Chirky

In just 10 minutes I'm leaving for Colorado Springs, where I'll be behaving myself for a weekend with the in-laws. The GIRL in-laws (Mom-in-law, Sister-in-law). Don't fear for me, though. They're delightful. Really.

In the meantime, I'm hustling at work to get things done (and by "hustling" I mean I am sitting in front of my computer, blogging). I guess I'll leave the hustling for thirty minutes before I need to leave.

Hello. My name is Jes. Today I am procrastinating.

Beep.

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Lee Redmond has been named the winner in the Guiness Book of World Records for achieving the crowning glory of The World's Longest Fingernails On Both Hands. I mean, people. She hasn't cut them since 1979. That's nearly my entire life.

I want to know:

• - What does she do all day long?
  
• - I don't think she can cook with those things. Or type. Or even read a book.
  
• - Is her sole purpose just to sit around and let her fingernails grow?
  
• - Dude, y'all. She can't even use the remote to change the TV channel with those things.
  
• - And how much finger nail polish does it take to polish those suckers?
  
• - OMIGOSH! Can you imagine filing them?
  
• - How does she get dressed? Pull on pants? ZIP AND BUTTON THEM? Wear a pullover shirt? I would NOT want to pull my sleeves over those long fingernails.

I am, however, a little jealous that her nails don't break.

I'm also a little grossed out right now.

An undated handout photograph released on September 27, 2006 shows Lee Redmond of the U.S. who has won entry into the latest edition of Guinness World Records September 28, 2006 with the world's longest fingernails.

EDITORIAL USE ONLY NO ARCHIVES NO SALES REUTERS/Drew Gardner/GWR/Handout (BRITAIN)

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I've taken up the habit of eating pistachios. I love cracking them open and popping them in my mouth.

Except, GAH. They don't just "crack open" like one would expect, particularly considering they're already pre-cracked for my convenience.

Recently I've found myself sitting at my desk, straining to get the nuts out, attempting to pry the shell open with my metal mail opener. The pistachio inevitably flies across my cubicle, which means seconds later I'm scouring the carpet looking for where it might have landed. AND WHEN I FIND IT, I STILL EAT IT.

How ghetto is that?

Dude. After all that hard work, I'm eating it just on principle. I worked for that sucker.

I just crawled out from under my desk (where my last pistachio landed) in time to see a coworker (male) walk into my cubicle, glance at the open shell on my desk and then say, "Everything okay with your nuts? I noticed you were struggling with them a bit."

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This morning I received an email stating that every employee needed to attend an IT-related meeting. Initially I felt a littler nervous, because: IT? Are they going to tell us we no longer will have access to the Internet?

If so, I might have to quit this job because the Internet is my sole addiction. (Much healthier than some, don't you think?)

I got to the meeting and was immediately informed that I didn't have to be there, since I already knew the material. They would be discussing an upcoming conversion that I had already undergone because I am merely a pawn in the hands of this corporation. Not unlike a lab rat.

I happily returned to my desk, and then realized it would be a prime opportunity for me to run to the ladies room, since I hate public peeing. It's just so awkward to go into a stall, knowing the person next to you is also peeing, and the only sound in the entire bathroom is sychronized peeing. The thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Blast some music. Turn on the faucet. Do SOMETHING. Just: don't pee with me. I need my privacy.

While I was in the restroom, someone opened the bathroom door and I heard a male voice call out, "Jessica?"

My jaw clenched (okay, fine, everything clamped shut) and my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth while I rolled my eyes in frustration. THIS IS THE LADIES ROOM. No males should even be TOUCHING the door. Let alone cracking it and TALKING TO ME. Wait thirty seconds, let me finish, wash my hands, and come out of the bathroom on my own accord. GAH.

"Yes?" I replied with every bit of calmness I could muster. It wasn't enough - the edge in my voice made it obvious that I was irritated.

"Uhhh...Just wanted you to know that we do need you in the meeting, after all."

"Okay. I'll be out in just THIRTY. SECONDS."

The door closed and I felt the heat draining from my entire body. After washing my hands I slipped through the door and sat in the back of the meeting room. Thinking about what had just occurred, I felt myself becoming more and more irritated. I slumped in my chair. I decided I would have rather listened to someone in the stall next door to me than to the voice of a male coworker richocheting off of the restroom walls. I felt oddly violated. And I was completely useless in the afternoon meeting. Next time, I'm retreating to another floor in the building, if only for my own sanity.

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As a former dancer, from back in the day when my age ended in "teen," I can say with certainty that some people just shouldn't attempt certain maneuvers. Kicking, for example, without first stretching. Or without learning the skill of kicking so your knee does not bend and your back does not hunch. (Her body? It shouldn't be in the shape of an "S".) Or without learning how to prevent your bottom foot from turning outward. Which probably occurs because you didn't stretch. It's a vicious cycle.

Lindsay Lohan was recently caught on video performing an odd assortment of kicks in the middle of a deserted alley, in between puffs on her cigarette.

AND: What are those boots she's wearing? Stop it.

La Lohan: She's so classy.

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For a while, everyone was buzzing about Suri Cruise and whether or not she existed. I really don't care whether she exists, or whether she is really Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' baby.

Talk has died down a bit, but I can stay silent no longer.

What I care about is this baby's hair.

Is she wearing a wig? And, why? I understand that some babies are born with lots of hair. I was one of them. I looked like a monkey when I was born, what with my two-and-a-half inch afro. But my hair was all one color, and obviously coming out of my head. I'm not so convinced by Suri's style.

Suri Cruise...Well, I just don't understand. Why is her hair styled in a near-90° angle? And what is that little bit of brown hair against featured just in front of her backdrop of jetblack strands? Is it a birthmark?

(Or, like I presume, perhaps Suri's toupee - inspired a la Donald Trump - is merely slipping off her head.)

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IF a betting pool had been started; and

IF my readers laid down bets related to how long I could last on The Master Cleanse; and

IF one reader had bet that I would last all of seven hours on Friday before self-imploding into a monstrous, crazed being devouring everything in sight, including more than one entire medium regular-crust ham and pineapple pizza; and

IF that same reader had also bet that I would be laden with guilt afterward, feeling remorse to such depth that I would put myself back on The Master Cleanse because I just ate 10 slices of pizza, and holy cow, I thought my limit was three; and

IF that same reader bet that I would stay on The Master Cleanse all day Saturday, only for me to wake up Sunday morning and realize: I CAN'T DO THIS; and

IF that same reader knew that I wouldn't be able to continue The Master Cleanse on Sunday because:

1. I felt like I was grounded;
2. I love solid food;
3. I hate waking up at 6 a.m. to my stomach cramping and the subsequent six (six!) episodes of diarrhea before I even bothered drinking the salt water, mind you;
4. And so I didn't drink the salt water, thankyouverymuch;
5. I have food that may go bad in the refrigerator and I want to cook it;
6. I have never so badly wanted to cook food in my life;
7. The Food Network is my favorite TV Channel;
8. I would rather wake up early every morning and exercise than force my body to go without solid food;
9. I made Chicken Capri with artichoke hearts, mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes for dinner Sunday night;
10. And lo, it was good.

THEN that same reader would have totally hit the betting pool jackpot; and

THEN that same reader is now my enemy, because: Why Didn't You Warn Me Of The Misery To Come?

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Several months ago I talked to my friend JCol about The Master Cleanse, a diet of lemons and water and maple syrup and cayenne, that not only, ahem, clean you out but also encourage weight loss.

This morning I spoke with my coworker about it, and after finding out that Beyonce lost 25 pounds in two weeks on The Master Cleanse for a movie she was shooting – which, by the way, is totally hearsay. I don't remember reading that in any of the gossip magazines – I decided that it would work equally well with me!

I would post pictures of me in a bikini from a year ago, but, hmm. No. If you saw those I would have to kill you. And let's just say I'm not the murderous type. Especially not the mass-murderous type who goes crazy on her readers for looking at pictures that she was responsible for posting in the first place. I just don't think I could build a good defense around that.

So. The Master Cleanse. I'm going during lunch today to get the ingredients. I better not have to run to the restroom at work today. I don't do well with public pooping.

I'll keep a running dialog on this site. We'll see how long I can last before I break down and maul the person in the kitchen who is reheating last night's dinner, which from my desk, smells exactly like something gourmet and garlic-y and Italian. Or, maybe I'm just hungry.

12:03 p.m.: Leave work, drive to Central Market

12:19 p.m.: Find organic lemons

12:19:15 p.m.: Choose and pick up five lemons

12:19:30 p.m.: Mutter "oh, crap! no! no!" as the lemons begin to cascade atop each other

12:19:32 p.m.: Fling my body against the produce display to keep lemons from spilling onto the ground

12:23 p.m.: After carefully rearranging lemon display and standing silently in front of it, ready to lurch if they begin falling again, head toward honey aisle

12:24 p.m.: Find the only container of Certified Organic Grade B Maple Syrup

12:26 p.m.: Drool over milky chocolates and black licorice beckoning me

12:32 p.m.: Arrive home with my purchases, find citrus juicer that I bought two years ago and have never used

12: 45 p.m.: Still squeezing these lemons. Isn't there an easier way to do this? Does anyone sell fresh-squeezed organic lemon juice?

12:54 p.m.: Seriously? Had no clue that squeezing lemons would take so long. Almost to 8 ounces.

12:56 p.m.: Measure maple syrup and lemon juice together into two containers

12: 57 p.m.: Should be pulling into my parking garage right about now. Instead, I am standing in my kitchen sucking the lemon juice off my pinky finger, which has two papercuts, and which is stinging with a white-hot rage of … stingyness.

12:57:23 p.m.: Measure water into bottles with lemon juice/maple syrup mixture. Realize I added twice as much water as I was supposed to. Resign myself to drinking really watered-down lemonade.

1:03 p.m.: Driving to work. Get cut off by two people. Follow one of the two people into my parking garage.

1:07 p.m.: Fill cup with ice, shake Master Cleanse mixture, pour over ice

1:07:46 p.m.: Realize I forgot to mix in cayenne pepper. It's only 1/10 of a teaspoon, anyway. It can't matter THAT much.

1:10 p.m.: Stare at my styrofoam cup, wonder whether what the mixture tastes like, decide I can't just not eat for the next ten days.

1:11 p.m.: Remember that I am not a very disciplined person. Will I last longer than a day?

1:37 p.m.: Taking my first sip with you, Internet.

Hold, please. I'm sipping.

1:37:23 p.m.: Hold, please. I'm not sipping. Roger called me to ask me questions that actually involve me using my brain.

1:40 p.m.: Okay. I'm sipping again. Or, not again, because I never did it the first time.

Sipping now.

1:40:11 p.m.: That made my jaw tingle. And nose crinkle. The aftertaste isn't so bad, because it tastes like maple syrup. Has anyone else ever noticed how similar cotton candy and maple syrup taste?

1:41 p.m.: Sipping again.

1:42 p.m.: I don't think I can do this for ten days.

1:45 p.m.: I know it hasn't had time to go through my intestines yet, but I just felt a slight twinge of pain. Am I a hypochondriac?

1:55 p.m.: Chewing ice makes me feel like I am actually eating real-live-food (except, maybe not "live" as in "alive" because - gross). Perhaps I should have eased myself into this, instead of going cold-turkey.

2:02 p.m.: I'm wondering if, after this is all over, I'll ever be able to drink lemonade again.

2:17 p.m.: I've already consumed one entire glass of Master Cleanse. No bathroom emergencies. For which I'm thankful. Gah. I'd rather drive all the way home for taking care of THAT kind of business.

2:25 p.m.:: JCol just left a comment to tell me that this Master Cleanse doesn't actually clean me out. It's the Smooth Move (the name: blech) tea that does that. Except before I started this Master Cleanse, I had already convinced myself I wouldn't drink the tea or the salt water.

2:27 p.m.: If only I knew what Beyonce did.

2:45 p.m.: I love bendy straws.

3:01 p.m.: A conversation I had ealier today with Roger:

"Do you want to do The Master Cleanse with me?"


"Um, no. I'm going to see how well you do with it first."


"So, I'm you're guinea pig?"


"That about sums it up."

3:19 p.m.: I forgot to weigh myself before I started this. Don't you think I probably still weigh the same as I did three hours ago? That makes sense, right? And that two hours from now, I'll probably still weigh the same? So, I can just go home and weigh myself?

3:20 p.m.: Except I don't have a scale at home. On to Plan B.

3:20:33 p.m. There is no Plan B. Anyone want to have me over tonight so I can weigh myself?

4:04 p.m.: Just learned that my tongue will be white and fuzzy, like a Q-tip, by the time this is all over. It means that I'm detoxing. That's gross to me. Can't I brush my tongue when I brush my teeth and make it go away? Can I chew gum? Will this affect my breath?

5:14 p.m.: I dreaming of going home and eating a hot, steamy pizza.

6:06 p.m.: It took less than one hour for me to give in to my cravings. I am a weakling. I also realized that with my new niece, my nephew's third birthday party, a friend's baby shower, and an extended trip away, doing this diet will not be easy right now. It was easy for me to rationalize. Have I mentioned I'm not disciplined?

7:15 p.m.: That was perhaps the best pizza I have ever eaten. And I scarfed it. I ate an entire medium-sized pizza all by myself. I didn't know that much food would even fit in my body!

8:36 p.m.: I fell asleep on the couch. This pizza in my stomach makes me want to vomit. I feel gross.

9:00 p.m.: Why am I such a glutton? Now I'm really disapointed in myself and feel like a failure. I didn't last for SEVEN hours. I think I have a food addiction.

9:11 p.m.: Researching "food addiction" on Google.

11:29 p.m.: Feel miserable. An entire pizza lodged in belly. Took an ex-lax before I went to bed. I've got to get this thing out of me.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

9:25 a.m.: Woke up still feeling miserable about myself. Am I unduly harsh on myself? Should this not be that big of a deal? Seriously. I feel like I've committed an unforgiveable sin or something. AND THE INTERNET WAS MY WITNESS!

9:27 a.m.: Heading to Central Market, again. I'm determined to ride this thing out. Going to purchase 50 lemons, several more bottles of maple syrup, and ... ug. Smooth Move tea. That name makes me want to vomit.

9:28 a.m.: Confirmation: I am STUBBORN.

10:35 a.m.: I have a wedding to go to today. I am hoping I do not regret this decision, because it would suck to spend the entire ceremony in the restroom. With pantyhose on.

12:41 p.m.: The cayenne? Hurts. Also, I strongly recommend not trying the Master Cleanse when you have several social engagements planned. Pains in the intestinal tract do not mix well with large groups.

7:16 p.m.: The intestines behaved at the wedding. So far I really don't even feel hungry. Don't they say that you have to do something for 21 days to break a habit? That probably means that 10 days won't break my food habit. But - it's a start.

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Not many people can make a smooth segue from a cute little snuggly baby-kuns to a man marrying a goat.

I'll do it here for you:

This guy? In Sudan? He was caught having sex with a goat. And then he was forced to marry it.

Quick! Cute picture of my niece to soothe you!

(Annabel is as shocked by this story as I am.)

What - that wasn't enough? You want more? Of the story? Gah, dude. You're sick:

Sudan man forced to 'marry' goat

A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.

The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.

They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.

"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.

Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat. [Sounds like a bit of pre-Valentine's Day lovin' to me.]

"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".

Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.

"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/africa/4748292.stm
Published: 2006/02/24 16:40:00 GMT
© BBC MMVI
[italics mine]

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Are you totally bored of looking at other people's kids on the Internet?

No?

What about other people's pictures of other people's kids?

What? You're confused?

Whatever.

Me too.

But look at this:

(One hour after she was born)

My niece!

Annabel was born Monday afternoon, September 11, 2006.

She's sweet as pie and I love to gobble up her tiny dimples and pinchable baby cheeks. Her thighs are always swaddled, so I haven't been able to munch on those yet.

Technorati: baby, babies, birth, parenting, child

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I remember I had jumped in my car and driven to the grocery store on my way to work. I flipped on the radio and heard a breaking news story that an airplane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York City, NY.

Instinctively, I thought to myself, "Gah. What an idiot. How could he not see that enormous building in front of him?" (Naive!) I imagined that the plane had clipped the penthouse portion of the building, and then wondered why the plane was flying so low and so close to the skyscrapers.

I parked, jumped out of my car, and ran inside the grocery store. As I stood in line, I heard a woman behind me on her cell phone, saying that a second plane had flown into the towers. Confused, I whipped around because: two planes? You've got to be kidding me. What were the air traffic controllers doing? Were the pilots drunk? How in the world did two planes do the exact same thing? (Naive!)

It never crossed my mind that it was a terrorist attack. (Naive!)

I left the store and drove to work. I worked across the street from the grocery store, not nearly long enough to hear more about the events that had transpired. I caught the words "terrorist" and "attack" just as I turned the engine off and ran into work. I entered the front door and found a somber staff preparing for the day.

I flipped on the radio, sat down and stared at it. I listened to NPR, CNN and local radio stations.

I was stunned.

I couldn't believe what had happened on the precious soil of the U.S.A. that morning. I was devastated when I learned about the Pentagon and about United 93.

I wanted to drop everything, to drive to New York, to help. Somehow, I just wanted to help. I didn't know how. I still don't.

I was in college, and the next several days I didn't attend class. I couldn't. I sat in my living room and watched live coverage of the aftermath. I sat in my driveway and stared at the sky as F-16 jets whipped around the skies. I cheered for them, assuming it was some sort of proud display of the military's protection over our country.

I later learned they were just chasing a private plane out of the sky, since all flights had been cancelled. (Naive!)

September 11, 2001 changed me. It changed many of us. Lawyerish, a blogger I've been reading for just a few months, lives in New York City. Her recent account of the events of that day* drew me in and forced my heart to melt into a puddle of sadness.

This, as well as other stories, acts as a strong reminder of who we are fighting in this war. I only hope we reach the right target, and soon.

*If you also wrote about September 11, 2001, please leave a link in the comments.

Technorati: "9/11", September 11, Terrorism, World Trade Center, wtc

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I love statcounter.com for this reason: I get all the goodies on you. I know your ISP, I know where some of you work, I know where some of you live. (Cities, not addresses. GAH. I'm not a stalker.)

I know how you get to my site, whether through a search engine or a direct link or another website.

When I discovered that someone recently found my site by searching "how much nyquil to overdose," my emotions went into overdrive. Tears welled up in my eyes, and a melancholy fog washed over me. And so to you in Minneapolis, Minnesota: know that someone, somewhere, cares (even if it doesn't always feel like it).

On that note, another thing that makes me emotional:

I cannot watch this video clip without crying.

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