelve hour period and it was getting kind of old. This was supposed to be our anniversary trip, afterall. I picked up the platypus, which somehow made sense at the time, and started beating it against a tree. It didn't occur to me until afterward that the spider could have flown backward at me, attaching itself to my face and stinging me repeatedly. Or it could have nested in my hair.

[Incidentally, the venom carried by both a black widow spider and a copperhead snake are exactly the same. Convenient, no? And what happens if one attacks the other? Is the venom cancelled out?]

Back at camp Roger and I discovered that we were not only battling poisonous snakes and spiders, but also fleas and ticks and flies and horseflies. They were everywhere, flying about our heads and limbs. I started to flail my arms continuously about my body, uneventfully shooing them away.

With tweezers, I removed four ticks from Roger's calves, but somehow managed to personally get more than a hundred insect bites during the trip (Flea? Tick? Spider? Chihuahua? No one is certain.), and I have photographic evidence. In fact, I counted them. One Hundred Twenty Eight. No, seriously.

This is from a small section of my hamstring.

The flies alone were literally dripping with maggots, and by that I mean Roger actually witnessed several flies pooping maggots. They must have already been very, very pregnant with them, because he watched the flies land and lay thirty or more tiny maggots in a matter of seconds. And he didn't even freak out or squeal like I would have. Where's the fun in that? Men.

Instead of going to inspect them myself, I stood around peeling fingernail polish off of my fingers because it was so hot outside that the heat was actually melting. The surface was very sticky, and I wasn't prepared to give the flies an opportunity to land on my fingers and lay their eggs on the landfill that was collecting on my sticky, melting nails.

Back on the trail, my knees still felt like daggers were twisting about, and I could actually feel the soreness of each tendon that wrapped around my kneecap. I kept imagining scenarios of my demise, in which A) Roger would have to create a stretcher and drag me through the woods, which: Owwww or B) Roger would have to leave me, retrace his steps and flag down a car at the highway, which also would have meant that I would be alone with the snakes and spiders and bears. All I'm saying is, if we're going to die, don't you think it's sort of romantic for us to die together? Maybe holding hands while our bodies are slumped in a pool of our blood?

Roger could tell I was in pain and asked me take the lead so that I could set the pace. I think he regretted doing that because I couldn't have possibly gone any slower unless I simply stopped walking. My steps (uphill, downhill or on flat land) were so small that I Roger would wait for me to go forward five paces, then he would take one step and wait for me to take another five before he could move forward again.

Naturally, because I was leading the way, we got lost while on the trail. This meant that I took about four hundred more steps than my feet were willing to take, what with all the pain I was experiencing. Once we realized that we might have missed the turn-off, Roger doubled back to locate where we should have turned, while I moped about and entertained myself by chanting:

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? A woodchuck would chuck as much wood as a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

(I repeated this over and over and over again until I was in a fit of hysterics, laughing at myself because: this? This is what is funny when surrounded by snakes and spiders and tall grass masking other venomous creatures.)

Back on the trail, minding my own business, I happened to look ahead about six feet and I saw a stick lying in the center of the trail. A stick that was about five feet long, and very dark. And black. And kind of curly-ish. And the stick was blinking at me. Maybe.

I screamed. Rather loudly. I did the only thing I could think to do, which was turn around and run, except Roger was right behind me, so I effectively smacked him in the face with my backpack as I whipped around, flung my arms around him, and quivered as my eyes welled up with tears. He started laughing because he could feel my heart racing, so I turned back around, saw the snake still lying there, and that's when the tears began to fall. I was obviously succeeding in my plan to prove to Roger how tough I am.

The snake flung its entire body off the trail and disappeared down the side of the embankment. I scurried up the trail and followed the switchback, afraid the snake would come back. I did console myself, however, by deciding that the snake was just a water moccasin (just a water moccasin? like, the poisonous kind?) because it went in the direction of the stream, which we had just crossed.

It was not until I got home and researched the snake that I discovered that a water moccasin and a cottonmouth are the same thing, which made my third near-death experience in less than twenty four hours, and why, again, didn't we head back to Dallas after we got that speeding ticket?

I abandoned the tough-girl act and kept crying, lamenting to Roger, "Why do we have to keep going? We're not even a third of the distance we need to go. We only have two days left. We're not going to make it in time because I can't walk with my knees and arches in this condiiton. I'm tired of the run-ins with the snakes and spiders and ticks and fleas. It's so hot outside that my elbows are sweating and my fingernail polish is melting." And then I wailed: "I just can't do this anymore!"

We stopped for a picturesque lunch at a stream, where we sat on rocks and rested. The resting was nice, except I was compulsively checking for snakes. When we began hiking again, we entered a new section of the forest. I immediately noticed a large, twisty vine going up a tree, and I was thinking to myself how scary it would be if that vine was actually a snake when I heard the leaves rustle behind me. I turned around in time to see something launching itself toward my face.

Again, I screamed, while simultaneously jumping and backing away from it.

It was only a twig that Roger had accidentally stepped on. We both started laughing, but mine was more like an "I WANT TO DIE" laugh mixed with an "I AM SO PITIFUL" laugh. At that moment, both were equally true. And so I started crying, again. By this point we were averaging less than one mile each hour and still had twenty five miles to go. In a day and a half.

A few hours later we found ourselves at a large campsite and trailhead. Roger studied the map and discovered that the trailhead would be the last public area we would cross: it was our point of no return. We could stop then, or we could continue hiking the remaining distance (with a 1,000 foot climb up to the highest point on the Ouachita Trail at the end). I sat down, shoved my head in my hands, and cried for a solid thirty minutes.

When I stopped and looked up, I realized a horsefly was trying to pick the perfect realty on my scalp. I stood up, hysterically waving my arms and hurling my body around, trying to rid myself of the fly, while shrieking at it. Roger witnessed the entire thing and made the final decision that we shouldn't try to go further. I was miserable and in too much pain, physically (ankles, knees) and emotionally (snakes, snakes, sssnnnnaaaaakkkeeeesssss) to continue.

Nevermind the mental breakdown.

We decided to hike out to the road the next morning and try to hitchhike back to the trailhead, where our car was parked. [Yes, it may sound unsafe to you, but when you're irrational from ticks and fleas and deadly snakes and spiders, chancing your life with humans seems a much more pleasant affair.]

We talked about how ideal it would be for someone to drive down to the campsite, someone with a cell phone that worked in the wilderness. Then we heard gunshots. I freaked out (again), because A) it is not open hunting season and B) it's illegal to hunt in a national forest and C) freaking out seems to be the only thing I can do well on this trip.

A scraggly man walk out of the woods, shotgun slung over his shoulder. I stared at him, and Roger and I stayed quiet so he wouldn't notice us. That is, we stayed quiet until Roger started talking about the movie Deliverance, which just sent me over the edge again.

Several hours later, Roger was building a fire and I was looking for firewood when I saw a shiny white truck rounding the corner toward our campiste. I yelled for Roger, because he's The Man Who Protects. An older couple hopped out of the truck and said they were just "checking out the area" to see if they want to hike there some day. They had a cell phone, and it worked in the wilderness, and after we used it they wished us well and just drove away. Roger and I stood there, staring at each other, like, "Did that just happen?"

But you know what I think? I totally think they were angels. I think God sent them to us because He knew that I just couldn't handle any more. I mean, who just randomly drives down a backwoods highway and happens to turn down a three-mile gravel road from that highway, a gravel road that doesn't even have an exit sign -- or any sign for that matter -- a gravel road that seems like it leads nowhere and seems like it will never end until you actually get to the end and you realize, "Oh, it does end," just to look at a trailhead to see if one day they want to hike it? Who? And who also happens to have a cell phone that gets coverage where we were?

Angels, that's who.

So we made a call, arranged for the shuttle service to pick us up the next morning, and the rest of the afternoon we lounged about, fretting over whether the bears would come into our campsite.

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When Roger and I do things, we do them big. Texas big. We may not love living here, but we're totally willing to abide by the cocky rules of the land.

So Memorial Day weekend, when we were [unaware that we were] speeding through the tiny town of Krebs, Oklahoma, it is only fitting that we would be pulled over. And be given a speeding ticket. By the chief of police. If that incident was to serve as any indication of what was ahead for us, perhaps we should have turned around and driven back to Dallas. Slowly.

The lady shuttling us from the trail-end to the trailhead informed us that we should have brought our cell phone after she dropped us off. When she learned that we left it in our car, we underwent a barrage of questions and comments from her: "Do you have insect repellent? Water? Flashlights and lanterns? A map? An air horn? Bear spray? You know, the bears have been really active so far this year."

We glanced nervously at eatch other as we doused ourselves in repellent and watched her drive away, leaving us with no other option than to head out on the trail. With no means of electronic communication. Within the hour, I realized I had forgotten to put gel inserts in the soles of my hiking boots. I paid for this dearly during the remainder of the trip. I kept asking Roger, "Do you think I could just put a wool sock down there as extra padding? What about a rock? If I find rocks that are smooth, they could serve as arch supports. Would that work?"

An hour afterward, my knees began to throb. Roger offered to take more of the weight from my backpack, but I was too prideful to take him up on his offer. "Must carry all weight by myself," I chanted quietly. "Must prove to Roger that I am tough." "Must not cry." By the end of the trip I did cry, though. And for good reason.

Frequently while we hiked, Roger would exclaim, "Wow. It's so pretty out here." Of course, his view was a lot better than mine, since I was focused on the ground, and on not tripping:

My feet and ankles and knees throbbed so badly that the sun was setting when we finally arrived at our first campsite - around 8 p.m. Thanks to me, that meant we had traveled only four miles since 2:00 that afternoon. By the time we ate dinner, it was dark outside - so dark that I wouldn't dare pee alone in the woods, fearing that a wild boar would ram my bare bottom and send me flying into the brush. After dinner, as we cleaned dishes near the tent, Roger suddenly shouted, "Holy shit!"

I jumped about six inches in the air and half-whispered, half-yelled, "What? What is it? What? What? Where? What is it? WHAT IS IT?" while frantically thrusting my head about, trying to peer into the darkness.

I heard the leaves rustling, and my eyes followed the path created by Roger's headlamp. Lying still as a hunter stalking its prey, I saw a copperhead snake. A TWO AND A HALF FOOT LONG, TWO-INCH-ROUND COPPERHEAD SNAKE.

Did you know they are poisonous? Because: they are. And it was a mere four feet from our tent. The place where, you know, we were sleeping. Near the snake. The snake that had the potential to kill us. I was certain we'd be dead by morning.

Day Two can be found here.

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On Monday, Roger and I celebrated our two year anniversary. We couldn't think of any better way to celebrate (actually, we could, but we recently blew our wad in Manila, Corregidor, Baguio, and, mostly, Boracay) than to lug 45-pound backpacks up and down hills masquerading as mountains in the hot May sun of Arkansas.

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Wasabi peas are hot. And addictive. And burning my scalp.

Note to Self: When eating wasabi peas, do not close mouth. Closing the mouth only increases the heat searing the tongue. However, flaring the nostrils and deeply inhaling does lessen the electrical shock I feel in the nerves attached to each hair follicle on my head.

Curious: Wasabi paste served with sushi is typically green. This version is white. [Touch tongue to white part. Then green part. Then white part, again. Yes, the wasabi is the white part. It is very hot.]

Note to Self: When nose is running from such fiery wasabi, try to remember to not have face peering into wasabi container. Droplets of snot will be very difficult to find in such container.

Curious: How many wasabi peas can I suck on, with my mouth closed and my nosrils not flared? At what point will my head detonate, and will the ceiling catch fire from the lightening bolts exploding from my skull?

Note to Self: Do not try that again.

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This weekend Roger and I went to a wedding at Southfork Ranch.

We were a bit early because I'm a Nazi and I sweet-talked Roger into climbing into the backseat to change into his suit while I drove Mach 3 to the Ranch. As soon as we arrived, we realized that we were only the third couple there and Roger gave me that "I told you so" look.

Because Southfork Ranch epitomizes all things Dallas, we wandered around a bit and found ourselves near the horses. I love the scent of horses (please note this is NOT the same as horse manure) - I could have lingered there all day.

As we drew near this horse, he sauntered up to us, neighing and whinning and bobbing his head about. And then he went straight for my boob.

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I think it's fairly obvious by now that I will be attending BlogHer in San Jose, CA. What ISN'T obvious is how many of my readers are attending. If you're going, let me know! If you're not, but would like to, today could be your lucky day.

Minti is giving away two tickets to BlogHer. Enter to win now!

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Ahhh, infomercials. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1. You tell me about Elvis' colon.
2. You tell me about John Wayne's colon: he had forty pounds of feces in his!
3. You tell me that the average colon has 10-15 pounds of feces in it. AT ALL TIMES.

Did you know I've been wanting to lose 10-15 pounds? How convenient.

Seriously, this makes me want to hurl. Please don't click this link unless you want to see entirely nasty images of waste removed during a cleansing. If you decide to look anyway, please have a barf bag, the world's greatest invention, in hand. Gross. My stomach just turned upside down.

Also, this wasn't removed during surgery. So, seriously. This came out the natural way. Someone KEPT their excrement and THEN TOOK PICTURES OF IT. That person needs to be hospitalized.

Ironically, I keep hearing about colon cleansings and colon irrigations and something about CELEBRITIES and ENEMAS and Halle Berry and coffee grounds. Have you heard the same things?

I think this is an untapped area of The Internet. And I think there are dozens of you who have actually TRIED a colon cleansing.

So! Tell me about it! And, if you leave an anonymous comment related to your experience(s), I promise not to disclose your identity. See how considerate I am toward you and your colon?

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Last night I attempted to take out the trash, but I was prevented by circumstances beyond my control.

You see, with trash in hand I flung open the front door only to be greeted by pitch blackness. It caught me so off guard that my entire body flinched and slammed the door shut before the hairless green monster-like intruder (the ones that were certainly outside, waiting for me) could force its way inside my home.

And then, trash balanced on my hip, I simultaneously bolted the lock and pressed my body against the door so I could check the premises through the peephole. While doing so, I could only think, "The monster's gun might be pointed at the door right now, and if he aims at the center of the door and pulls the trigger, he could totally shoot me full of gun powder and splinters."

Naturally, I flattened my body against the adjoining wall and craned my neck to see out the peephole, because if the monster had the foresight to aim at the peephole (and subsequently shoot me in the head), I would totally deserve to die. Note to Self: when aiming gun at enemy, shoot the peephole. In self-defense, of course.

I gingerly unlocked the door and pried it open 1/8 of an inch so I could stare at the outdoor light, silently willing it to turn itself on. No wonder I heard the neighbors dashing up the stairs and slamming their doors behind them.

Just then the street lamp and outdoor lights began to flicker on, and I slipped onto the balcony, locked my front door, and made a run for the dumpster. Never mind my jiggly bits, wiggling and wobbling as I ran.

I made it safely back to my front door and locked it behind me as soon as I entered. And then, I heard it. That noise. Sure, it was only the air conditioner kicking in gear, but it was enough to make me jump and I swear I saw a shadow crossing the hallway.

I ran into the bedroom and stealthily shut the door, trying to calm myself. After visiting the red section of my closet, which somehow worked to help me calm down, maybe because am I really this anal?, I snuck up on the bedroom door, standing three feet behind it and straddling the walkway so the intruder couldn't see the shadow of my feet behind the closed door.

I quick! flung it open! for an element of surprise, but no one was there.

Good thing, too, because the mirror attached to the back of the door leapt from its fastenings on account of such a forceful opening, and at that moment I couldn't have properly dealt with both an intruder and a flying mirror.

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Originally uploaded by mturnage

I've said before that I feel selfish because I don't want the responsibility of having children, or that I'd rather have the freedom to travel the world with Roger. I joke with my friends about having kids and sending them to boarding school, where they can develop an English accent and be educated at one of the finer schools in the world. Finer than homeschooling - or at least better than public school in Dallas. Though I think one could grow up in a gutter and receive a better education than in the public schools of Dallas. I'm just saying.

The real truth is that I'm afraid. Is it okay to admit that? Does any new mom feel prepared to have kids? I'm afraid of the physical pain of childbirth. I'm afraid of yelling at my children. I'm afraid of not disciplining them, or disciplining them too much. I don't have a clue what to teach them or how to raise them. I fear that my children won't make wise choices in life. I feel completely inept at the thought of having children of my own.

And still, it is the only dream I've had my entire life: a dream that my own mother unknowingly shaped within me so many years ago.

I've always inwardly scoffed when I heard women talking about their "biological clock" ticking. What is that? How do they know that it exists, or that it is even ticking? But now, as I approach 28, I hear mine softly beginning to pound. It's like thunder rolling in the distance - grumbling, barely audible, but unmistakable.

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I just woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare that left me emotionally drained and crying. Not just crying - weeping. Tears streaming down my face. Hiccups. Verbal gasps for breath. Nose running. Headache. Entire body trembling. Vomitous convulsions. That type of crying.

I just took two Tylenol PM, though I'm not sure why I want to go back to sleep after that, and my head aches as if I've got a clamp holding my skull together. Right now, the entire left side of my nose is clogged. Silent tears are still streaming down my face, though the shaking and the verbal gasping have subsided.

Simply put, I dreamt that Roger had decided to leave me. He brought home a new "girlfriend" - into our home - where she met his parents, who happened to be visiting us. She looked normal. She looked like someone with whom I would have been friends. It would have been easier, maybe, if she was a prostitute. If she had no teeth and was a drug addict, perhaps. Or maybe that would have made it harder because that was better than marriage to me?

Roger had found someone who was thin and athletic. She seemed secure, joyful, intelligent. She wasn't bringing mounds of school debt into their relationship. She didn't have baggage from her traumatic past. She was everything I wasn't.

I think my fear of abandonment first began when my dad left my mom. I remember that day so vividly. My brother (Josh) and I were playing inside. Or, we were older - so maybe we were just "hanging out" inside. My mom burst into the house, flew through the kitchen, and shut the door to her bedroom. She was sobbing. Josh and I were alarmed because my mom rarely cried, particularly in the middle of the day, without good reason.

Knowing something was terribly wrong, we devised a plan to figure out why she was crying (without bombarding her). He was older, and a boy (this reasoning made sense to us at the time), so he would gently knock on the bedroom door and ask her what was wrong. I would listen through the ventilation system.

Everything went as planned until I heard my mom utter, "Your dad wants a divorce." At that time, she and dad had been married more than twenty years. I could not possibly explain (in one word) what I heard in her voice. She was crying, so the sentence was broken in sections. There was fear. Anxiety. Uncertainty. Disbelief. Alarm. Astonishment.

The moment she spoke those words, my life fell apart. I leapt up and ran out of my room. But, where would I go? In a split second I rationalized that my mom didn't know that I knew, so I couldn't act differently. I chose to plop myself in front of the television and turn it on because that would have been "normal" behavior.

I heard someone coming and I began laughing, trying to appear as though whatever I just saw on television was sooooo funny that I Can't Help Myelf. Must laugh out loud! Laughing because I felt the need to pretend everything was okay. Laughing because I didn't know what else to do with myself. Just laughing.

My brother rounded the corner and paused on the steps, staring at me. Our eyes met, and in that moment I knew that he knew that I had heard what she said. I remember that in that moment, the look he gave me spoke volumes. And most loudly, "You bitch. How can you laugh at a time like this?" Or perhaps that is what I thought about myself. He ran out the door, slamming it behind him.

I exhaled, looked back at the TV, and turned it off. He was right. Laughing couldn't mask my pain. My life changed in that moment that I stooped by the vent, listening. After that, I hated the vent. The secrets it held were too agonizing.

I carried that memory, that fear of abandonment, into my marriage. This isn't the first nightmare I've had about being abandoned, and I doubt it will be the last. By far, it was the worst.

It was vivid. It was real. And, God: I never want to have to go through that. I never again want to feel what I felt that summer I first learned that my parents were divorcing. I never want to feel what I felt in my dream.

I wanted to die. I think dying would have been so much simpler for me than living through the hell and pain of my husband leaving me for another woman. Tonight, I beheld a small glimpse of the pain my mother must have felt. It grieves me that she (or anyone) ever had to experience that.

I woke up sobbing and ran to find Roger watching theatrical trailers on the computer. So innocent, so sweet, so oblivious to the horror that transpired while I was sleeping.

He saw my body trembling, he heard me crying. He embraced me, and I found that perfect groove near his collar bone, where God designed my head to fit perfectly on his chest.

I am so thankful for his sensitivity toward me. I am so thankful for his love for me, his integrity, his reassuring words.

Still, I don't want to go back to sleep. I don't want to ever feel that pain again.

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All week long I have been reminding Roger, "Don't forget: We have a wedding to go to Friday night." This morning I was standing in my closet picking out what I will wear, and what I will wear consists of a pair of flowy black pants that have a GLITTERY WAISTBAND, a waistband which I love, despite the fact that the sequins don't actually attach at the seams. That only bothers me a little bit. Only enough for me to purchase a pack of sequins and sew them on there, because I'm obsessive and quite proud of it.

This morning, the following occurred to me:

1) It's Friday! Fridays are the first day of the weekend for me! (My freshman year of college, they year that I drowned myself in pools of beer, my weekend started on Thursdays. This is why I must state that now they begin on Fridays.)

2) The bride? The one getting married tonight? She loves showing cleavage. I mean, I don't know that she loves it, but I do know that she does it, and she may hate me for saying this, but, in her case, it totally works for her because she has the cleavage to show. I just look like a hussy when I try it, and that's why it rarely happens (unless I'm wandering around my home, ALONE, and even then, there's not that much to flaunt).

3) If we were talking about my butt, it would be a completely different story.

4) Cleavage equals liquor! Because, at the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, which I am most certainly NOT, I am CERTAIN that there will be alcohol at the wedding, and since I am officially off the meds, drinking such substance isn't as likely to cause a spewing, vomitous effect on me.

Today I called Mel to ask her what she is wearing, because a girl can never be too sure, and she informed me that actually, Jes, the wedding is on the 19th, not tonight.

So! No blushing bride until next week, but this does mean that I am going to my grocery store directly after work to pick up some navel oranges for EIGHT CENTS EACH, which I was quite disappointed I would miss because the sale is only during certain hours, and those hours would otherwise have been used by me driving to the wedding.

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When I think back over the last year (since I started taking anti-depressants), I am amazed that it has been so balanced. Yes, sometimes I still try to argue with Roger over why it is perfectly acceptable for me to "cook" english muffins for dinner, four nights in a row. I still have body image issues. I still question myself, and my relationship with God, and whether I'm happy in life, generally.

And I think the answer is yes: I am happy.

Last night marked the first day in over a year that I haven't taken any kind of medication, and it almost felt wrong going to sleep without taking a pill. I almost felt guilty, like I had just lied about eating that entire pint of Ben & Jerry's. For me, it was like a glimpse into the life of a "normal" person - not the guilty-lying feeling, but the part where I related myself to someone whose life wasn't in turmoil, whose heart hadn't collapsed. Someone who is healthy. (Or, perhaps someone just in denial of needing meds, but that's not me. Anymore.)

Today I started taking birth control again, and I only mention that because I know someone will leave a comment asking, "So, you're not taking any meds? Not even birth control?" And then I'll get all irritated and sigh out loud, and then respond, "No, you moron. I'm still taking them. I just didn't take one last night because this is my special week."

In celebration of my accomplishment, I decided to get all melancholy tonight and pull out an old journal from The Time Before The Meds. I kept a journal because it was easier for me to write how I felt in that moment, rather than try to recount it to my counselor a week later, mainly because I'm one of those people that wants you to like me, even at the cost of my own discomfort.

And because I have grown to love my counselor and wish we could go shopping together because she is always dressed so. cute., I didn't want her to think anything was wrong with me. That's why I was paying her $115 a session. So she could hear me say JUST HOW PERFECT I WAS DOING. I was totally saving face, in case she invited me to the mall after our session.

She saw through it in every respect, but knew that I wouldn't be ready to deal with the junk in my trunk until I could AT LEAST admit that life wasn't so great. In an effort to combat my tendency to, you know, LIE to her, I wrote my thoughts in a journal and would read her my entries each week. That allowed me to disconnect and just pretend like I was reading a letter from a friend, except for the part where I would start sputtering and crying and gasping for air anytime I read anything even remotely emotional, which, really, was EVERY ENTRY.

As I was reading some of these entries tonight, I started laughing because OH MY GOSH, I remember writing this and I remember feeling this way and obviously I can identify with it because IT WAS ME, but really? If you read these entries, you would probably want to gag yourself with the kitchen rolling pin just to keep yourself from laughing in my face.

What? You want examples? Okay. I'm willing to give them, but just for YOU, Internet. Because publicly humiliating myself is twenty-eight times better than wanting to die.

Here is an edited list of Reasons Why I Felt Like a Failure, as of February 9, 2005 (the original list was three pages long. I've chosen three sentences, if only to save you the pain of continuously rolling your eyes):

1. I feel like a failure to my church because I don't prefer the pastor's style of teaching.. [Yes! I'm a failure because I like other teaching styles better!]

2. I feel like a failure to Roger because I don't cook and clean everyday, and our life is not filled with rowdy, passionate, endless hours of sex. [Hahaha! This one makes me laugh. If this fits ANYONE's profile, please email me the name of your prescription. I do need that one.]

3. I feel like a failure to my hair brush because sometimes I yank my hair and it hurts and then I want to scream obscenities at my hair brush, and sometimes I do, but rather it's a muttering-under-the-breath while the bathroom door is closed. [Yes! I am failing my hair brush. You didn't know it was possible, did you Internet?]

Just for fun, I'll give you another, which I will call: Total Denial, dated February 13, 2005:

"As Roger and I were going to sleep last night, he asked me why I have been so emotional and depressed. He couldn't think of anything that had "triggered" it - I mean, my hypothetical dog hasn't died, and it also hadn't chewed my favorite pair of Italian leather shoes, so what gives?

"When he asked me that, I went from "normal" to irritated within the timeframe it would take anyone else to blink. Maybe quicker. And I thought, "Did he just have the audacity to insinuate that I've been moody? What gives him the right to even suggest such a thing?" And I snapped at him and got out of bed and stomped around some, because that is the mature response that ALL adults should model. And then I cried. Emotional. Ha! I'm not emotional. Damn it. I'll show him emotional."

[And then I'm sure there was more stomping and pouting and crying and general denial on my part, and general misery on Roger's part, and I'm quite positive he was also thinking something along the lines of "Did I marry her? Can I just pinch myself and make it all go away?" And then he probably heard me slamming cabinet doors, just to annoy him. Not that I was being passive-aggressive, or anything.]

Incidentally, in connection with the celebration of No Longer Being on Meds, I am also celebrating The Disappearance of the Dent on My Shin, which I obtained the first month of our marriage (yes! a dent in my shin that remained for TWO years!) during a 3 a.m. argument, wherein I tried to stomp off into the bedroom, but instead stomped off into the pile of garage sale things (our apartment was dark, what with the timing of the argument and all), crashing and falling and breaking a floor lamp in half and injuring my shin with such an unbelievable amount of throbbing and pain that I thought perhaps my leg had been severed mid-calf and that Roger was just being cruel to me by not immediately dialing 911, even though I totally would have deserved it.

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When a man's head begins to bald, why doesn't he also lose his eyebrows and eyelashes?

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Today, while reluctantly driving back to work after lunch, I noticed a dark maroon sign hanging from a building off of the highway. The sign was enormous, and when I read it, I nearly began hyperventilating like an 8th grader before asking a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

It read:

That's, like, better than Crate and Barrel.

Unfortunately, I don't think our pocketbook can handle the phrase, "I'll take two of everything."

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(Click the photo to watch his video)


DailyDancer.com

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I can remember, when I was just a munchkin, standing in the doorway to the garage and crossing my eyes at my mom. She would say, "Stop it, Jessica. Your eyes are going to freeze like that!" And I would laugh and uncross my eyes, just to prove (in my three-year old mindset) that she was wrong, and then I would run out to the swingset in the backyard.

For the past few years, I have noticed that one of my eyes sometimes...wafts. But only sometimes. Like when I cover one eye to read a chart, the other eye will roll away. Or when I'm trying to focus on something in front of me, one eye totally dominates and the other throws a fit and drifts to the sidelines, pouting. It's sort of fun, because NOT MANY PEOPLE CAN MAKE ONE EYE FLOAT AWAY! Had I discovered the ability in middle school, I might have used it to feature myself in the year book (for permanent documentation), or at least I would have had it highlighted in the school talent show, instead of wearing a grass skirt and sports bra whila "hula dancing."

But then there are those people who really have a lazy eye. A permanent lazy eye. Like my accountant. And I never know where I should look. Because neither are totally drifting - they're just kind of hovering in different directions like two UFOs preparing for a duel. Doesn't that give him a headache? Because when my eye does that, I get a headache.

And will he be offended if I'm looking at the wrong eye? Because how am I supposed to know? Should I just flat-out ask which eye is better for him? Would that be rude? Perhaps sandwiched between other questions to make it seem as though it is all part of our normal conversation? "Hello! How are you doing? LOVE the haircut. How is your family? What eye should I look at? Are my taxes going to kill me this year?"

Wasn't that natural?

Because you know you're aching for a demonstration like your stomach aches when you've just consumed four foot-long chili cheese dogs with extra onions (and I just realized that a video of this would have been even better), I took a picture of my eye! Drifting!

See it? See the eye on the left pointing down, and the eye on the right looking straight ahead? Raw. Talent.

Turns out my mom was right. Or, partly right. Because my eyes haven't permanently crossed, but they TOTALLY drift. It's okay though: I won't get offended if you ask me where you should look. I'll just freak out and run to the mirror, camera in tow.

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Tonight, standing in the grocery store line, I saw a woman's crack. It wouldn't have bothered me so much if her pants were slung a little too low around her hips. But this: this was from the wrong angle.

As I was watching my groceries move along the conveyor belt, I saw an odd image from my peripheral vision. I saw something dark. And camouflaged. I looked up and was greeted by something mASSive.

I tried not to stare, but I couldn't NOT stare. And then I felt very lesbianish, because all her friends were staring at me staring at her. Which didn't help, because I tried to look away only to look back again in an effort to reassure myself that I wasn't just imagining her butt hanging out of the bottom of her dress.

I desperately wanted to take a picture. But if I whipped out my camera, it would have been a little bit obvious. Plus, I didn't have it with me. And then I realized: I need a camera phone.

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Roger and I recently decided to make the largest purchase of our lives together: a home in Dallas, Texas. We are pre-approved for a loan, and have a realtor helping us. We've looked all over Dallas for the house. And, need I mention that our lease expired April 30th?

We made a simple list of everything we wanted in a home:

• Four bedrooms
  
• Three bathrooms
  
• Two car garage
  
• A very large kitchen, with lots of counter space, and double ovens
  
• A big backyard for dogs and kids to chase each other
  
• A safe neighborhood (not near ghetto apartments)
  
• Not near an active railroad track
  
• Lots and lots of windows
  
• Interesting architectural lines
  
• Sprinkler system!
  
• A very large master bathroom, with a separate tub and shower, and preferably styled like the bathroom we had at the Four Seasons Costa Rica.

Since we know exactly what we want, it shouldn't be too hard to find. Don't you think?

So! In the midst of our search, we remembered that we don't actually want to live in Dallas for much longer, because we consider it a flat slab of concrete, and because it is quite pretentious, and because we have to drive twelve hours to get anywhere halfway interesting.

If we buy a house here, it kind of makes living in Dallas feel permanent. At least permanent-ish. After not much debate, we realized, "What were we thinking?"

We're resigning our lease for another year, and it is my personal goal to MOVE! once the lease expires.

This is where you come in, Internets. Where should we move? I'm personally voting for: San Diego, Portland or overseas. Sole preference: the location must be relatively near both the beach and the mountains.

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Do diet pills actually work? Or do you just lose weight because you can't eat as much when your tummy is full of water because you have to take a pill before each meal?

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I am participating in a self-portrait challenge in an effort to document more of who I am. I've realized that I hide behind a mask of what I think others want to see. In an effort to dissolve that tendency, some things may be a little different around here.

If you are a new reader, I've introduced myself before, here and here.

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