Chirky

Why must, once you get on the plane, someone begin eating smelly food? I saw all of you, each and every one of you sitting in the waiting area, bored. Every single one of you. BORED. And not eating.

And then we boarded the plane, and got comfy in our very tiny seats, and once we reached cruising altitude, and before the flight attendant even had begun to prepare her beverage cart, YOU, Mr. iPod and Receding Hairline, produced your smelly food from the deep recesses of your carry-on luggage.

I cannot see what is making such a stench, but it smells like corn-nuts. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.! You should be outlawed!

This is, afterall, only a two-hour flight. And I recognize you from last night, last night when we all sat together grumbling about our cancelled flight, phoning our family and friends and credit card company concierge services to request overnight accommodations. I’m certain that your hotel offered a continental breakfast, one that did not involve corn-nuts, and that the offending snack was really an impulse purchase made in the secured area of the airport by The Receding Hairline.

Those crunchy little wads are a $3.49 snack of horror. They reek. And I think they're ranch-flavored. RANCH-FLAVORED. CORN-NUTS. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.!

Editor's Note:
Please forgive. Was written from a very small seat while the scent of ranch-flavored corn-nuts invaded. Also, it was a very early flight. And also, I didn't get much sleep, since I was up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the flight. And also, I was tired. OMG. Delirious.

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I’m spending the next hour on a plane from Dallas, TX to Greensboro, NC, and my: these are tiny seats. I’ve flown the route before, but even with my past experience I don’t recall the plane being the exact size of a .357 Magnum cartridge. Why does it feel so small this time around?

The cabin has a double seat on one side and a single on the other, and I am fortunate enough to have a single. That’s because, in general, I hate strangers and their elbows and armpits and knees that stretch into my space, and in some cases, excrete foul smells.

When I first arrived at my seat, I looked down at it and decided it looked abnormally small, like maybe it had been made for a child. I sat down, and as my hips scraped past the plastic armrests, I thought, “Huh. I better not gain any more weight, or I’ll be like those people who need to pay double for two seats, just to be able to sit on the plane.

Aside: I just looked down at my hands, and the bright glow of the monitor is illuminating the surface of my skin. Combined with the darkness of the cabin, I can see every crevice and wrinkle on my fingers and across my knuckles. Y’all! I’m getting old. Look at all those wrinkles! Get me lotion! I need lotion! Better yet, Botox! Injected into my haaaaannnnnddddsssss!

So anyway, these seats are so miniscule that my knees are protruding into the bald man’s back. The bald man is sitting directly in front of me, and we just learned the hard way that I shouldn’t be crossing my legs during this flight, and that he shouldn’t attempt leaning back. I have the tray down so I can write, but half my computer is engulfed by my belly, and my wrists are fixed permanently to my sides in an effort to comfortably reach the keyboard. Say hello to my organs: they’re leaning against the space bar r i g ht n o w.

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel a little awkward when the flight attendant is motioning through all the You May Die, So Wear Your Seatbeltmotions? I never quite know what to do with myself.

I’ve got the schpill memorized, so much so that sometimes I wonder whether I could be the attendant’s assistant so he doesn’t have to march up and down the aisle wildly waving his arms with sundry apparatus in tow.

Sometimes I try to read my book, but the entire time I’m only reading the same sentence over and over, so aware am I that I’m not paying any attention to the attendant’s speech. I become convinced that he knows that I, specifically, am unsuccessfully trying to ignore him.

Will I get in trouble from some airline-type mafia? Does it offend him that I’m not hanging on his every word? I think if I were a flight attendant, I’d carry a gun that shot Styrofoam pellets, and every time I caught someone paying no heed to me and my Very Important Instructions, I'd pop a pellet against their skull. Right? Because wouldn't that be what patrons deserved for ignoring me?

I looked up and watched the flight attendant for a couple minutes, and then I became self-conscious because what if everyone else on the plane is watching me watch him and they think it is my first flight, and that, in fact, I don’t know how to buckle my seat belt? And then, again: Why do I care?

I looked around to see what others were doing, so that maybe I could copy them, and when I whipped around, some of them shifted their eyes to me. Which meant that I couldn't tell what they were doing. Why am I acting like I've never flown before? Traveling is my most favorite thing to do, like, ever.

No, seriously: I love to travel. That's why I am baffled by my recent paranoia concerning flights. Every time I board an airplane, I have a secret fear of Death by Suction. You see, I’m certain that there is someone – nay, something – with a chainsaw just below me. A quiet chainsaw, so that I can’t hear its roaring engine, and I imagine that the chainsaw is cutting a circle out just below my seat. But only my seat. Not Roger’s, or anyone else's, just mine.

I'm certain that in a few moments I’ll drop through the hole, still safely buckled into my seat, and I’ll fall through the sky, and the pressure of the air at 36,000 feet causing my brain to explode into a million little pieces. By the time I hit the ground, I’ll have already spewed cranial tissue over the roofs of the houses below me. And my body will be so badly disfigured from the fall that I’ll be unidentifiable, except for the millions of needle marks on my hands.

(Botox injections, remember?)

I don't know why I have this sudden and irrational fear. But I can't stop myself from thinking it. Even as the plane goes wheels up, I remind myself not to think about it, and the fact that I'm reminding myself makes me more aware that I'm trying to NOT think about it.

It's a vicious cycle.

Written December 22, 2006, from 36,000 feet.

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The past two days I've been consumed with one thought: packing. I'm leaving today to visit family in the Carolinas for Christmas, and I have to do things like take clothes.

This shouldn't be that big of a deal.

Except when you're me, and then everything related to packing becomes a big deal. I had all night Tuesday night to prepare for today. I also had all night last night to prepare for today. And I'll let you guess how I spent that time.

I know, okay? I know. You're right. I'm lame.

Tuesday, after dropping Roger off at the airport, I stayed up until 1:30 a.m. playing on the computer and alternating between episodes of Family Guy and Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Where is my sense of responsibility?

To make up for the time I dwindled away on Tuesday night, I went shopping at SuperTarget on Wednesday after work. And then I went to see a movie at the theater. And then I went home and watched the Weather Channel. My life is so exotic.

I finally crawled into bed sometime after midnight last night, having packed far too many pairs of underwear (I'm vying to be hired as Britney Spears' role model) and certainly not enough pairs of shoes.

Speaking of Britney Spears: you may want to take a look at my newest pet project, BritneySpearsWatch.com. It's packed full of her latest escapades, which are at least a tad bit more interesting than the seventeen pairs of panties I'm bringing to North Carolina.

Unless you're my husband, of course, in which case my panties are more interesting.

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Each year, Miss USA is chosen by a panel of judges based on the swimsuit and evening gown competitions, as well as a personal interview.

"Miss USA must conduct herself as a role model, and behavior such as underage drinking is prohibited, a Miss Universe Organization spokeswoman said."

Tara Conner, Miss USA 2006, has been reportedly conducting herself as anything but a role model. News reports claim she had been drinking underage, tested positive for the use of cocaine, and seductively kissed Miss Teen USA Katie Blair in public, among other things.

Now: I don't care that she kissed Katie Blair. The underage drinking hasn't bothered me so much, either. Rather, I'm disturbed by imagining Miss USA hunkered over lines of coke in some dimly lit back alley (because this is how I imagine all cocaine use takes place), overhead light flickering.

As a gesture of good faith, Donald Trump (who jointly owns the Miss USA Organization with NBC) decided to let her keep her title after she agreed to enter rehab and undergo random drug testing.

I'd give you my opinion about this, but I'm not exactly sure what it is yet. Part of me wants to be a good soul, to rally behind the premise of second chances, to support Trump's decision to allow Tara Conner to keep the Miss USA title. The other part of me wants justice, damnit. I want to see consequences beyond a slap on the wrist. I want her to be stripped of her title so that those for whom she acts as a role model, and so that those who are named Miss USA in her wake, will realize that the role is serious and demands to be held by someone with high morals and character.

I'm sitting on the fence, so I want to know: What do you think? Vote below by (a) choosing your response and (b) clicking on "Vote!"

Sources: ABC News, NY Daily News

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What do you do to prevent your pantyhose from sagging?

Ready? Go!

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Ladies and Gents, there's a new movement in town. (And it's not a bowel movement.)

OMG. I'm sorry, okay? I am. What's with all the TMI topics lately? Apparently, I'm having issues. If only I had children on which I could blame the poop talk. You know, because of dirty diapers and stuff.

What? Full and squishy brown (sometimes green!) diapers don't make good blogging fodder?

Huh. Good thing I'm not a mom yet.

Back to the movement. (Hee. I'm so puerile.)

A community blogging site that I strongly support, IndieBloggers.org, has just launched. The site describes itself as:

Indie Bloggers is about giving exposure to bloggers who need to be read. Indie Bloggers is a showcase of written talent - stories, almost - that you may not see otherwise. Anyone can submit. Everyone may not be published right away or at all, but there are few restrictions (i.e., I don't want to hear about your sex life). INTIMIDATION IS UNNECESSARY. Indie Bloggers are your peers; we're in the same situation.

Read more about the site HERE.

Basically, IndieBloggers is a community of writers who are able to re-publish their best pieces in a larger, more widely-read forum. It was first created as a community for those who are without a support group. It is for those who don't feel that they fit in with the MommyBloggers, the Politicos, the Foodies, or any of the other fantastic networks that already exist.

It is for males and females alike. It is for building community among writers. It is for showcasing your best work and gaining the exposure you deserve by reaching the audience that you otherwise might not reach. It is for the pure love of writing, and writing well.

Think you can hang? Consider joining.

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Today I ventured out from my cubicle, determined to make a grocery store run and to go home for lunch. This trip generally takes me only ten minutes. Fifteen minutes into my drive home, and still less than half a mile from my office, I decided to take the highway instead of the back roads.

First mistake.

As I sped up the on-ramp, I quickly realized everyone was stopped. I slowed, pulled close behind the Lexus in front of me, and waited.

And … waited.

And … waited.

Then my car started to overheat. Overheat! On the highway. On a ramp. Where I couldn't go anywhere, or do anything about it, except just sit there.

I turned my car off. And thirteen seconds later, the car in front of me started moving, so I turned mine back on again. And I drove ten feet, and then turned my car off. Again. This continued for the next half hour, during which I called Roger every time there was a new development:

"I'm running out of gas!"

"My car is overheating!"

"I can't go anywhere!"

"I'm stuck on the highway!"

"The jerk won't let me over!"

"Can you charter a helicopter with extreme magnetic sucking power? And it could just suction me up and carry me away? Please?"

"I keep turning off my car! Do you think it will help the overheating?"

"I'm thinking of just parking my car on the highway and walking back to work. Do you think that would be a bad idea?"

"I just coasted down the on-ramp and my brakes locked up. I forgot I turned off my car!"

"Do you think it's overheating because we took it to get inspected & have the oil changed, and they didn't replace the coolant? I mean, it's 75 degrees outside. It's hot."

"I was able to exit. Do you know how to get to the grocery store from Blackburn and McKinney? I don't know where to go."

"Nevermind. I found it."

By the time I got to the grocery store and grabbed the two (TWO) items I needed - plus coolant and a six-pack of bottled water that was on sale for 88 cents (I know! How can you pass that up?), okay, fine: I also had some sushi and pistachios in my basket, only because they looked good and I was hungry - it had been over an hour since I left the office. And still, I had ventured less than three miles away.

Not wanting to deal with people any longer, I guided myself to the self-checkout, the lanes created for people who (a) are really impatient or (b) always kinda wondered what it felt like to be the grocery store cashier and sacker, and I started scanning my items.

I finished, fished in my purse for my wallet, and glanced at the line of impatient people who were gathering behind me.

And then I realized: I left my wallet at work.

I left the grocery store, defeated, and called Roger with the last development.

And then I died*.

*Not really, but I kind of wanted to, because I had been on the road for an hour and a half and had nothing to show for it except an empt[ier] gas tank, no radiator coolant, no groceries, no lunch, and no money. And an impossibly bad hair day.

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Y'all: the turkey just arrived.

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You know when someone tries to serve you beans for dinner? And you look at them, and the first thing that pops into your mind is ALL THAT GAS?

And so you ask your mom if it's going to make you fart (oh, how I hate that word!), and she says that it won't, and you make the mistake of believing her?

And so you call her on the phone to tell her she was wrong, and her response is that it's only because you don't eat beans often enough, if you ate beans more often, your body wouldn't react that way? And so you continue to eat them?

And holding the gas in is PAINFUL? And to combat it, you park extra-far away in the parking garage so you can putter your way into the office without anyone noticing? And you make extra trips up and down the stairwell for the same reason? And you go home during lunch in hopes of a toilet-sitting marathon that produces something other than gas?

No? Just me, then?

But answer me this: You know how when it's cold outside and you exhale through your mouth, you can see your breath on the air? Does the same thing happen when it comes out the other end?

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I started writing this entry three months ago, and then saved it as a draft.

Helllloooooo, out there. Are you people listening to me? Are you reading every word that I write? And memorizing it, for the longevity of your life? Yes? Fine: we'll have a test. What is the eighth word of the fourth sentence in the second paragraph of this entry?

WRONG, suckers. Because at that point, there was neither a second paragraph, nor a fourth sentence, nor an eighth word.

GAH. I feel like such a pompous ass.

I don’t think you are because there is so much talk about Suri and her cuteness and the fact that perhaps that really IS her hair, and that wasn't even the question. The question is: What In The World Is That Spot of Brown Hair? Why Is It There? And Why Must Every Word In Every Sentence I Write Begin With A Capital Letter?

STOP IT.

What? Does anyone know where I was going with that? And what is that lack of segue between "pompous ass" and "I don't think you are"?

Got help? Any would be appreciated.

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"A bunch of us are going to try the Beyonce Master Cleanse diet starting today and we're going to do it for the entire week. Want to join us?"

"Hmmm. Well, I've kind of already done that one."

"Oh." [Looks at me.] "So...the diet doesn't work?"

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"I have to pee."

"..."

[whines] "But I'm so warm in bed. I don't want to get up because then I'll be cold."

"..."

"Will you sit on the toilet to warm it up for me?"

"NO."

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Both Julianna and CPAMom tagged me to complete a meme called "6 Weird Things About You."

If they really knew me, though, they'd know that there are WAY more than just six things, and that I couldn't narrow it down to that small of a number.

Then again, maybe they do know me, because if I had to choose 60 weird things, I'd give up before I began because all the work involved to list all of those.

They'd also know that the title "6 Weird Things About You," rather than "Six Weird Things About You," would drive me crazy.

Or, come to think of it, maybe that's why they tagged me. Just to drive me crazy.

Still, I'm feeling a bit rebellious today, which is why I'm staunchly refusing to take part in this meme as currently enforced: "Each player of this game starts with the "6 Weird Things about You." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

Naturally, I'm making up my own rules. Since I can't narrow my own weirdness to only six facets of my personality, and because I didn't think it'd be fair to out Roger without roasting myself also, I’m treating you to SIX WEIRD THINGS ABOUT OUR HOME.

ONE
Dachshunds, dachshunds, everywhere

Roger and I live in an apartment in Dallas. An apartment that doesn't allow pets, other than fish, and maybe birds. I should explain to you that Roger has an odd obsession with dachshunds, one that I haven't quite grasped yet, since I love Labradors. In fact, there are very cute labs that I want to adopt right now, and can't.

(1) The cute, cuddly one is a stuffed animal that sits on our bed. His name is Max. I regularly give him kisses and talk to him as if he's really a living animal.

(2) The statue sits in the corner of our room, staring off into space. He's so realistic looking that when we've dog-sat for friends, the dogs have come up to the statue, growled and barked at it, and tried to sniff its nether regions.

(3) The little red toy dachshund talks and shoots arrows. Roger likes to shoot these arrows at me. And then I like to yell. It's a little game we play called "Annoying Each Other." Last year I wrote about the day Roger brought home the talking, arrow-shooting dachshund.

We have two dachshunds that sit atop my jewelry box. You can tell how often I wear jewelry by the amount of dust on the dachshunds. [Mom, ignore that last sentence. I actually vacuum and dust every day, while wearing pearls. And heels. And lipstick.]

We bought this stained-glass dachshund in an open market in Charleston, South Carolina. We don't look out our windows often enough to appreciate him there, so he resides on our bathroom mirror. I was going to say something here about how he likes it in the bathroom because every time I go in there it gets hot and steamy, but that just doesn't sound right. I mean when I'm showering, of course. I mean that I like hot water. (There is no resuscitating this, is there?)

Uhhh…no, I'm not through yet. Why do you ask?

Yes, we have a Slinky Dog. Don't you? They're totally hot these days. Umm, and yes, we also have the box prominently displayed on top of our bookshelves.

As if all these dachshunds weren't enough, we also have a book of dachshund paintings. A book that I didn't even know we owned until last night while I was taking a picture of the Slinky Dog, and I happened to notice a familiar yellow cover on the bottom of the book shelf. I had actually found this book in Barnes & Noble several weeks ago and purchased it for Roger as a Christmas gift, because: OMG: Paintings of Dachshunds! A whole book of 'em! Roger will love it! Good thing I kept the receipt.

We actually have more dachshunds, but they are stored away in the Closet o' Goodness.

TWO
Storage Closet O' Goodness

Roger and I have a Storage Closet O' Goodness. We use it to keep some of our junk that we want to hide and forget about, but it also houses all of our Lego collections (by the hundreds!) and all of our camping equipment.

By the looks of it, you'd think we'd live somewhere other than the flatlands of Dallas, Texas. The bookshelves hold all the "small" camping equipment, like plates and cups and eating utensils (the important stuff), as well as a pooper scooper (no, seriously. It's a folding shovel.), a saw (it folds, too!) and sundry hiking gadgets. I'm sure all of them are useful somehow, just ask Roger.

THREE
CALLING ALL CATS

A couple times a year, the weather in Texas gets cold enough to generate ice on things like roads and trees and walkways. During these wintry Texas blizzards, ice always forms on the steps outside our apartment.

The first time it happened, I slipped on the ice, dug into the stucco wall with my hand, and scraped my arms pretty badly. I have no idea why I didn't just grab the railing. Perhaps because it didn't seem as stationary and sturdy as the wall.

I spoke to our apartment maintenance manager afterward, who said he would take care of it. I came home that afternoon expecting to find sand spread on our steps. Instead, I found kitty litter. Spread all over every. single. step. And it smelled a little, too.

FOUR
Sans Pictures

Roger and I have been married for about two and a half years. Likewise, we have been planning something for this wall for about two and a half years. We've picked out the black & whites. We've got the frames. We own nails and a hammer. We've even laid all the pics on the ground and arranged them in a certain order for the wall.

And yet: it's bare. We just haven't found the time to do it yet, even though we can each sit for hours at a time watching movies, or playing on the Internet, or waiting in the cold for a store to open so we can save lots of money on Black Friday.

(Oops. Did I just admit to that? You should know there was no beating of other humans involved. We were given vouchers for the items in which we were interested, so that there we could avoid fighting over the retail. MicroCenter is smart like that.)

FIVE
Guest Bathroom

We have, however, found the time to hang several pictures in our guest bathroom. There is no reasoning behind our actions.

SIX
Big Red

Instead of sitting on a chair when using the computer, we sit on an exercise ball. A big red one. We used to have a gray ball, which blended in a bit better, but it kept deflating, and after one hour we would be halfway to the ground. This ball is not actually used for exercising, though that would be an excellent idea. It is purely for sitting. And often, for slipping and falling. It's actually more of a hazard, if you ask me. Just yesterday I sat fell down without realizing the ball had rolled away.

TAGS
I could no sooner pick a favorite blogger to participate in this meme than I could pick a favorite sparkly gel pen from my secret stash of sparkly gel pens. (Though, maybe if I had to, it would be red, hot pink, grass green and navy blue. Just sayin'.) If you haven't been tagged yet to do the Weird Things meme, please consider yourself tagged (and let me know if you participate).

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Let's get straight to the nitty-gritty: The 104 blogs that made up the NaBloPoMo "P" Category have left me huffing, whining and trying to dethaw my frozen, tired eyeballs. My brain has glazed over with sweet, sticky mush. I've been glued to my computer for the past four thousand sixty two hours, and if you hadn't already figured it out, behold The Procrastinator.

Today is December 5th, and I can't tell you how many times I've had to update that date. I've been working on this review for the past week. NaBloPoMo has come and gone, and I'm finally getting around to posting my review of the "P" Category. (Good thing I had the "O" Category to warm me up for this blog-reviewing marathon.)

THE STATS:
104 blogs
55% still in the running
30% parenting blogs (mommy or daddy blogs)
7% photography blogs
6% craft blogs (knitting, sewing, cardmaking, scrapbooking, etc.)
3% pet blogs

PAMMIECAKES
I'm entranced by all the mastheads. Some are very dooce-esque, but good nonetheless. And if the pretty mastheads weren't enough? She's also quite entertaining to read. I've added her to my personal favorites list so that I can remember to go back and read her more often.

PET PROJECT
This author wrote a post directly to me, and nothing says I love you like a personal appeal to the head honcho category reviewer (hi! It's me!). Plus, we all know my love can be bought: just send me a piece of chocolate, or an iced Christmas cookie, or a note telling me how wonderful I am (narcistic much?) and I'm sure to respond in kind.

Raillery aside (um, sort of), the thing that caught my eye about this blog was the fact that the author writes as a DOG. Like, not about dogs. But writes AS a dog. And, frankly, I think that writing an entire blog from that perspecitve alone takes more creativity than I've got in my entire being. (Please note that this blogger was not able to post an entry every day during NaBloPoMo, and is therefore disqualified, but did explain why in the entry linked above.)

PINK ELEPHANTS
If you haven't visited Pink Elephants yet, RUN, don't dawdle, to her site. I'm not one to hurry you away from the Chirky domain - I like love you. I like you with your pretty eyes and clicky mice and lingering minds. I like it when you curl up to Chirky with a fresh-brewed cup of joe and breathe all over me. Wait. I take that back. No heavy breathing, okay?

Pink Elephants is personally responsible for creating the NaBloPoMo Randomizer - a site that allows users to randomly surf through all the thousand-plus blogs that took part in NaBloPoMo this year. For that, we all owe her an enormous THANK YOU for introducing us to all those blogs (that otherwise - let's face it - we wouldn't have bothered to click through if it hadn't been for you randomizing them for us).

PIXELLATED SPIFF
This is the thing: I love good design. And frankly? Most of the blogs I've found while reviewing NaBloPoMo have only so-so design. And in some cases? That's a generous comment. I'm always excited when I find a site that has a nice design, good layout, and easy navigation. Pixellated Spiff has all of those. The title and date of each entry makes it easy to differentiate between different entries. The sidebar is fantastico. My only suggestion? Borders around the containers.

But that's beside the point. Besides the design, one of the things I really liked about Pixellated Spiff is the content - the author mixes snippets of her life with photography and entries about knitting. Knitting. And to me? That's cool.

I know nothing about knitting, except something about yarn. And long pokey sticks that somehow loop around each other. I've actually been considering learning how to knit, as if I have large quantities of time at my disposal, because my favorite scarf is one that a friend knit for me and I LOVE it. I make up excuses to wear it, like: "Brrrr. My office at work is so cold. Instead of turning on my space heater, I'll just put on my scarf." My knitted scarf is THAT marvelous.

All that to say, knitting + good design = you've caught my eye.

POPPYMOM
I love the simple design of this site. It's easy to navigate, doesn't make me want to gouge out my eyeballs with a dirty plastic spoon and it links to lots of useful information. My personal favorite line from one of Robin's entries, in relation to whether she should or should not write about something: "My mouth has been known to overpower my gut and nonexistant balls."

Robin, mine has, too. You're in good company, darling.

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I'm constantly aware of how much Roger and I have, and how much we take advantage of what we have. In the west, we live like kings among the paupers of the world, and it breaks my heart. We've been wanting to get involved in a project that has a lasting impact in this world, a project that fits a tangible need among those whose needs are much greater than our own.

In light of this, and in light of this upcoming Season of Giving, I'm brining you a public service announcement about an effort that has Roger and I both very exicted.

What if this was your drinking water?
If you lived in Sudan, it would be.

One in every four children in Southern Sudan dies before the age of 5; nearly half of those deaths are caused by water-related illnesses. --U.S. Agency for International Development

Roger and I have decided to partner with an organization called Water is Basic that is raising money to purchase drilling equipment and provide training to Sudanese leaders. The goal is to enable the Sudanese nationals to drill a water well in every village, providing, in some cases, more than 2000 residents in each village with clean water. Drilling wells in these communities will forever transform the living conditions of the people of Sudan.

In a country where over 42 percent of the population has no access to safe water, and only 36 percent have a toilet, clean drinking water is a desperate need. According to the UN, waterborne diseases kill four children worldwide per minute (one child every 15 seconds). The Sudan is no exception.

On average, a home in the west uses over 100 gallons of water each day. In contrast, an entire African family uses about five gallons of water each day. Just one flush of a toilet in the West uses more water than most Africans have to perform an entire day's washing, cleaning, cooking and drinking.

Roger and I are excited about this project and what these wells could mean to the people of Sudan. What's more, our hope is that this organization will branch out from Sudan once the country's water needs are met, and continue this relief effort throughout the continent of Africa and then the world.

If you would like to join Roger and I in supporting this effort, please visit the Water is Basic donation page, where you can give money online and/or learn creative ways to help raise money. (All gifts are tax-deductible.)

BUTTONS
If you would like to post a button on your website, please email me or download the images from this site.

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The short story:

I was mistaken for a prostitute this morning. More than twice. And? What's more? I was propositioned as a prostitute this morning. MORE THAN TWICE.

The long story:

This morning I camped in front of the television again, anxious to see whether the icy weather was still clinging to the roads. I was determined that I wouldn't drive in to work. And since I don't have a personal chauffeur, I decided that I would use the mass transit system. People, intelligent people, manage do it everyday. Why shouldn't I?

Roger offered to drive me in to work again, but I pleaded with him, "Nooooo! I don't want you on these roads either. You shouldn't be driving me where the roads are even more hazardous than where you're going." And then I put my foot down: "I won't allow it."

I took off soon after that and walked the mere three blocks to the rail station. In those three blocks, my knees felt the impact of the frigid 26° weather – they felt like balls of frozen meat, meat that should have been warming by the fire rather than forging ahead through the cold winds of this wintry blast pummeling Dallas. (Gah. I make it sound like I was in the Arctic rather than in the 'burbs.)

As I punched buttons to purchase a ticket for the rail, the railcar approached. I turned around, hurriedly shoved more coins into the machine, and grabbed my entrance ticket just as the railcar doors slid shut. It took off without me, and so my morning began.

By the time I caught another rail and made it downtown, I could have already driven to work. Twice. I clambered off the rail, hustled two blocks and caught the bus that was supposed to take me to my office building.

It was upposed to take me to my office building, as in, the doors should have opened at my stop. I stood there, directly in front of the exit doors, waiting for them to open. I glanced at the driver. He looked directly at me. And then he drove into traffic. With me still standing there. Waiting to get off the bus.

He kept driving, and kept driving. And then he turned onto Harry Hines Boulevard, a street in Dallas that is famous for its prostitutes. I called my manager to let him know what was happening, and he responded, "Why don't you just press the button to let them know you want to get off?"

I asked a passenger where such button might exist, becaus I didn't see it. He suggested that I press a black rubber strip that was attached to hte side of the bus. It was about half an inch wide and three inches long. That thing? It looks like some sort of a bumper in case someone hits their head on the wall and needs some cushioning to absorb the hit. Still, I pressed the strip. Immediately, the driver pulled to the side of the road and opened the doors. Finally.

As the bus pulled away, I took in my surroundings. And then I realized where I was: on Harry Hines. In the ghetto. By myself. At that moment, my heart dropped. I fished my phone out of my purse and called Roger to come get me.

There I stood, frozen, black leather coat and sneakers for the long trek through downtown, clutching my work bag. In it were my work shoes and lunch. I stood there like a girl scout, with my homemade bowl of chili and sleeve of crackers, wondering what to do. I timidly walked a few steps, trying to figure out where I was and where I should go and how I would get back to my office. And then I started crying. Wouldn't you?

I had men honking their horns at me and jeering as they drove by. Some cocked their head at me, flicked their eyebrows and kissed at the air. I was even propositioned.

They thought I was one of those women: the ones who walk the streets, looking for their next prey; the ones who willingly give of themselves to the highest bidder.

On the outside, I tried to remain calm. I tried to appear unphased by my surroundings. But on the inside, I was terrified and trembling. I feared what someone might do to me. I found myself memorizing makes of cars and license plates everytime a vehicle came near me. I mentally planned my escape from the evil clutches of those men: how I would run to the police, full of pertinent information for them to catch my abductor.

Moments later, in the midst of my planning and calculating the precise way I would elude my captor, Roger pulled up in his car as the last kissy-face man was driving away in his truck. I poured myself into the front seat in a large heap and recounted the events of the morning, with much whining and huffing, to Roger. And then I thanked him, because although I didn't want him on the roads in this weather, he wouldn't take no for an answer.

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