Chirky

When you see that I am busy, and ask how you can help me, and I delegate something to you to do, do not return it to me untouched, say you agree with matters listed in the document, and tell me to go ahead and make the changes. THAT IS WHY I GAVE IT TO YOU TO DO.

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This weekend, the weather in Dallas is supposed to dip down to a nasty 26°. If only it were also supposed to rain, which would become snow, and if only it were to take place on a Tuesday, instead of a Friday, I'd be more thrilled. Because snow in Dallas means ice in Dallas means all the roads are shut down in Dallas means I don't have to go to work means I can sit at home in my pajamas all day along and watch TV. Or read books. Or play on the Interdweeb, catching up on all my regular reads and all my irregular reads and every other word ever written by a blogger, Amen.

A friend of mine emailed today to ask if Roger and I want to get together for games on Friday night, the very night of the alarmingly cold weather, and I had to admit to her – as if she didn't already know, because hello: we were twice roommates – that I'm a bit high maintenance when it comes to cold weather.

Seeing as how I'm high maintenance and will readily admit it, and seeing as how she just moved into a new home, I thought I should break it to her gently that if she can't meet my list of demands, perhaps we should just plan on getting together another time. Because cold weather and I? Don't mix.

Therefore, I present to you Chirky's Fabricated List Of Cold Weather Demands, which were emailed to my friend approximately five minutes ago [and recently edited by me]:

1. a fireplace, preferably working, which is also burning wood in a very [white] hot [and burning, burning, burning down the house] fashion [except maybe not actually burning down the house, because that would force me outside, just the place I don't want to be, because again: cold]


2. mugs upon mugs upon mugs of apple cider and hot cocoa, [the cocoa served] preferably with tiny little marshmallows, or, really, ANY SIZE marshmallows. I'm not complaining when it comes to marshmallow size [because I'm an equal-opportunity marshmallow consumer]


3. uh, no c. that's it. just a woodburning fire and chocolate. gah. what more could a girl want?

And do you know what she responded to me? THAT SHE DOESN'T HAVE A FIREPLACE. Internets! No fireplace! My number one demand! And she expects me to brave the cold winds to go to her home! With exclamation points!

And while she did promise lots of cocoa, with extra marshmallows, I feel compelled to produce another list of demands. So: I put it to you, Internets. What should they be? Footed fleece pajamas for everyone to wear? Homemade squares of peppermint-swirled marshmallows? Faux fur earmuffs for our delicate orifices?

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It's been a while since I've indulged my artistic side, and I heard a rumor you were starting to go through withdrawals.

…

Wait. What's that? Do you hear it? That kind of high-pitched chirping noise? You know – kinda like crickets.

…

Huh. Just me then? Okay.

We have a new employee at work. I met her on her first day, and lo, she liked me. Two days later she stopped by my cube, and I was apparently scowling concentrating very hard.

[Aside: y'all, I put a lot of work into that. See the scowly eyebrows? The hint of blush? The wrinkled forehead? That there is fiiiiiiiinnnnneeee artistry.]

The next week I saw her again, and she actually said to me, "If I hadn't met you my first day, you'd be the last person around here that I'd want to meet."

Uh…what? Why? I mean, HELLO. I'm me. Everyone likes me!

When she told me this, I was a bit surprised and asked her why, for the love of all things holy, would she not want to meet me and be friends with me and loooovvvvvveeee me. And then I reminded her: I am me, after all.

When people come by my office, they stop to say hello and I look away from my computer where I am concentrating and working very diligently. My brow is sometimes furrowed, and when I look at them my brow has not yet unlocked itself. And so coworkers see my brow and pursed lips, and they think it is kind of scary. And they make excuses for me, saying such things as, "Oh, Jes? She's just intense."

That's why I am resolved to go shopping this week for a small mirror to hang on my cubicle wall, the wall adjacent to my computer, so that I can see the look on my face each time I whip around to say hello. It's a public service, don't you think?

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Evidence that leaves in Dallas change directly from green to brown.

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A couple weeks ago I signed up to help review blogs for NaBloPoMo. I’m looking at a list of fifty two blogs that begin with the letter “O” and, y’all? I’m a little overwhelmed.

I am horrible (horrible!) at math, and yet I am supposed to give you statistics. I cannot promise they are accurate, because the calculations involved me staring at my calculator, and then the numbers, and then the calculator, and then punching numbers, and then wondering if they were correct. And then I do the Dolly Parton calculation just to make sure the calculator is right.

Incidentally, that is also how I took the SAT in high school.

Except I didn’t have a gross boy sitting two seats away at the cafeteria table, BREATHING HEAVILY out loud in a very noisy way. With heaving.

STATS*:
52 blogs
(uhh?? How do you do stats? Am I supposed to divide something somewhere? Maybe?)
36% were mommyblogs
52% are already out of the running (missed one or more posts before November 24th)
12% I labeled “boooorrrrrriiiinnggggg.”

*I have no idea if these stats are accurate. They're just...what my calculator produced. Totally by user error. And maybe some tequila.

However, I did find several worth introducing:

(OFTEN) PEDANTIC MUSINGS
This girl is fun, feisty, and opinionated. I enjoyed reading her entries and added her to my personal “favorites” list so I can remember to go back for more.

OH FOR FUN!
The thing she does with googly eyes makes me laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And I think I may go out and buy googly eyes for my own food, because it doesn’t seem fair somehow that all my edibles are without eyeballs.

ONE CHILD LEFT BEHIND
An entertaining writer, some of which I don’t even understand (which doesn’t make his writing any less entertaining). Perhaps even more entertaining than his entries is the Laudy Daw section of his site, under which he lists what others have said about him and his writing. Apparently, people are very opinionated: "I would rather suck a tape worm from your urethra than read this crap." Ha! That’s funny.

OROONI
I had so much fun reading this site, probably because this girl (guy? I don’t know – there wasn’t an “about” section, even though the subtitle is “she does stuff” but – who is she? The author? The dog? It’s a mystery.) is drama, the perfect self-deprecating and sarcastic and judgmental flair for drama, and from the little bit I’ve read, I already know that I’ll totally be going back for more. I almost feel like I shouldn’t highlight her (him?) in this NaBloPoMo review because she (he?) missed one day of posting and is therefore disqualified, but: she’s (he’s?) funny! The good thing about being this category reviewer is that I get to do whatever I want, and you can’t do anything about it.

OTHER SIDE OF MY HEAD
The funny (not hee-haw funny, and not ironic funny, but more like interesting funny) thing about being a category reviewer for NaBloPoMo is that people find out that you’re reviewing categories, and then they start commenting on your blog, and you think their comments are funny, so you go back and visit theirs.

And then you realize: CRAP! This is a blog that I’m supposed to review – it’s totally scandalous when a judge (moi?) and a beauty pageant contestant have an affair, and then people wonder whether the outcome is rigged because the judge votes for his mistress, or in this case, the blog reviewer highlights one of her readers.

Or, it could be entirely coincidental that Kir (the author) started reading my blog. Either way, the former reasoning it totally more appealing, right? A scandal! Right here on chirky.com!

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I've mentioned before that I grew up in the country, and that the driveway leading up to our home was a long gravel road. I snapped this picture about halfway up the driveway yesterday, as Roger and I were leaving my childhood home.

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This morning my eyes popped open at 5:45 am. I couldn't stand it anymore - I just had to get in the kitchen and start on the Thanksgiving turkey.

Is anyone else as excitable about cooking as I am? We need to meet. Wanna be neighbors?

I hope each of you have a delightful Thanksgiving - a day filled with good food, gracious friends, loving family, and full hearts. Speaking of, what are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?

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Tomorrow morning, for the third year in a row, I am cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving. Doing this each year reinforces the fact that I Am An Adult Now, an adult who should not try to take a nap while my mom washes the dishes. She tries to help reinforce that fact wherever she can, sometimes in the form of pots banging together above my head.

Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving? I dare you to take a nap.

My mom is practically a goddess in the kitchen. I grew up not with a few favorite dishes, but with an arsenal of cuisines and meals my mom had created over the years. I am so thankful that she introduced me to so many different types of foods, because it helped me become the woman I am today: one who eagerly eats chicken feet (with talons!). That said, I am not a picky eater. I maintain that I will always try anything once, including pig intestines, particularly if I don't know what I am eating before it goes into my mouth.

The first year I made the Thanksgiving turkey, I was somewhat nervous. My mom had only requested that I bake a small turkey, about 8 pounds. Meanwhile, she made an enormous honey-baked ham to use as back-up in case my turkey tasted like an overcooked piece of tar. You know the meat I'm talking about: the kind that you chew and immediately wish you hadn't put in your mouth? The kind that you regret putting on your plate because how will you get it off without eating it and without your host noticing that you couldn't swallow one more foul (fowl? Ha!) mouthful?

When I arrived at my mother's home that morning, she was delightfully surprised that the turkey was golden brown rather than charred black. It smelled perfectly edible, and when she cut into it juices ran down the back of the small bird's body. By the end of the day, guests were picking the meat off the bones and commenting on how delicious it was, how perfectly moist it was, how in their 76 years of life they had not eaten a turkey as good as that one.

I shot my mom a smug look and a raised eyebrow, the look that I've trademarked over the years, and she beamed with pride. Her daughter could cook. And when I told her the recipe came from a local radio DJ, she didn't believe me.

The next year I used the same recipe to roast a 17 pound turkey, and the turkey turned out equally well. This year, I am making a 22 pound turkey. TWENTY TWO POUNDS. That's, like, the weight of my nephew.

I'm all about minimal work, fool-proof recipes, and impressing people. And this recipe for our annual Thanksgiving turkey (courtesy of the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning radio show) has it all. Whether you're looking to showcase your mad cooking skillz while entertaining a house full of guests or you just want your mother-in-law to adore you, read on for the recipe. But chef beware: keep a large supply of pillows on-hand. That tryptophan will seduce turkey eaters into slumber every time.

GROCERY LIST
A turkey
Olive oil
Carrots, cut into approx 3" sticks
Purple onion, quartered
Several cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed
Celery, cut into approx 3" sticks
Roasting pan
Brown paper bag
Stapler

NOTES

1. Turkey: any brand, any size, depending on how many people you're feeding and how many leftovers you want.


2. Olive oil: you can use any degree of olive oil you want (extra light in flavor to extra virgin), just don't use butter. Butter will dry out your turkey.


3. Veggies: these are just for flavoring, not for serving. Use as many vegetables as you do or don't want, because you'll throw them away before serving the turkey.


4. Smashed garlic: i'm totally not trying to insult your intelligence, but some cooks don't know to smash garlic before using it for its flavor. Just peel the skin off, place the garlic clove on a flat surface, and lay your knife (flat) against it. Hold the heel of your palm against the (flat) blade and press down to smash the garlic.


5. Brown paper bag: you may want to use two paper bags if your turkey is extra large. The brown bag won't burn unless (a) it touches the heating element, which can be avoided by using the lowest oven rack or (b) if the oven reaches more than 451 degrees (F). To roast the turkey, it is important that you use a brown paper bag (the kind you can get from the grocery store). Using a Reynolds turkey bag will steam the turkey, which gives it a different look, taste and texture.

COOKING INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees (F)


2. Take out all the junk in the turkey. (Check the main body cavity and the neck cavity.)


3. Wash the turkey thoroughly, then dry it off.


4. Stuff both cavities of the turkey with your mixture of carrots, onion, celery, garlic (and any other veggies you want to include).


5. Rub olive oil over the entire turkey, top and bottom. Go ahead - give it a good massage.


6. Place the turkey in a roasting pan.


7. Slide the turkey and roasting pan into the brown paper bag. Staple the bag shut. Don't use tape.


8. Sprinkle the bag lightly with water. (Remember: paper doesn't burn unless it reaches 451 degrees, and you're only cooking at 325.)


9. Cook the turkey 13 minutes per pound

Don't feel tempted to cook the turkey longer just because you've cooked it for 23 hours in the past. The turkey, cooked as directed above, will be tender and juicy. And you'll be the hit of the party.

Go ahead, bask in the praise. You deserve it.

Kidd Kraddick's recipe can be found HERE.

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Last week I was sitting at work, entertaining myself by drawing on my abdomen with a Sharpie. I wanted to know exactly where my pelvis was ripping apart, in case it wasn't obvious by my sudden gasps and hands flinging to clutch my abdomen.

The stabbing pain propelled me to the doctor, where I sat with visions of my ovaries exploding, my appendix rupturing, and an assortment of Swiss Army blades in my fallopian tubes that were trying to push through the surface of my skin.

My doctor pressed on me, asked me about the pain, and then sent me for lab work. I bravely watched the nurse push a needle into my vein and nearly vomited. It was gross to watch it go into my skin, and even more disgusting when my blood began spewing like a leaky pipe everywhere into the vial. It's nearly a week later and my arm still hurts when I fully extend it.

After pressing a cotton ball to my inner elbow bendy part (what is that part of my arm called?), I hopped off the stool and aimed for the restroom, cup in hand. I collected my urine sample and, as I was holding the cup while trying to finish my business, the thought crossed my mind: "I'll be damned if I spill this cup all over my clothes."

Has anyone ever done that? What do you do? Wear your soggy, urine-infested slacks back into the waiting room? With the urine-covered cloth clinging to your legs? Ask for a hospital gown while your pants are still around your ankles? Just walk out of the restroom in your underwear?

I put a death grip on the cup – why did it not occur to me just to set it on the ground? – and managed not to dump it over. Instead, I dropped the toilet paper, which rolled about six feet away (it was a big bathroom), leaving a trail of paper behind it. I stared at it (a) revolted by the thought of using the toilet paper that had touched the ground (germs! everywhere!) and (b) uncertain what to do because I needed that toilet paper for obvious reasons.

Figuring the day was headed south anyway, I gave in and finally just sat down on the toilet seat. I had been hovering, protecting my precious bottom from the possible diseases lurking in the porcelain bowl. My thighs were burning from the squat position I had been holding - do you know how much water I had to drink in a two hour window? - and at the time contracting herpes from the bathroom seemed a more attractive option than putting my legs through more fiery pain. (Note to self: need to begin exercising.)

I kept trying to pull the roll toward me, but regardless of whether I gently pulled the paper or gave it a sound yank, the roll didn't come toward me. It just unrolled MORE. And this is the part where I'll tell you a secret, a secret that I loathe admitting: I used the toilet paper that was on the ground. AAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. I know, okay? I KNOW. But at least I used the part that was facing UP.

::Hides face in shame::

I also had two sonograms, which perhaps was the catalyst to me realizing how empty my life is. Because this woman could see inside my body. She could see things I'd never seen before. She could see the very innerworkings of LIFE. She could see how many organs were positioned and knew how each worked together to make my body function.

To better see the screen, I covertly positioned myself further down on the table than I should have been. It was mostly evident because my legs, rather than resting on the 6' long bed, were dangling off the edge. As the nurse kneaded my pelvic and abdominal area with the wand, I watched as my organs flew across the screen. My pancreas! My spleen! My kidneys! My ovaries! My big, black masses of gas, blocking her view!

Today I heard back from my doctor. It seems that the problem wasn't so much my exploding ovaries or knives housed within my fallopian tubes. Rather, it's just that I need to lose weight because my body can't keep up with the fat that I'm producing on a daily (hourly?) basis.

Okay, that's not really the doctor's diagnosis - that is just my own. His version went something like this: "Your kidneys and liver looks fine. Your ovaries and uterus are perfect. You have no gall stones. Everything looks great - I'm not sure why you were having those pains. Are you still having them?"

"No, they've kind of subsided."

"Then it may have been a cyst bursting or a spasm. You know, sometimes when you have spasms in your colon it can be a little painful, but difficult to see on the sonogram."

When I hung up I wondered whether the government was listening to my doctor talk to me about my colon spasming, and I became a little embarrassed, because what if the CIA points their satellites toward me and agents gather to hover around a 65" LCD and laugh at the girl with the possibly spasming colon?

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If I store my half-sucked Tootsie Roll Pop in my glass of ice water, will the water preserve the Tootsie Roll Pop? Or will the water become flavored like my Tootsie Roll Pop? And if the water becomes flavored, will it taste as good as this red, artificially flavored candied shell?

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For those of you following the day-long saga (one day? it doesn't feel so much like a saga now, does it?) of the mysterious case of my missing contact lenses that were stolen by a store employee, you'll be pleased to know that the General Manager of the store? Doesn't have time for us.

Which is why when Roger demanded resolution of this matter, the GM simply walked my husband over to the optical section, told another employee to give Roger whatever he wanted, and left.

Roger now has all my contact lenses, forty six pairs of sunglasses, and twenty nine pairs of reading glasses. Anybody want dibs?

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Warning: A whole lotta complaining and grumbling ahead.

Let's lay things out here:

Last Saturday I went shopping at Sam's club. FINE.

Last Saturday I got distracted while shopping and forgot to pick up my contacts that I ordered (and paid for) two months ago. FINE.

Today Roger went to pick those contacts up for me. FINE.

Today the sales associate told Roger that someone already picked up those contacts. UM, WHAT? NO I DIDN'T.

Today the sales associate told Roger he should go home and look around, just to make sure we hadn't forgotten that we already picked up six boxes of contacts. NOT FINE.

Today I talked to the sales associate, receipt in hand, and asked how someone else managed to pick up my contacts without the receipt. NOT FINE.

Today the sales associate informed me that the $240 I paid for my contacts? Is gone. Because I already picked the contacts up. Which: I didn't. NOT FINE.

GAH. I am peeved, y'all. $240. And no contacts to show for it! What am I going to do?!?

Resolution of this matter can be found HERE.

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6: hours I've spent shopping so far today (and it's only 4 pm!)
9: hideous designs of cheese spreaders I've encountered
11: books I've purchased
1: temper-tantrum thrown because my spatula? is too flexible.
7: stores I've visited today
80: dollars TJ Maxx expected us to pay for a broken suitcase
3: people marked off my Christmas list
1: movie I'm about to watch (A Good Year)

[Edited to add:
1: movie I slept through, after taking a "15 minute nap" and waking up an hour and a half later]

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Nearly three months ago, Roger and I attended a taping of Wheel of Fortune, where we watched the wheel spin 'round and 'round, and groaned when contestants couldn't solve the puzzle. We sat in the audience, whooping with excitement every time a camera was pointed within 45° of our bodies, and pretending to clap because actually clapping? After we had already spent ten minutes straight clapping, clapping, clapping and our palms were bruised and sore? Out of the question.

And then we promptly forgot all about it.

Last night, the first of the two episodes we attended aired on national TV. And where was I? Not at home, cuddled on my couch with fourteen blankets – that's where. And I'm a little peeved about it, especially because I loooovvvvveeeedddd Vanna's dress in the first episode.

It was my great acting debut! There was a camera IN MY FACE for at least one minute twenty seven seconds, and I missed my shining opportunity (shining: I really needed some powder) to see the whole thing. And, what's more, we don't have Tivo. We don't even have a telephone line so that we can have Tivo. We don't even have Givo, y'all (ghetto Tivo, aka a VCR).

So: did you remember? I mean, how could you not, right? The chance to see moi, on television?

What? I was the only one looking forward to it? I don't understand. I thought we were friends.

Luckily, for you, the second taping will air tonight. We're having a watching party at our home, so come on over! Stuffed mushrooms will be served, and prizes will be given for correctly guessing each puzzle.

(I'll buy good prizes, because I like prizes, and also because you'll be competing against Roger and me, and since we attended the taping, and already know the answers, it's likely that we'll be winning our own prizes. I'm thinking something along the lines of: a trip to the Maldives, a shopping spree at Best Buy, and a shopping spree at Ann Taylor. Care to spin the wheel on that?)

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Every year for Thanksgiving, my employer hosts a luncheon for the legal department and caters turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and corn. Our group supplies the rest: side dishes (carrots, green beans, yams, salads, etc.), desserts (chocolate, pecan pie, cheesecake, pumpkin pie, apple pie, etc.), drinks (soda, tea, etc.), bread (dinner rolls, cornbread, specialty breads, etc.).

The first year I signed up for it, I arrived a little late on the scene and all the normal vegetable side dishes were already taken, but there was still one remaining slot for a vegetable. The dessert openings had already been snatched up, and I was unwilling to bring something like a single tub of Cool Whip, mainly because the males in our group should be responsible for bringing that since they don't cook.

I am also an attention whore and love showcasing my ability to cook. When you've got the talent, it's important to flaunt it appropriately. In my case, "appropriately" is defined as: every opportunity. (Thus, the new cooking website, yet to launched.)

After staring at the list of vegetable dishes, I came up with a mental list of veggies not represented: zucchini, mushrooms, bok choy. Not great choices for Thanksgiving, save the mushrooms – but what could I do with those?

I made stuffed mushrooms, which were a hit with the crowd and have since been a tradition at work. Plus, they're pretty. And easy. And I'm all about no-fuss food.

Want to make them for your next party? Keep reading.

I kind of make the recipe up each time I cook stuffed mushrooms, so I don't know exactly how I made them. But I'll tell you how I think I might have done it:

Stuffed Mushrooms

Ingredients
16 oz. small-medium mushrooms
1 cup swiss and parmesan cheeses
1 ½ cup bread crumbs
1 egg
1 tablespoon garlic powder (or 3 cloves fresh minced garlic)
½ stick butter, melted
2 tablespoons butter, melted

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 325°
   
2. Wash mushrooms
   
3. De-stem the mushrooms (rock the stem back and forth – it should pop out of the mushroom cap)
   
4. Place mushroom (dome side up) on a baking sheet
   
5. Brush the top of each mushroom with reserved melted butter
   
6. Broil in the oven for about 5 minutes, or until mushrooms are browned
   
7. While mushrooms are broiling, combine the cheese, bread crumbs, egg, garlic and ½ stick melted butter
   
8. Remove mushrooms from oven
   
9. Stuff mushroom caps with bread mixture replace on baking sheet
   
10. Broil mushrooms (cap side up) for 5-10 minutes, or until golden brown

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"I'm holding a dead piece of cow in my hand."

(After cutting an extra strip of leather from my shoe.)
(Which, really, why am I cutting my shoe?)
(Because I didn't like that particular strip of leather.)

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I'll have a button up soon, but wanted to remind you Internets that the domain name contest is still open for my new cooking site.

If you don't want to suggest a site name in the comments section, for fear that domain name eaters might come by and snatch it up, just email me.

I'm open to any type of name, whether it is related to the brand Chirky™ or not. The site will be a cooking site, fully devoted to one of my favorite subjects: Food. (And, interestingly, how to cook it.) Stay tuned.

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Yesterday I developed this sharp, shooting pain on the surface of my rock-hard, washboard abs. It's like I pulled a muscle in just one tiny area, below and to the right of my navel, and every time I move - sometimes when I just breathe - my body lets me know that something is wrong.

Last night I tried to figure out what it was through deductive reasoning. Sometimes I would surreptitiously yank up my shirt, hoping to surprise the miniscule acupuncture pins poking out of my stomach, not giving them enough time to disguise themselves from me. That's what it feels like: sharp daggers stabbing my flesh like a rabid wolf slaughtering its prey.

Hungry, anyone?

I thought for a moment that it was just gas, but then I remembered that couldn't possibly be it because I know THAT feeling all too well. In that case, I get bloated and feel like my organs are under the pressure of one hundred eighty six anvils, pushing and shoving and making me double-over in misery because the anvils are trapped in a big, black mass somewhere within my intestinal tract. It's an entirely different kind of pain.

Also? Hi, mom. Right now I'm willing to bet that she is horrified that I'm talking about my flatulence to the Internet, and she wants you to know that she didn't raise me to talk about these things in public. And I bet she is embarrassed, too, and vowing to stop reading this site, yet again.

Mom, I know that you're totally right. I attribute my disgusting behavior to all those years I lived alone and didn't have you to correct me. I promise not to make it dinner conversation at the Thanksgiving table.

Since I (a) haven't yet discovered the impalpable acupuncture needles and (b) know that it's not gas, now I'm wondering whether it is my appendix preparing itself to explode into a thousand pieces.

Is there a doctor in the house? Anyone? Maybe even someone who likes to diagnose, but who doesn't have any medical knowledge? (Um, wait. That's me.)

Until my appendix ruptures (or until I find some other explanation), I'll just keep yanking up my shirt, hunting for needles.

*Caskie Stinnett

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A few weeks ago, Roger and I took my nephew, Chase, to the zoo. I was fascinated to stand in the reptile enclosure and watch a Western Diamondback Rattlesnack go ballistic anytime I got near its case. If I stood across the hall and watched the rattlesnake, it was calm. If I drew near its case, even as close as a foot away, its tail would begin rattling - it was moving so fast that at times its tail was just a blur.

Obviously, the snake was agitated by my presence. I thought that was totally lame, because I wasn't the one threatening its life. It was threatening mine. Except for the fact that it was in a cage and I was walking merrily about, but that's beside the point because again: I'm not slithering around, killing people.

I hate snakes, hate snakes with a white hot burning passion of hatingness, and only find it acceptable to be in their presence when they are caged. With a very, very tight lid. Some of my most fond childhood memories involve me watching my dad shoot a snake in our yard with his gun. My dad? He's a good shot. And looking at a mangled, dead snake with its head dangling by a piece of its skin gave me a deranged pleasure. I was even somewhat giddy about it. And totally relieved that my dad had so gallantly protected me.

That's why I am so appalled by Jackie Bibby, aka "The Texas Snakeman," who is shown in this image dangling ten Western Diamondback Rattlesnakes from his mouth in a bid for a place in the Guiness Book of World Records.

First, I live in Texas, which means that someone, somewhere, probably in North Dakota or Minnesota or rural Pennsylvania, is going to assume that all Texans are alike. They'll know us as The People Who Ride Our Horses To Work And Dangle Rattlesnakes In Our Mouths For Fun™.

Second, who came up with the idea to put several snakes in their mouth and hold them there without assistance? I want to know what the snakes are doing while dangling there. Have they been sedated? Or are the snakes all riled up and twisting about?

Because if someone hung me upsidedown, I'd be none too pleased about it. In fact, I might even try to bite the guy. And he'd totally deserve it, too.

Technorati: record, records, world records, guiness book of world records, snake

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I keep wondering how blogging everyday is going to last for me. Particularly on the weekends, when I sit lazily in front of the TV (or at the table, scrapbooking) and attempt to remember how my brain has turned to mush at the ripe age of 28.

And then I remember: the prizes. Have you seen that list of all those great prizes? THIRTY THREE of them at last count? It almost provokes me to donate a prize from the Storage Closet O' Goodness. And perhaps I will.

Even if I win a prize, or donate a prize- which HELLO: HAVE YOU SEEN HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE PARTICIPATING? BEHOLD THE POWER OF FUSSY - it's fun to have a challenge.

I wonder how many people will still be in the running at the end of this month?

I am in the process of helping the author of Writing Aspirations review all the blogs. She's done the majority of the work - I'm just taking two categories (out of, like, fifty million). Check back this week, because I should have the first (at least) of those two categories completed.

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It may be ridiculously lame that I took this quiz, but it's the weekend. And for me, weekends call for laziness.

I've always been ridiculously proud of the fact that I have no accent. When I answered these questions today, it confirmed it for me only one thing: I should have been a telephone operator. My accent is that non-existent.

Someone? Want to hire me for voiceovers? Anyone?

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The West Your accent is the lowest common denominator of American speech. Unless you're a SoCal surfer, no one thinks you have an accent. And really, you may not even be from the West at all, you could easily be from Florida or one of those big Southern cities like Dallas or Atlanta.
The Midland
Boston
North Central
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The South
The Northeast
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

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I thought PMS struck just before a woman's menstrual cycle, but apparently mine strikes as early as two and a half weeks before. Because I'm sitting at work, sniffling and crying, throwing my half-eaten muffin into the trash can with such force that the thud sounds like a hard-bound dictionary dropping, and I have no idea why.

(Or, it may be related to the fact that I have no appetite and I've managed to grow two (two!) painful blemishes overnight. And, I'm quite confident that it has something to do with certain pressures at work, an impending move, a possible new career direction, and the accompanying strain this creates in our budget and marriage. But that's all.)

Sometimes I deal with stress by shopping. It can be for anything: clothes, food, fabulous shoes, fun jewelry, etc. So: what is the last thing you bought that you absolutely loved?

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Julianna, the author of one of the blogs I read, recently wrote a raw and beautiful entry about her struggle with anorexia. While the feelings are something she will likely battle the rest of her life (the same feelings with which many of us still struggle), she is at a point in her life in which she can say that she's no longer at war with the physical (food) side of anorexia.

I'm so proud of her accomplishment, and for her courage to speak out about an eating disorder that has ravaged the lives of so many women.

Julianna is an American bioarcheologist, who is currently separated (by the government) from her Jordanian husband, who is also a bioarchelogogist. She's in the process of telling the story (on her site) of how they met and began their relationship at an excavation site in Jordan.

It's good for the romantic in me.

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I feel like there is something that I was supposed to do today – what was it?

Oh, yes. That's it. I'm choosing a winner for the cooking tip contest. There were so many great entries – I almost feel that it would be an injustice to pick just one. Whoever made up the rules for this game, anyway?

Hmmm. Right. I did. In that case, I'll determine three categories: most appealing recipe, most useful hint and, my personal favorite (is that redundant?), most bizarre tip:

Most Appealing Recipe
Among the 50+ cooking tips (including several adapted straight from Martha Stewart, the Queen of all Cooking Hints) were a few recipe suggestions. We had everything from entrees to sides to desserts, and even though dessert is my favorite type of food, my favorite hint was a tip from Laura on making a healthy substitute for white Arborio rice (when making risotto):

If you cook brown rice with water, it takes on a nutty texture and the grains don't stick to each other. However, if you cook brown rice with vegetable or chicken stock, it takes on a slightly sticky, creamy texture. Stir in a bit of parmesan cheese to the cooked rice and bam! You have a perfect healthy substitution for white Arborio rice when making risotto (which is usually very high in fat).

I chose this recipe because it's likely I'll be using it in the very near future. And if it's as good as it sounds? I'll have a new staple. My husband, Roger, and I both could survive on rice alone. I should have a bumper sticker that reads, "I [heart] rice."

Most Useful
It was especially difficult for me to pick a useful tip, because there were so many useful suggestions. In fact, I personally use may of them already: parchment paper under cookie dough balls (it keeps the bottom of the cookie from scorching!), storing pre-made salad in Ziploc bags (sans the air), and, when in a pinch, snipping the bottom corner of a Ziploc to use as a pastry bag.

My favorite, though, came from Lorie:

To quickly dice tomatoes or onions in relatively uniform pieces: Make evenly-spaced cuts in rows in one direction on the surface, cutting to about halfway through the onion or tomato. Cross those cuts with evenly-spaced rows, cutting to the same depth. Turn the veggie on its side and slice. Once you get to the halfway point, cut your rows again and finish slicing. Presto!

Y'all. Why did this never occur to me before? I cannot tell you the number of times I've sliced my tomatoes in one direction, until I got to that last slice that threatened to shave off half of my thumb. And then I'd dance around the knife with my fingers. But this! This is genius.

Most Bizarre
Believe me: Some of you? Are really bizarre. I have never heard of such things! Putting sugar in your pasta sauce? Won't that make it sweet? Somehow that seems like it is the antithesis of what red pasta sauce should be. And when I test these bizarre tips? I'll know whether you made them up. And if it ruins my food? I won't throw it away. No: I'll mail it directly to you, Internets, with explicit instructions to consume this monstrosity on video. I will watch you. And I will avenge.

Even more bizarre than adding sugar to your pasta sauce, or even adding cinnamon to your pasta sauce, is this suggestion from Nat (a/k/a Marmite Breath), which she credits to another friend:

…when she boils an egg she drops a match in the boiling water. I believe it stops it from cracking.

I must ask: is the match lit when it is dropped it in the water? Or do you just drop an unused match in the pot? Has anyone else heard of this, or is it just me? Because that is bizarre. Unless it works, of course, and then it is just mildly weird, because then it's a proven method.

With all my readers who have been winning prizes lately – prizes that will either showcase or permanently record the human blunder that I like to call My Brain – I better get in gear. I'd like to be able to mail your jackpot winnings before March 2010.

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Y'all knew it would happen sooner or later. More to come. Maybe. Or perhaps I'll go home tonight and forget all about this, since it obviously won't affect me to the same degree as Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's split. I still haven't quite recovered from that one.

Britney Spears files for divorce from Kevin Federline.

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How old is too old to give birth?
How young is too young?
How old were you when you gave birth?
Or, ideally, how old would you like to be when you have your first child?

Roger and I are beginning to plan for parenthood, and are wondering: How much longer should we wait? How old should I be?

(Current age: 28.
Current years of marriage: 2.5.
Current number of pets: 0.
Current loads of laundry left to do at home: 3.)

I'm depending on you, Internets, to help me run my life.

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Don't forget that two contests are still underway:

* * * CONTESTS * * *

1. Do you have unusual hints or tips related to cooking? Leave them in the comments section on either this entry or on the original contest announcement entry. The most useful suggestion wins a prize from the Storage Closet O' Goodness. The Winner will be announced will be Wednesday, November 8, 2006. (No excuses - this gives you plenty of time to ask mom - or friends - for kitchen tips!)

   Don't have any hints or tips? Check back often. Someone's bound to leave a comment that you find useful.

2. For the past several months I have wanted to start a new food- and cooking-related blog. I've already purchased a couple domains, but am not satisfied with either. Therefore: the best domain name suggestion (the URL must be available for me to purchase) for the new site wins a free blog re-design!

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I think Roger has begun eating grapenuts cereal just to spite me. He went to the store, found the healthiest cereal possible, and eats a bowl whenever I eat ice cream.

I thought a good solution to the problem would be just to sprinkle a few grapenuts on my slow-churned chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce.

The grapenuts were so crunchy they nearly chipped a tooth, but weren't alltogether horrible when paired with my dessert.

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Never one to pass up the opportunity to join another group, even when I don't have time or access (at work) to Social Networking tools like Flickr, I give you NoBloShoeMo. 30 entire days of blogging my shoes.

These are my favorite shoes. I purposefully got a shot that wouldn't show you the insole, which is very dark and dirty and smelly. I also photoshopped out all the junk on the floor. Apparently, I need to vacuum.

Click HERE to see the NoBloShoeMo photo pool on Flickr.
Click HERE to email me if you'd like to be a member of the pool. (Or, just leave a comment asking for an invite.)

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I am a gourmand.

There. I said it. I love food. I love cooking. I love chocolate and chicken and chives, though perhaps not mixed together.

I often find myself daydreaming of hosting my own daytime television show on the FoodTV network, of driving with Rachel Ray in a Chrysler convertible on our way to find the next best place to film $40 a Day, of sampling foods and discussing what spices have been added to produce such a unique flavor.

Simply put, I love to cook.

With the holidays quickly approaching I thought it might be appropriate to unveil a new section of this site for the food lover in each of us. Each week I'll be highlighting my favorite recipes and foods from around the world and in my kitchen. You can use the "Search" feature in the side bar or check out the Gourmand category (also: a Gourmand section coming to a Side Bar near you soon!).

I recently found a list of Unusual Kitchen Tips. The list was so intriguing to me that I feel obligated to share it. I'm also curious whether you are holding a well-kept kitchen secret, and if so, the Internets must know what your secret is. (* * * CONTEST ALERT * * *)

Tired of veggies rotting before you can use them?
Before storing fresh vegetables in the refrigerator (like celery, peppers, onions or lettuce), wrap them several times with slightly damp paper towels - it will at least double the life of the vegetable or fruit and keep them as fresh as the day you bought them (sometimes for weeks!).

Barbequing: Now with more aroma!
Add a touch of exotic flavoring to your grilled food by placing fresh herbs on your coals. I like rosemary or dried basil seedpods. As the coals heat up, the aroma will cling to your food and send a pleasing fragrance through your yard.

Gwen Stefani said it best, "B-a-n-a-n-a-s"
Ever heard of Grilled Banana Splits? Place whole, unpeeled bananas right on the grill and cook them for about eight minutes, turning often. Slice the banana open and top with sauce (I like fudge or caramel) (or both) and/or ice cream (garnish with sliced almonds and a couple of cherries – fresh or maraschino).

Head to your local hardware store
If you insert a nail (a nail about 5" long works well) into one end of a potato, it will conduct heat to the inside and bake you potato more quickly. Some retailers even sell spud spikes, which is basically the same device as a nail. (Note: not for microwave use.)

Sticky cheese grater?
If you place your cheese grater in the freezer for several minutes before grating, cheese won't stick to the metal. If you want to grate a soft cheese (like brie or feta), try putting the cheese in the freezer for an hour to help it harden. Hard cheeses shred better.

Save your eggs from a crackup
Save energy and make perfect hard-boiled eggs. Use a pot with a tight lid, cover your eggs with water, add a pinch of salt, and bring to a rolling boil. As soon as the water is boiling rapidly, turn off the heat and allow the pot to stand, unopened, for 10 minutes. This allows the eggs to finish cooking without cracking and breaking. (Personally, I still like to include an egg timer. But that's only because I'm anal. Cooking eggs this way helps me because I am unapologetically forgetful.

Take the cling out of your wrap
If you store your saran wrap in the freezer, it will unroll and tear more easily, and it won't stick to itself until it thaws out. If you have trouble making it stick to the bowl, moisten the outer edge of the bowl. Or, you could cheat and just buy Press 'n Seal, one of my favorite kitchen products.

Cold corn for hot popping
Store microwave popcorn in the freezer to keep it from getting stale. This will also reduce the number of those irritating unpopped kernels when you pop it. But it won't do anything about the tiny pieces that get stuck along your gums. Two words: dental floss. It makes mouths happy.

Frosting that's easy as cake!
Out of frosting for your cupcakes? Don't fret. Plop a marshmallow on top of each cupcake a minute or so before they're due to come out of the oven. Voila! Instant gooey frosting. (Perfect for people like me, who rejoice at the site of marshmallows.)

* * * CONTESTS * * *

1. Do you have unusual hints or tips? Leave them in the comments section. The most useful suggestion wins a prize from the Storage Closet O' Goodness. The Winner will be announced will be Wednesday, November 8, 2006. (No excuses - this gives you plenty of time to ask friends for kitchen tips!)

   Don't have any hints or tips? Check back often. Someone's bound to leave a comment that you find useful.

2. For the past several months I have wanted to start a new food-related blog. I've already purchased a couple domains, but am not satisfied with either. Therefore: the best domain name suggestion (the URL must be available for me to purchase) for the new site wins a free blog re-design!

Technorati: food, foodie, recipe, recipes, kitchen, cooking, Baking, cuisine

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When I ran a contest two months ago – I know, okay? I know. Two months is much too long for me to harvest comments related to a contest for which I haven't even announced the prizes – I had no idea that I'd receive such funny, creative and bizarre comments.

After clambering through hundreds of masterfully constructed applications for the panel of dancing monkeys, I endured a grueling sixty days of interviewing self-important experts in sundry fields. A couple of these superstars even surprised me with their occupations, with such titles as professional armpit sniffers and apple de-wormers.

I belatedly chose three panelists, and we set to the task of choosing one Winner and one Runner-Up in the Ch'Agua contest.

So, without further ado (save the part where erase the same sentence four times in an effort to properly express to you how excited I am about the prizes, which come direct to you from me, courtesy of Martha Stewart's brain, or really, all her inventive employees that succeed at making Martha seem creative, because last night I drafted a list chock-full of gorgeous, hip gifts that I'll probably botch the first nine attempts of fabricating, but that will be absolutely scrumptious and will cause the winners to squeal with delight, which probably will be helped by the fact that both are female), the winners*:

Example of a gift from the Martha Stewart empire, which gift may find its way to your door.** Runner-Up: Jayleigh

"The OTHERS, from Lost."

Even though Jayleigh's response was the first, it stuck in the minds of my chuckling panelists. There might have been one unconfirmed report of an apple de-wormer laughing, out loud.

My husband, Roger, and I stopped watching LOST mid-season One because there weren't enough consistently new shows for such impatient souls as ours. I distinctly remember a feeling of de ja vu while watching the first episode toward the end of the season, trying to convince Roger that, no, this isn't the first episode. Gah. Does he really not pay enough attention to this show to know that? It's just a flashback. Obviously, it was a never-ending flashback, also known as the First Episode, and after that night we resolved just to watch the DVDs. It saved both my sanity and our precious time that could be spent watching other TV shows.

Winner: Lawyerish

"Composers of Latin American porno music.
As in: [Bow] Ch[icka]'aguuuuuuaaaaaaa.
They are always listening.
(Note their trademark, the yin-yang with the lightning bolt.)"

Note to Readers: My panel is in no way advocating porn, or even porno music, if such a thing exists. However, the armpit smellers were so enamored by Lawyerish's ability to burst into song that all the panelists joined in various renditions of the popular verse, jumping and gyrating to their own beat. That's not to say they all sounded particularly pleasing, or that they even gyrated well. Lawyerish's inspiration for free artistic expression is what finally won the hearts of the experts. It's also what propelled me to send them packing, because white people are notoriously bad dancers. Except me, obviously.


*If it takes me a similar amount of time to create and mail the gifts as it did to actually choose the winners of the gifts, you can expect the postman to come a knockin' around March 2010.

**Except, not this gift, however pretty-looking it may be. Because I have other things in mind. Just for (each of) you.

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I was in fifth grade when I first learned to write notes to my friends using calculators, the pre-cursor to sending messages on hip-slung beepers.

We couldn't say much other than "hi" and "hello," and if we were really stretching the capabilities of the calculator and our ability to interpret what different digits might represent, we could say "love," "hate" and "bite me."

Two days ago I was rummaging through the Storage Closet O' Goodness, trying to choose what gift(s) should be bestowed upon the winner and runner-up of the Ch-Agua contest. After probing for a bit, I found an old calculator of mine from high school. I immediately opened the hard-shell cover and turned it on, and was delighted (and surprised) that it still worked.

I felt exhilarated by this tiny find and - almost as if law compelled me - I performed a super-secret calculation to ensure that, yes, this precious piece of my past still functions correctly.

And then I realized what a peculiar obsession I have developed. One that I have never found necessary to share with my husband, Roger, but that I'm perfectly willing to divulge to The Internet. It is a fixation that rushes back and seizes me any time I am near a new calculator or a calculator that I have not used recently.

I have sat in numerous meetings, in classrooms and at home, and before I trust such an unpredictable machine as a calculator, I must complete a certain riddle that invariably leaves me snickering to myself. It goes like this:

Dolly Parton has 69 pounds of – what crass term can we include here? – boobs. (Udders? Silicone? I just did a search on the Internet for other terms for women's breasts, and do you know how dirty it made me feel? Especially because of big brother, watching me? Sick. I need a shower now.)

69

That was too, too, too much.

69222

So she took 51 pills…

6922251

…for 8 days…

6922251 x 8

…and that left her...

I'm not sure what it is about this riddle - Does it even count as a riddle? – that throws me into fits of giggles.

Is it the thought of Dolly Parton without breasts? I cannot even imagine such a thing. That's like thinking of Kate Bosworth or Nicole Richie and ignoring the fact that each have become synonymous with anorexia. Or thinking of Kevin Federline and not becoming perplexed by how he convinced Britney Spears to marry him. I mean, he's so greasy. And he wears tube socks with his flip-flops. That alone should have been enough of a warning sign to her.

(Or, perhaps it is the fact that I am a grown adult and am still fascinated that I can spell out "boobless" on my calculator.)

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