Chirky

When Roger and I were trying to decide how to spend our two-and-a-half-day fact-finding mission in Seattle, we immediately agreed with each other that we wouldn't visit the Space Needle. It somehow seemed too touristy. Too ... expected.

A delightful girl, whom I only know as "Tele Girl," emailed me with a list of must-do's for Seattle.

(I don't know why she calls herself "Tele Girl." Does she work in telecommunications? Or is she a huge astronomy buff with a collection of telescopes on her porch? Tele Girl, won't you respond and let us know?)

When we finally arrived in The Emerald City, we navigated our way directly to Pike's Market – but not without a little exasperation on Roger's part and defiant, ridiculous, over-defensiveness on my part, during which I might or might not have thrown the map on his lap and exhaustively sighed that he'd just have to navigate and drive all by himself, which he refused to do, so we sat in silence, stomachs grumbling, until I reclaimed my duty as navigator if only because I was so hungry and desperate to go somewhere, anywhere, even McDonald’s – by way of the piers, where we stopped for "lunch" (Note: not at McDonald’s). And by "lunch," I mean our bodies thought it was 4:00 p.m. and we had yet to eat a meal that day.

We were off to a great start for a delightful weekend together, don't you think?

Once we consumed our weight in food, we strolled through Pike's Market, oooohhed and aaaahhed over the fresh flowers, cheered as we watched a fish market worker catch a huge salmon that flew through the air (I half expected him to run for a touchdown, but it didn't happen), and wandered through the streets of downtown Seattle.

I was enamored by the musicians on street corners – something you would never see in Dallas – and even tipped one man a dollar because he had developed mad drumming skillz with his old paint cans. If my children are only half that good on pots and pans, I’m totally placing them on a street corner with an over-turned top hat for tips. And I may even let them keep the tips.

The air during the entire weekend was crisp and clear, just as autumn air should be. The skies were an intense blue, as if God had color-corrected them just for our trip. And then we found ourselves doing exactly what we had agreed not to do: riding the elevator to the top of the Space Needle. We decided that given the weather, it would be completely irresponsible for us not to go. We could see clear to the Canadian border, as well as most of the Seattle suburbs that weren’t hidden by trees. We had a lovely view of Mt. Rainier, watched ferries zipping by (as much as ferries can "zip"), and squinted at buoys bobbing around in the water.

(We didn't even notice until after we took the picture that two seals were sunbathing atop the buoy.)

We sipped coffee and watched the sun lower over the Puget Sound, and then quietly discussed whether we could imagine ourselves living in the city.

Over the course of the weekend, we acquainted ourselves with Seattle. We drove through outlying areas and evaluated neighborhoods and suburbs. We rode a ferry from Seattle to Bremerton, then drove through small towns on our way to the West coast. We found ourselves bundling up at the Pacific Ocean, hiding ourselves from the strong wind and silently admiring the strength of the waves. We watched a family play fetch with their retriever, and another couple flying a kite on the beach.

It was very, very cold and very, very windy at the ocean.

We stopped for a couple pieces of saltwater taffy and ended up buying a (small) bagful. And now? We want more.

Someone, please send banana, vanilla and orange-flavored taffy. I will throw money at you. In an envelope. With your name on it. And a stamp. Ooooh! And also licorice flavor, please. Yummm. And maybe some peppermint, but not too much. Banana, orange, vanilla and licorice flavors take precedence in my book.

Perhaps I should apologize now for becoming such a taffy snob. To make up for it, I’ll let you offer your suggestions of your favorite taffy flavors, and maybe I’ll get a few pieces of that, too, in my taffy order.

Our last morning we went on a short hike at Mt. Rainier with our incredibly hospitable weekend hosts, Jen and Jeremy. Jen is an old childhood friend of mine: the kind that you see for the first time after twenty years and it seems like all that time never went by. Except we are both older. And married.

Jen and Jeremy introduced us to the lush forests of Washington, where we stood in awe of trees. Big trees. And rivers. And actual, real mountains.

Jeremy enticed Roger with stories of camping and hiking, and even won me over by telling me that poisonous snakes and spiders aren't prevalent in Washington because it is too cold. While the boys chatted about backpacking, Jen and I discussed the merits of sending the guys out into the wilderness (number one on the list: more time for scrapbooking).

Obviously, it would be a win-win situation.

Even though we only spent less than three days in Seattle, our time there felt rich and full. No contest, we fell in love with the taffy city. The question is: should be move there? Or elsewhere?

(See more pictures from our Seattle trip here.)

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I tend to think of myself as a responsible traveler. I check the TSA website. I pack my liquids and gels in my checked luggage. I try not to overstuff my carry on, if only because I want to avoid the exhausted sighs and eye-rolling from other passengers as I break a sweat jamming my luggage into the overhead bin.

But this weekend? I looked like a novice. I broke down and cried. In front of the TSA agents. And then I recorded my account of our departure from Dallas for the Internet:

Saturday, October 21, 2006
4:45 a.m.: Alarm blaring. Too early to wake up.

5:06 a.m.: Finally manage to pull myself out of bed. Fumble around in the shower.

6:28 a.m.: Roger and I are still at home. We live 45 minutes from the airport. Our flight begins boarding in 25 minutes. I am hyperventilating.

6:30 a.m.: Speed down highway. Pray we don't get pulled over.

7:08 a.m.: We had one bag to check, which missed the cut off time. Bag is checked onto a flight that arrives two hours after us.

7:12 a.m.: Contemplate whether we should join our bag or pick it up at the airport later in the day. Curse ourselves for checking luggage in the first place.

7:14 a.m.: After only a tiny bit of deliberation, decide to switch flights so we can arrive with our bag.

7:14:06 a.m.: Am disappointed to arrive after noon instead of in the early-ish morning.

7:25 a.m.: Our original flight is departing right now.

7:26 a.m.: Leave airport. Buy lotion and granola bars at CVS drugstore.

8:05 a.m.: Park, ride shuttle to airport. Airport worker stops us. He is grumpy because his job sucks. Hear him yelling something about the lotion we purchased.

8:05:43 a.m.: Realize I already checked all my liquids and Ziploc bags. He continues searching my belongings and discovers lip gloss.

8:13 a.m.: Protest. Refuse to surrender MAC lip gloss.

8:17 a.m.: Grumble about lack of ziplocs for sale. Shouldn't they be in a vending machine or something? Am forced to check my carry on luggage with lotion and MAC lip gloss.

8:26 a.m.: Security check is peppered with TSA agents yelling, "All liquids and gels need to be in a Ziploc bag! If it makes you look good, smell good, feel good, it needs to go in a Ziploc bag!" [I snicker.] "All creams, lotions, and gels – in a Ziploc bag!"

8:27 a.m. Stress-induced crying begins. TSA agents hate me and my lip gloss. The world is maybe coming to an end.

9:42 a.m. And? I'm menstrual.

It turns out that a lipgloss I had packed and forgotten about made it through security with no issues, so my lips were able to stay gloriously succulent and shiny instead of dry and cracked. Also? I learned that TSA agents are relying more on your subconscious than their ability to properly inspect your bags for liquids and gels.

That said, I'm totally setting up a base camp outside the airport, where I'm going to sell individual quart-sized Ziploc bags for a dollar to all the yuppies whose subconscious gives them the ultimatum to either relinquish their toothpaste or throw it away. And judging by the number of people in Dallas who forgot theirs, I'm going to make millions.

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This weekend Roger and I are visiting Seattle, Washington. If you have any last-minute pieces of advice for us, like maybe what to do or where to go, let us know - we'll be checking email and comments all weekend long. If you don't have any last-minute assertions, I totally think you're lying because who in the world doesn't have opinions? Especially about travel? And places to go? EVEN IF YOU'VE NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE?

I personally try to give my opinion as often as possible. And if I've never been there before? I make something up. Or repeat something I've heard someone else say. But I rephrase it to make it sound a little different. And I also pretend I didn't just hear that other person say it. But mostly, I research. I looovvveee to research new places.

I've been agonizing for the past week over what to wear. Will it be too cold for my precious skin? Because when I was packing, I discovered that somehow 75% of my sweaters have mysteriously ended up in the dryer since last winter. Which means they're much, much too small for me now.

And I refuse to admit that I had anything to do with it. (See: clothes dryer.) (Also see: my inability to properly follow laundering instructions that are sewn into my clothes for that very reason.) (Also see: me rolling my eyes.)

So. Suggestions? Ideas? Seattle, anyone?

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Since becoming a Beauty Editor, I have received numerous products in the mail to test, love and hate. Yesterday, however, was the first time I received a product to review that was geared toward men.

Allow me to introduce the Schick Quattro:

It has a whopping four blades (yes – four blades – almost the same number of fingers you have on one hand, unless you're missing a finger, in which case this razor has as many blades on it as fingers you have on one hand).

It comes in three styles: chrome, midnight, and power. The first two styles are just a marketing gimmick. The third has a vibrating head (whoa, nelly) that is basically an exposed, quickly-moving blade - no! four blades! - near your delicate, precious face.

The power version somewhat reminds me of Edward Scissorhands, what with the sporadic vibrating blades and consequential macabre images of blood and guts spewed across the bathroom mirror. Okay, maybe not guts, but definitely blood. And maybe a few chunks of flesh.

I opened the box that contained the razor on Tuesday night and thrust it toward my husband, Roger. I sort of demanded, "Sweetie: You need to use this. It's for the good of humanity." Perhaps there was a little more dialogue involved, but I never took an oath as a Beauty Editor to actually remember the conversations I have with my guinea pigs subjects research assistants.

The next morning, Roger dutifully shaved with the chrome Schick Quattro I had given him. And this is where my commitment to research disintegrates: I had already forgotten that I gave the razor to him. Which meant that instead of standing next to him and observing each stroke of the blade, I was lazing around in bed, watching the weather channel and trying to figure out what to wear to work.

And then the following morning after that? I forgot again. Still, both days Roger was eager to share his thoughts with me about the four-bladed razor:

Day One:
"I don't like it. The head of the razor is too big. It's like shaving with a butter dish."

Day Two:
"This razor sucks. It's too large to follow the contours of my face. I feel like I'm dragging something the size of a dinner plate across my skin."

And then he threw it away.

I was a bit surprised by his response to the Schick Quattro, because logically it seems like the more blades, the closer the shave. Plus, it is a well known fact among Texans that everything is bigger and better in Texas, so bigger razors and more blades should fit in just fine 'round here.

In response to Schick's four-blade Quattro, Gillette has announced their new five-blade Fusion razor. If this trend continues, projections show that men will be using a razor with fourteen blades by the year 2100. Which is fine, I suppose, if the guys don't mind dragging an object the size of a turkey platter across their face.

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I can't help but feel that Big Brother is watching. And it's kind of creepy. I keep looking over my shoulder, but: no one.

On a higher note in this otherwise bleak environment of Internet blocking, however, I can access Movable Type, which means I can still blawwwggg until my heart's content.

Most of my favorite sites are blocked due to "mature content" though, which kinda makes me feel like a dirty old man. Who's being monitored by Big Brother. And again: creepy.

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I recently read an article about donations. EGG donations.

And I'm interested to know what you think, Internet (which is completely understandable considering that I'm beckoning you to run my life).

Do you think it is immoral for women to donate their eggs? Is $5,000 for an egg too little a value for the price of a child? What about women who are able to carry a child, but whose eggs are sterile? Is it immoral for them to purchase the egg? Should women demand the right to visit the child who was born as the result of their egg donation? And if no such right is given, how would you react if you, while walking down the street, saw a child who was unmistakably your own?

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For the past week Roger and I have been gung-ho about moving. We're actually both discussing it, rather than one of us either (a) randomly talking about it or (b) wistfully longing for the day it might occur.

But now! We've begun planning for the move and setting goals for the end of the year, after which we plan to head OUT.

Roger and I each have our individual methods of approaching the topic:

He is (quite responsibly) updating his portfolio for interviews.

I'm playing on craigslist.org, looking at houses and (sometimes) jobs.

Last night we were discussing our options of places to live – Seattle! New York City! San Diego! San Francisco! – and it occurred to me: why not ask the Internet for help? (Note to the Internet: From now on, I'm depending on you to help me run my life.)

These are our requests:

1. Four seasons (No more of this hot mess in Texas. It should not be 85 degrees in December.) (Also: the climate, not the hotel. Unless the Internet knows how I can just LIVE at the Four Seasons, and then I'll jump at the chance.) (I do not know if Roger will jump with me.) (Though I bet I could persuade him.)


2. Near the water (Preferably, near the water AND the mountains, but we both prefer the ocean. Or perhaps a really big lake.)


3. Affordable (Um, I don't want to spend $350,000 buying a double-wide. If I'm going to buy a double-wide, I'd much rather buy one in Dallas for $25,000 and drive it across the country.) (I'm thrifty like that.) (Also, when comparing the cost of living in Dallas to San Francisco last night, we discovered that San Francisco is 81% more expensive.) (It is also on a fault line.) (I am scared of fault lines. Incidentally, I'm also scared of that 81%.)


4. Artsy community (I don't mean inner-city graffiti. We'd love to move somewhere that has a great cultural and arts district.)

So! Where should we move? (And, if you're feeling particularly loquacious, WHY should we move there?)

(I distinctly remember learning the word "loquacious" in 5th grade while watching an episode of Pee Wee Herman.) (I think.)

Update: We've now visited (and loved) Seattle and Houston (not loved). Suggestions are still welcome!

Technorati: Seattle, mountains, moving, home, home buying, travel, relocate, relocating

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For those of you who don't regularly check the news during your workday (but who do check my blog, which is the obvious choice).

Clicking on the image will redirect you to the news story. You may also want to visit CNN for developments in the story.

Technorati: manhattan, new york city, airplane, aircraft

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For the past month, my husband (Roger) has been telling me that our local grocery store, Tom Thumb, is becoming a bit ghetto. I have never paid attention to him until recently.

While I was at home cooking this weekend, Roger ran a couple errands for me. One errand was to Tom Thumb for flour. I forgot the purpose of the second errand because Roger came home five hours later. Apparently he needed to balance a quick trip to the grocery store with an all-day excursion to Best Buy.

When he opened the flour to pour it into its canister, something caught his eye. Something small. And dark. And possibly moving.

And then he saw another.

I was watching him stare inside the bag, wondering whether this was a ritual of his, when something on the outside of the bag caught my eye. Something small. And dark. And definitely moving.

“I think there are bugs in here.”

"..."

“Sweetie, I found bugs in the flour.”

“That’s nasty. We need to take that back.”

“Okay.”

And then Roger bagged up the flour and placed it on our kitchen floor, where it has been sitting for the past two days.

Today I bought more flour at a different store, but tonight returned to our Tom Thumb (where I was shopping, again) to pick up a few additional items. No meal in our house is complete unless I’ve been to the grocery store at least three times to purchase what I’ve forgotten. While there, I spoke with the manager of non-perishable goods.

“Hi, I bought Gold Medal All-Purpose flour here just two days ago, and it had bugs in it. I already bought more flour at a different store, but just thought you should know that the flour is … bad.”

The print on this bag of flour says "Better if used by 11MAR08"

“Oh, it had weevils in it?”

“Um, I don’t know what they were. Just…bugs. Little ones.”

“Yeah, honey, those are just weevils. They won’t hurt you.”

“You’re saying I should just use flour with bugs in it? Like, just cook up some biscuits, bugs and all?”

“Weevils are in all grains – they’re in every bag of flour. It’s just that sometimes you can’t see them. And since it’s warm outside, they’re probably just hatching.”

"..."

"..."

“Okay. Thanks.”

I didn’t want to argue with her, particularly because I’m not well-versed in weevils. I mean, what do you say to that? I have bugs hatching in my flour, and it shouldn’t matter? THAT MATTERS TO ME. I have lived in Texas for twenty years, and it is hot in Texas nine months of the year. This is the first time I’ve ever seen bugs in my flour. Hatching. (They were HATCHING. IN MY FLOUR.)

As soon as I got home, I dropped all my groceries on the kitchen counter and researched weevils on the World Wide Web of Knowledge. And do you know what I learned? If ingested, E. coli and other various diseases can be contracted from weevils, depending on their diet.

AND THE MANAGER DIDN’T THINK THAT E.COLI SHOULD BOTHER ME.

I think a letter to Tom Thumb is in my very near future.

The Comedy of Errors, Act IV, Scene II, Shakespeare
weevil, e. coli, baking, Cooking, bugs

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This weekend I attended my 10-year high school reunion. That makes me old. Old and decrepit, like that dried-up head of cabbage that has been in my refrigerator for two and a half months. I know! Two and a half months! I found it last night hiding beneath the cheese in the dairy bin, shriveled and withering away. And still? I didn't throw it away. I just left it there and covered it up again with the cheese. I am officially a slob.

Watching me get ready for the reunion, you would have thought I was going to my senior prom. I washed my hair (which you should know is not out of the ordinary) and then spent an entire fifteen minutes arranging my hair. And do you know what I came up with? A big, fat NOTHING. And so it went back in a clip, like it does every day.

I actually put on makeup, complete with foundation and powder and blush and holy cow: the mascara. I have always loved my foundation by Stila because it is a very sheer formula and gives me a dewy look. After seeing this picture, though, all I can think is: Shiny!

Someone give that girl a powder puff, stat!

Even now I am sitting at my desk, blotting my face with a piece of copy paper. I am a bit traumatized by my forehead, cheeks, chin and nose in that photo.

My eyelashes, however, were lovingly smothered in Loreal's Double Extend mascara, which extends the length of my eyelashes like no mascara ever has before. I like Loreal products because (little known fact alert) Loreal is the same company as Lancome, which means you can get great products at 1/3 of the price and you don't have to go all the way to the mall to get them.

I agreed to arrive early at the reunion to help greet people, something about being on the reunion planning committee and the accompanying obligations of the job, and as soon as I got there I fantasized about pulling out of the driveway and going to my mom's house for the night.

Instead, I sucked it up and walked through the doors.

I began the night truly delighted to see my old classmates. As the night wore on, and I paid attention to how people were putting themselves in cliques, I became more and more aware of the disillusionment settling in my heart. I found myself having to force smiles toward some people, people I might have considered "friends" in high school, if only because I was young and naïve and probably would have named ANYONE my friend just so I could have MORE! MORE! MORE!.

One girl in particular responded to me in kind, and there was something about the delivery of her greeting – or perhaps something about the fact that it was her – that reminded me why I never really liked her in high school. The brief exchange between us transported me back ten years, when I was just the girl who wished these people would like me, would be friendly to me, would do more than snicker behind my back as I walked away from them.

In the brief moment of our exchange I locked my gaze with hers, tilted my head to the side and furrowed my brow. I looked at her for a moment, bit my lip, and then wished her a nice evening. I didn't want to be around her any longer, and my heart sunk a little as I walked away, once again disappointed by who she is.

Pre-arrival I had nearly convinced myself that these people wouldn't still be the same haughty teenagers they were in high school. And in that interlude, I realized that some of them still are. They haven't grown up. Life, however cruelly or blissfully dealt to them, hasn't humbled them.

I rediscovered old classmates I had completely forgotten. I embarrassed myself thoroughly by not remembering everyone and yet assuming that I could when armed with a microphone and surrounded by everyone in attendance. I announced the winners of certain awards and failed to recognize one of those people who came up to claim her prizes. In fact, when she came into the room from the bar to claim her prize, I announced to her that we were looking for Linda*. And she was all, "I am Linda*." I hated myself in that moment.

Once I got over the hump of not recognizing my classmates, and there is no way I could have recognized them all, I realized how full of life our class was. I reveled in the uniqueness of each person and wished that I could spend more time with them.

My classmates look great. Some have changed over time and some have been untouched by the past ten years. Some seem genuinely happy. Others were utterly wasted, and that made them (seemingly) happy.

I drove home Saturday night, relieved to be returning to my little world. I am content with who I am and where I am in life, and that makes me happy.

*Names changed to protect the (not so) innocent.

Technorati:high school reunion, high school, reunion

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Until I can sit down and muster up enough strength to tell you about the haunted house in Manitou Springs, Colorado, the house in which we slept, FOR THREE NIGHTS, I will leave you with this tidbit:

Did you know...

...that a cockroach can live up to ONE WEEK without its head? It only dies because without a mouth, it can't drink water.

It's true.

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This weekend I…

…and determined (yet again) that GAH: I need to move out of Dallas. The rest of the world is just too beautiful.

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