Chirky

The last time I bonded for a weekend with strangers, I was in 7th grade and was at church camp. My cabinmates and I would try to sneak out the miniscule windows of our wooded home-away-from-home and run over to the boys’ side of camp, lipstick in hand, and draw red and pink hearts on the windows and mirrors of our crush’s cabin before getting caught by any boys (or worse, any camp counselors). Then the next day we would play coy while giggling about it.

When I arrived at BlogHer, I knew almost immediately that the experience would surpass that year at church camp (but mostly because I’m older now and I’ve learned better places to put my lipstick) (take that as you will).

Initially I felt a little uncomfortable in my own skin. Among the great writers who were attending the conference, I felt like a fraud – like an imposter alongside women who are wittier, more talented, more published than I. Who am I, to rub elbows with the likes of these women, to talk with them about their lives and their interests and the things that matter most to them?

Then it occurred to me: I’m idolizing some of these women. I’m choosing to believe that they are somehow different from me. Yes: they are published, talented writers. But on a more humane level, we're not all that different from each other.

We each suffer from insecurities that make us feel nervous or intimidated, whether it be because of our body image, our intellect, our parenting skills or our lifestyle choices. We choose to write blogs because they are an outward expression of some of our most inward thoughts and interests. At our core level, we are all very much the same.

This weekend at BlogHer 06 was a whirlwind of women, workshops, and alcohol. I’ve posted a piece about it for JobsInThaCity.com, but a more personal account will soon follow on this site.

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Oh, man. It's 10:25 a.,. and I was supposed to leave the house at 10. The airport - it is beckoning me.

My bags are half-packed, but my hair looks good. My legs are shaved. I'm clothed. But that's about it.

I haven't eaten a thing, but in my rush to get ready I managed to make banana bread for Roger to munch on while I'm gone.

But then I forgot that I needed something & ran to SuperT to get it, and when I got home realized: Oops! I forgot about the food in the oven. So now the banana bread is a little crispy around the edges.

Okay, fine. It's flat-out charcoaled around the edges.

I'm about to head out the door to BlogHer, as soon as I zip my bags and run through my checklist and pack my car and clean the kitchen and put away all my crap in the living room.

I think I'm going to be late.

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I just listened to a message that I recorded for myself earlier today. I’ve been irritated recently when I sit down to write because exactly this comes to mind:         .

I start to write, and then stop and erase everything, and then repeat the same again. It's this constant battle I have, this battle with words, and it's not limited to paper. Sometimes it's in conversation, too. The thing is when I'm alone I'm always thinking, always talking. I’m very likable, you see. My incessant babbling and talking to myself in my car is endearing. I talk to myself so often that sometimes I pick up my phone and start talking to it with no one on the other end so that all the people surrounding me in traffic, all those people who are not looking at me, won’t think I am crazy.

Today while talking to myself, I stumbled upon a subject that I thought would be just perfect for this website. I talked myself all the way through it, laughing with myself at the parts that were funny, and then decided that I should record it on my cell phone so that I would remember what I had said. I pressed “record” and this was what came to mind:        .

I actually got nervous talking to myself, saying such things as, “Heh. Hi. It’s, um, me. And I’m recording a message for myself because I uhhh, I uhhhh, wanted to remember what I was, uhhhh, saying. So, I was ummm, talking to (long pause while I shifted gears to Not Going Anywhere) myself about ummm…Ohhh. Mmyyy. Gggooooossssshhhhh. WHY DO I BOTHER?” Beeeeep.

While listening to my message, I realized that I sound like a valley girl. Why has no one ever told me this before? There were so many uhhhhhs and ummmmms and whatevers and likes in my message. I began to crinkle my nose and furrow my brows as I heard more and more of myself.

(Sidenote: my voice! It is so crisp and clear. I could totally do voiceovers. I need to be discovered. Somebody! Discover me!)

After listening to myself stumble over words while I was talking to no one, no one at all, I decided I should make a list of Things To Do before I leave for BlogHer (squeeeeeeeeee!!!!) on Thursday. Have I told you I like making lists? Love might be a more appropriate term. I loooovvveeee making lists.

OhmygoshIleaveforBlogHeronThursdayandIhavesomuchtodo.

1. Learn to have intelligent conversations. Having conversations at BlogHer that go like this: “Hi, Jes – it’s nice to meet you” “Pffallarrgggiiibgghhhh” are not going to get me discovered.


2. Pack. I have to pack, y’all. Clothes. To wear. In public. Where I know cameras will be in abundance. Hey - do I look fat in this?

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For secretly beginning a little glad about the car wreck on the bridge, which bottlenecked traffic and made my drive into work only 8 minutes.

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Do you ever start entries, and then save them as drafts to "come back to later"? And then later never comes around, and by the time you realize you have a draft you can't remember where in the world your thought process was going?

No? Just me? Hmph.

I started this entry several months ago and never finished it. Care to finish it for me?

I often brag to Roger that I have The Largest Bladder In The World, as evidenced by my ability to go an entire workday without peeing. I'm also able to sit through a movie without leaving for the bathroom, which I find particularly helpful because: you, who just got up? The entire direction of the movie will be altered in the one scene you miss while you're gone. Next time, maybe you should consider bringing along a catheter if you can't hold your pee for a mere two hours. I'm totally looking down upon you from my lofty position atop my Very Large Bladder.

Today, I realized that the reason I never have to use the restroom is because I often forget to drink water. Each day I have a bottle of water sitting atop my desk, begging me to stop dehydrating my organs, and I just ignore it. Sometimes I wish I had a popup reminder to drink water every thirty seconds, but then I think about how I'd spend all that time just dismissing the reminders, and I think about all the reminders I'd have to close that popup while I'm away from work, and the mere thought of it wears me out.

Please, go forth, and finish my entries for me. (It's sort of like Choose Your Own Adventure, don't you think?)

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How to annoy me:

Look over my cubicle wall as you walk by, and comment about whatever I'm doing (or not doing) on my computer.

Cubicles walls are six feet tall for a reason: a ludicrous attempt at privacy.

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In the past three hours I have chewed fourteen sticks of gum in an effort to curb my appetite. It is out of control: my stomach has demanded to be fed no less than every six minutes, hastily reminding me with a slow grrrruuuullllggghhphhb that it is still waiting.

I've fed it already, but it won't stop. The hole in the lining of my stomach is dropping all my food down both legs, I'm only now realizing why my thighs are so chunky.

I'm trying to combat the urge to take a walk to the vending machine, not because I'm THAT lazy: I'll walk just about anywhere for some chocolate, but because I know that anything I buy will end up shoved down my throat and swallowed in less than eight seconds, and I'll still be hungry afterward, so what's the point in wasting my 60 cents?

If I want to satisfy this urge, I might as well go to Costco and buy a concession-stand size box of Snickers for $5.99. At least then the chocolate would last a minute and eight seconds.

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"Want some fresh air?"

(Asked by one man to another, when trying to find someone to go with him on his smoke break.)

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I've suddenly come to the realization that I'll never lose weight if I don't actually exercise. And since I'm planning on doing a triathlon sometime in the next few months, it seems that exercise would be a key part of my monthly weekly daily life.

So I'm sitting at work, wiggling my legs back-and-forth. How many calories do you think I'll burn?

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Part of my lunch today included eating a small amount of cottage cheese. It started to taste weird when I realized that there's just something wrong with chewing my milk.

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“I just…I couldn’t grasp the hugeness of its enormity.”

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The last few days have been weepy and awkward. I’ve felt the highs of joy, excitement and contentedness, and I have felt the lows of restlessness, sadness, numbness. And I have no tangible reason for my emotions.

And, no, I'm not pregnant.

My family members are healthy. I have a nice (albeit sometimes boring) job. My husband is the most amazing guy I know – I’ve never felt so secure or so loved by another person.

Today, I am 28 years old. I do not know what the day has in store. I do know that, so far, my life has not been the culmination of prettiness and perfection that I once imagined as a fur-coat-wearing child. And yes, that was real fur, rabbit fur, because my grandmother knew what every four-year-old girl truly wants: pearls and rabbit fur and to prance around in her mama's stilettos and lipstick.

I’ve never been the girl who began planning her wedding before she completed Kindergarten. I was too busy trying to flash the “I love you” symbol with my fingers to all the boys, except I always held up the wrong three fingers: I chose to use the fingers that say, “I’ll have three cookies, please” or “I only want three of those magic mushrooms, thankyouverymuch.” That should have been my first clue that I would be a late bloomer.

Although I didn’t know whether I wanted tulips or orchids (and it’s a good thing a married such an opinionated designer, lest I still be standing with my florist, trying to “envision” the look of the event), I did know that I wanted to be a mom.

I’ve always loved to write, but never knew whether it could be a career. Beyond anything else, my heart’s desire was to be for my child what my mom was for me: the mom who played with me until I was old enough to go to school, who greeted me at the door when I came home from school, who drove me to all of my extra-curricular activities, who went on bike rides with me to pick blueberries.

I imagined that I would marry by the time I turned 26, which I did, but just barely. I imagined that I would have my first child by the time I was 28, which I … haven’t. Things just don't always turn out how we think they will. Roger and I are still probably several years from having children.

So here I am, contemplative and melancholy and perhaps a bit misty-eyed, maybe with a stomach too full of Mexican food and maybe I keep burping tortilla chips that are acidic and sting a little, and I’m wondering how the rest of my life will unfold. Will we get 100% out of debt? Will we have children? Will we buy a house and live the Great American Dream: The Mortgage? Will we have an opportunity to move overseas? Will Roger and I travel the world, visiting quaint villages and the purest beaches? Will our kids be at least manageable? Will we regret having children? Does anyone (who wants children) regret it later?

When I was young, I didn’t factor in the trivial things in life, like debt. And financial security. And my own selfishness. And now I’m a little confused about my pretty and perfect plan, because most days I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is (other than living in Dallas - I could take it or leave it).

It's a melancholy day. A day full of uncertainty. But a good day, at that.

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Written by Deb (mom to Chase, sister to Jes)

[Deb]

Recently, Jes and I committed to doing a mini-triathlon. Talk about exciting! When we first made the commitment I was pumped. I had big dreams of being seriously athletic and crushing all other competitors. Early one morning I got on my bike to start training for this portion of the race – my dreams were crushed in the first 2 miles. After twenty minutes of sheer torture through the hills in our neighborhood, I got off and thought to myself “what a blooming idiot, Deborah!” Was I too old for this, too out of shape or just too physically and mentally weak to gear myself up for such a big commitment?

I emailed Jes that morning and told her of my discouragement. She emailed me something back but because I’ve given birth I can’t remember much anymore, so I can’t remember what she said (but I’m sure it was sweet).

I saw her that Saturday at the lake. (Was that the day she almost sank the boat? I think it was!) We were talking about the triathlon again and my biking experience. I can’t remember exactly (there’s that baby brain again) what the words were that Jessica spoke but she put her arm around me and said something like “that’s why we are doing this together. We will be there to cheer each other on when it gets difficult and we’ll finish together – last if we have to.”

I swear that the sky opened up, a big bright light came upon us and the heavens sang out “ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh”. I know this little story may sound funny but on a serious note, there is nothing else that could have been said to me to inspire me more. I was excited and ready to kick some butt again. So excited that the following Monday when we returned to lake we allowed Lou (Jes' dad) to drop us off on the side of the boating lane and we swam for what he said was about 500 yards. Some of that swimming was not in a straight line, but hey: swimming in a lake when you can only see two feet in front of you ain’t that easy, people.

So now each time I get on the bike, ride a few miles, hop off and walk/run for a few more miles I think of the inspiring words from my sister….which is usually followed by a few swear words (which I won’t repeat for the sake of tender ears)!

To my sister – thank you, love you and I’ll be proud to cross the finish line with you…even if we are last! Hopefully you won’t have to pull me across.

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As it turns out, perhaps I should rename this site Chez Chirky, because I've been cooking lately and: Baby? I'm good*.

* This is also the reason that Roger and I are consistently gaining weight. But lo! I bought new workout clothes at SuperTarget this weekend, which will certainly motivate me to exercise, don't you think?

Often when I grocery shop, I find and buy things that I "want to make someday," which is why for the past few months, I've had the makings of a great Japanese-themed party taking shelter in my pantry: rice and seaweed.

Last week I decided it was The Time to focus on these ingredients. I read the back of all the packages and set to work.

I've noticed that the chefs at sushi bars always accessorize with bandanas and large knives, which naturally set my first course of action. I found a bandana in our camping closet (yes! an entire closet messily filled with backpacking gear!), rolled it and tied it around my head. It wasn't white like the sushi chefs wear, but drat! I didn't have a white chef jacket, either. At least I matched my blues.

Also, please note I wasn't actually licking the knife.

I made the rice and measured in the rice vinegar. It smelled a little fishy, but I thought that was okay because it was sushi, afterall. Then I took a picture of the rice, so that you Americano people understand that minute rice will not work for sushi. Minute rice compared to real rice is like the equivalent of Golden Corral compared to Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. It'll do in a pinch - and by "a pinch" I mean that it's the last restaurant standing after showers of meteorites plunder the earth, leaving all avenues of food otherwise inedible - but it doesn't hold a candle to the real thing.

I think the seaweed is a curious ingredient. It is both pliable and flaky, and comes in a very thin sheet. But: how does the sheet become so thin? Is it hammered, like gold? Are several pieces of seaweed congealed together, or is one sheet made of just one section of seaweed? And how do you know what type of seaweed is best? And how do you harvest the seaweed? Is it grown in a lab, thereby making it artificial seaweed?

I chopped and diced and sliced vegetables, and then placed them in separate bowls (because that is what chefs on TV do). Plus, it looks pretty. Using a bamboo spoon, I spread the rice across the seaweed and then placed my cucumbers, carrots and avocados in a pretty line on top of the rice. (And then, giddy with excitement at my accomplishment, I documented the pretty lines for the Internet.)

Rolling the sushi for the first time was a bit tricky, particularly because I had placed the seaweed in the wrong direction on my bamboo mat and didn't understand why it wouldn't roll. I nearly broke the bamboo sticks in half before I realized my mistake. (See picture above as photographic evidence of my blunder.)

Thankfully, I finally figured it out. Is it okay to label myself as a Dallas foodie? Or, Dallas' hottest new chef? Perhaps I should remove my bandana first.

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This is the thing: I've never driven the boat from start to finish. I've really only driven it once it was already out on the lake, and even then, I only drove it at high speeds while dragging some unsuspecting soul by a rope.

So! When some friends said they wanted to go for a joyride on the boat this weekend, and I offered to drive, I had no idea it would be hazardous. Even though I did know the water levels were about two feet lower than normal. And even though my husband piped up with, "Hah – there's no way I'm driving my father-in-law's boat without lessons. I'm not stupid."

I sat next to him thinking about the lessons my dad gave me (years and years and years ago), and how I've helped drive the boat on several occasions (years and years and years and years and yeeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrssssssssss ago). I climbed into the boat with three of our friends: Jason, Brandy and Scuba, excited for the joy ride and the prospect of driving the boat and whipping around the lake as if we were in a high-speed chase. And we did just that, sort of, until I realized I was headed for the wrong buoy and there was a tree stump raised six inches above the water, and that the tree stump was about two feet in diameter, and if that tree stump was there, in the middle of what I thought was the boat path, how many other tree stumps were just below the water, out of my view?

You may not care to know that I slowed down and corrected my path, but I must confide for my dad's benefit. Dad: I'm not totally wreckless, see?

After several more runs, we headed back to the dock. I looked ahead and saw my entire family still sitting on the deck, chatting and watching us. I was slowly weaving around the underwater stumps, glad that I managed to drive the boat without incident, feeling confident (and maybe a little cocky).

And that's when God chose to humble me.

While weaving around most of the smaller stumps, I overlooked one large stump. A stump that was a foot in diameter. A stump for which, unbeknownst to me, the boat was aimed. A stump that I didn't realize existed until it was too late.

The boat rammed itself atop the stump, perfectly centered, delicately balanced. (Note that the boat did this to itself - I claimed no responsibility for it.) The front of the boat was about four feet out of the water. I slammed the engine in reverse and willed the motor to ease us off the stump. It didn't.

We all moved to the back of the boat, thinking that if all the weight was there, the boat would slide off the stump. It didn't.

And then my worst fear was realized: water began lapping over the back of the boat, and the back end started to go under. Jason and Scuba had been swimming earlier, and each jumped back into the lake to free the boat from their weight. Brandy and I dove (I still have the carpet burn to prove it) toward the front to counter-weigh the ever-sinking back end.

I watched helplessly as Jason and Scuba, from the water, worked to dislodge the boat. My eyes frantically darted between their work, my dad's face, and my family's sudden interest in our boat ride and their subsequent arrival from the deck to the dock, where they all had a front row view of the The Sinking Boat, and where they were all attempting to look concerned only to mask their laughter.

My dad kept yelling to me to turn on the bilge pump so that the water wouldn't continue to weigh down the boat. I wanted to pump the water out, I really did, but dad was just far enough away for me to understand he wanted me to turn it on, and not close enough for me to understand where the switch was located.

He and his neighbor got in the other boat to come help us, but (remember: the water is two feet lower than normal) it was stuck in the sand. By the time they finally got out to us, Scuba and Jason had somehow managed to get us off the stump – the details are quite blurry to me – and somehow we managed to get back to the dock and climb out of the boat and run to the RV and we were relieved it was empty so we could sit in the bathroom and cry. (Or, maybe that last part was just me.)

For the rest of the day, I was the butt of the jokes, which I didn't mind because I totally deserved it. Roger and Scuba, on the drive home, went back and forth quipping puns to each other. Roger would ask Scuba a question and Scuba would respond, "Hmm. I don't know. You've really got me stumped." And then Roger would turn to Scuba and say, "Yeah, I've just got a sinking feeling about that."

At least now I know where the bilge pump is.

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