Chirky

Two things I'm loving today:

• Signs, by Andre Tadiello (You'll need a Facebook account to view - long, but totally worth it. If you don't have a Facebook account, borrow a friend's. And if you don't have any friends, you should probably just create your own Facebook account to watch this video. Then keep hitting "replay" to distract yourself from the fact that yet another form of technology is reminding you that you have no friends. Replay, replay, replay.)
• Love Letters from Dick at 27b/6 (Dick is obnoxious -- heavy on the obnoxious -- to the point of hilarity. I don't remember how I found this site, but it was long ago and I still think it's funny. So there's that.)

I wanted to include three, but couldn't find anything I"m so head-over-heels for that I couldn't wait to share it. Have you got any websites that YOU are loving these days? Tell me about them!

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Hello, my name is Jes and I have irrational fears.

Several times a day, I hear noises that sound like someone is knocking on our door. On the way to the entryway, I always glance behind me at the massive wall of windows in the living room, which looks into our backyard. Each time I'm convinced that someone is going to back there, standing around or sitting at our patio table watching me, despite the fact that we have a 10' privacy fence and two locked gates. Sometimes at night I sneak up and BAM! turn on the lights outside to catch whoever might be out there. No one ever is. Thankfully.

From where I stand in the entryway, I am visible through the dining room, where one full-length window and two smaller, chest-high-to-ceiling windows face the front yard. I love natural light so the blinds are always open during the day, which gives away the fact that I am walking around at home. So if I don't open the door, there's always a chance someone will peer in through the windows and see me standing there, very decidedly not answering the door.

Because of this, I've begun sneaking around our house a lot, peeking around corners to make sure no one is actually looking in the windows, then tip-toeing past them. But by the time I get to the door no one is there. This is annoying because I bothered getting up in the first place, risking window exposure for someone who has already left. I am beginning to think that I am crazy, but then I remind myself that the moment I stop with my charades, someone will be looking in my window. It is creepy to imagine, because in my mind the person is always wearing black, carrying a stick to break the window, and has narrow, dark eyes.

I've recently discovered that our ice maker sounds perilously similar to someone knocking on the door. I could just turn off the ice maker, but that is too easy. My brain prefers my quickened pulse and the shock of my heart dropping into my stomach every time I hear the loud, rapping noise. Instead, I'm considering whether I should mount a video camera on my front porch, which I could monitor from my computer. That would be much more convenient, because then I wouldn't have to worry about someone drilling my eyeball out when I peered through the peephole. That, and I can't count on the noise always being my ice maker. Sometimes people really do knock on the door.

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Do you Facebook? I don't, though I am beginning to think that I'm the last person on Earth – or at least in the First World – that hasn't joined. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm not on Facebook. I am. But only because I live vicariously through my husband.

I debate myself several times a week about whether I should join, or if it's just another social media notch, another party where many of my friends seem to be. I don't want to join simply because it's the popular thing to do. I want to join because I want to be there. But there's one thing that's holding me back.

For the past several years, I've been trying to get Roger to start a blog, a photoblog, join Twitter, do something in the social media world. And finally -- FINALLY! -- he has. I kind of view Facebook as his play area, a space that's all his own. He's been a member of Facebook for almost a year now, but the boy does almost nothing with his profile (other than join a few groups). He doesn't add pictures (other than the few he added when he set up the account), he doesn't comment often on other people's profiles, he doesn't leave status updates, he's only connected with a few friends. In short, he's a little apathetic. Bullhorn to Roger: I WANT YOU TO BE A LITTLE MORE INVESTED THAN THAT.

I'm torn. Should I set up my own account, or should I conquer his by uploading pictures, updating his status, and leaving comments? I'm sort of already leaving comments from his account, so the second option wouldn't be all that much of a stretch.

So you tell me: join Facebook, or keep playing with Roger's account?

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Under the cover of semi-darkness, I stepped onto the scale last night. Just as I moved off, my husband rounded the corner into the kitchen, caught sight of the number on the lighted display, and announced – no, he exclaimed – it aloud. I knew it was an innocent faux pas on his part, and normally I wouldn't have glared at him as fiercely as I did, except we were at a friend's house. A male friend, at that. And our friend was in the same room, watching our interaction. (Hi, Eddie!)

As embarrassing as it was, his gaffe was easily forgiven, partly because I'm so good-natured (I'm a catch, I'll tell you!) and partly because Eddie is one of the few people I don't mind knowing my weight (probably because he is gargantuan and could easily bench press me fifty times). Still, he's a boy. And I'm trying to lose weight (which I've accomplished, to a small degree, in the past two weeks!), not flaunt it, evidenced by the fact that I finally broke down and re-joined Weight Watchers online earlier this month.

Every day I busy myself by counting points, eating healthfully, and ticking off the glasses of water I drink, number of vegetables/fruits I consume, whether I took my multi-vitamin that day. But the exchange got me thinking: I am fairly certain that most women don't want their friends or family knowing how heavily gravity affects them. I used to never climb on a scale unless I knew no one was around, but as I've accepted myself and the fact that my extra pounds won't magically disappear – no matter how many chocolate chip cookies I consume in defiance (or boredom, whichever comes first) – I've become more relaxed about others knowing. So what about you? Do you go to great lengths to hide that sacred number, or is not really that big of a deal?

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Over the past several months, I've developed somewhat of an addiction. Every time I visit a drugstore, the grocery store, a Wal-Mart or Target, I look for a certain product. A product that is totally unassuming, and not at all glamorous, but that I love: Lever 2000 Energize.

I love it because the packaging is a bright, metallic, eye-popping orange. I love it because it smells good. I love how clean I smell when I use it. So you can imagine how dismayed I was when I realized it had been discontinued. Dismayed enough to visit eBay.

And I'd like to say that I could just leave it at that, but I can't. Because last week, I found and bought every bar for auction. Yes, that's right. 48 bars. And today I discovered that the same seller has MORE bars for sale. Despite the fact that I have an army's supply, I'm tempted to buy them. All of them. Still, I'm a little concerned: what happens when I run out? By then I'll need to find a new soap, and if I were being honest, I'd tell you I'm a little afraid. There's nothing worse than soap-testing, because dude. That's your body. And your cleanliness. It affects your armpits.

So I figure I might as well start collecting data now: what soap do you use? And does it have pretty, shiny packaging? Because packaging is important too, you know.

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Last week while getting ready for the day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was looking at my arm, longing for the days when it was toned, defined (well, and tanned for that matter). Back to the days when I could do one-armed push-ups. Multiple one-armed push-ups. In a row. That was 10 years ago.

I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes, wondering if I still could. Lowering myself to the bathroom floor, I looked at the tile beneath me and laughed. There was no way I was going to be able to do it. And, sure enough, I proved myself right. So I tried a regular push-up, feet together, arms shoulder-width apart. I got eight inches off the ground, arms shaking, before I collapsed half-laughing at my ridiculous attempt and half-groaning in pain. I considered doing girly push-ups – the kind with my knees on the ground – but decided that if I couldn't do a regular push-up, I wouldn't do them at all.

Now, one week later, I'm kind of mad at myself. I am but a weakling! When did I become such a wimp? When did I lose my ability to push my body off the ground? And how can I get my old body back?

Fine, I know how. I haven't been to the gym at all in the past week, and this is why: I am secretly afraid that the gym has been overrun by new people and their New Year Resolutions. I don't want to have to wait for an elliptical, or groan with impatience when I walk up to the dumbbells and find that there are no weights below 35 pounds available. I don't want to pretend that I'm using one machine while I'm actually waiting for the machine I want to open up. And I think it would be impossibly rude of me to stand near the machine I'm stalking, arms folded, tapping my foot harshly against the carpet while staring at the poor guy who's just trying to get a good hamstring workout.

So this gives me two choices: (1) give up completely, wallow in self-pity and reach for another brownie; or (2) suck it up and go to the gym at a different time. I'm re-organizing my day to accommodate choice two, but dude – that brownie sure sounds good.

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