Chirky

After my husband and daughter, there are few things I love on earth more than food, in all its myriad forms: wandering grocery store aisles, discovering new eateries, spending time in my own kitchen. (And then, afterward, there are few things I love less than spending time cleaning in my own kitchen.) Baking and cookie are a labor of love for me, passed down through the generations.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions was baking cookies with my mother and grandmother, every kind of cookie you can imagine. My grandmother would have Tupperware after Tupperware piled high on her kitchen table, and when she ran out of room there, the containers of cookies would spill onto nearby chairs, counters, and the top of a nearby chest. It was insane, the number of cookies my mother and grandmother produced. In the thousands, I am sure. (And I say mother and grandmother, because most of my memories in the kitchen with them were when I was quite young; I did help some, but I did more cookie decorating and cookie eating than anything else. And it’s not even like I could get in trouble for sneaking a sweet here and there, because there were still so many left!)

But this recipe, Norwegian Delicacies, did not come from my given family. It came from my chosen family. I had never really had anything quite like it — maybe a cross between a sugared shortbread and a crescent cookie (some call them Mexican Wedding), but with the faintest hint of coconut. My mother-in-law (Hi, Mom!) has been making Norwegian Delicacies for more than fifty years. Though her own grandmother was from Norway, this recipe actually came from a Norwegian friend. Curious, as she pointed out, considering coconut isn’t exactly local produce in Norway.

I’ve made these cookies with my mother-in-law once, but I’ve eaten them on more than one occasion, and every single time it takes all the restraint in my body not to eat the entire batch. They’re crispy, light, sweet, and delicate, and if you catch them right out of the oven, they're slightly chewy in the center.

When I signed up for The Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap, I spent a lot of time mulling over which cookie to make. I wanted something unique, but also hardy enough to travel through the mail, and the more the idea tumbled around in my mind, I realized I knew exactly what I wanted to share with others, and with you. I hope you’ll find them as irresistible as I do.

NORWEGIAN DELICACIES
(Recipe from Sue Ferris, gratefully posted here with permission)

INGREDIENTS
1 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup original Crisco
2 cups sugar
1 cup finely grated coconut
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
3 cups sifted flour
- - -
2 cups powdered sugar

INSTRUCTIONS
Preheat your oven to 350.
1. Mix the first seven ingredients until thoroughly combined.
2. Form into 1” balls and flatten slightly.
3. Bake at 350 until light yellow and just barely golden around the edges, about 8 to 10 minutes.
4. Allow to cool 1-2 minutes on the baking sheet, then roll in powdered sugar while warm.
5. Set on a wire rack until completely cooled.

Yield: Approximately five dozen cookies.

The Great Food Blogger Cookie Swap
If you want to play along next year, sign up for the swap.

Thank you so much to MY Secret Cookie Swappers! For the past two or three weeks, I've been sampling goodies from Alaska, New York, and Tennessee! You can read all about the delicious cookies I received here:

• Chocolate Dipped Coconut Macaroons (with milk chocolate bases!) from A Taste of Alaska


• Chocolate Crack Cookies (with amaretto-soaked cherries!) from Vaikai ir Vanile


• Cowboy Cookies from Fashioned By Grace (Happily, Jessica from Fashioned by Grace has pictures of all three of these cookies on her site!)

| Permalink | Comments (4)

When Roger and I miscarried last fall, it was the single most grievous experience of my life. I’ve never cried like that – it was wailing, really, and gnashing of teeth – and I’ve never really understood that level of sorrow, that depth of mourning until October 6, 2008. But I learned a lot, too.

I learned about myself, and my own capacity for feeling, for loving, for trusting. I learned about Roger and his quiet strength, drawing comfort from his protective arms wrapped around me in a way that I had and had never known before. I learned about us as a couple, and who we would become as parents. I learned about the character of our friends, and it changed my own character, the way that I respond now when friends or family members share with me when they have miscarried.

When we were pregnant last fall, we all but screamed it from the rooftops, sharing our good news with nearly everyone we knew before we had even had our first sonogram.

This spring, though, we have waited. And over the last two weeks, we’ve begun telling our family and our friends that, once again, we have exciting news to share.

We’ve seen our child three times now: first as a little blobby lima bean, heartbeat sounding off loudly. The second time, our baby was proving that it likes to dance as much as mama, with its arms and legs performing the most perfect version of the Running Man that I've seen in a while. (Well, for a 10-week-old fetus, I mean.) And the third time, it was sleeping peacefully with a steady 138 bpm.

Later this month, we’ll find out the baby’s gender. I think it’s a boy, and Roger has a feeling that we’re having a girl. Either way, one of us is bound to be right - and we couldn't be more ecstatic!

| Permalink | Comments (15)

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.

| Permalink | Comments (11)

(This is a series in Weird Things About Me. Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here.)

I have two pairs of sneakers, and I dislike both of them. The first are covered in paint – and therefore have been deemed my grubby shoes for things like painting and gardening (Okay, honestly, I don't really garden. But if I did, I'd wear these shoes while digging potatoes and planting onions, the things that I imagine all gardeners do.) – and the second are just a tad too small.

I'm not quite sure when my feet began growing again, but my toe is suddenly bumping up against the tip of the shoes every time I wear them. I'm anxious that they're causing my toenails to split (which, they're not splitting, but I must tell you: I am completely obsessed with short toenails. I cannot stand them to be any length, and my stomach turns when I see people whose toenails resemble claws. In fact, right now – just thinking about it – I started to gag).

So I've started looking for a new pair of exercise shoes, and this is the weird thing about me: they're all so white. And I do not like white shoes. Frankly, they're embarrassing. I feel totally self-conscious while wearing them, as if everyone is staring, blinded by all that whiteness. That's why all my exercise shoes are grey. Grey with pink, or grey with orange, or grey with turquoise, but always grey. White shoes are just too…new looking, I guess. Which brings up another weird thing about me entirely.

Continue reading "The Psychology of Me" »

| Permalink | Comments (19)

I learned an important lesson from a good friend last week. A lesson about friendship, about love, about family. You see, my friend is from India. Culturally, when people in her life – whether family or friends– are hurting, she has been taught to drop whatever she is doing to be by their side.

Chris and Merlyn were among the first friends we told that we were pregnant. And subsequently, they were among the first friends we told we were miscarrying. When they heard our news, Chris and Merlyn asked if they could come over to be with us, even if it was just for dinner. At first I was taken aback. Admittedly, I thought it was intrusive. I wanted my space. I wanted to be alone to grieve in private. But in the back of my mind, I also knew that Roger and I can’t do this alone. So I said yes.

I walked away from dinner that night with the realization that our American culture of space and privacy and isolation is absurd. Why have we learned to leave each other alone at a time when we feel our most lonely?

And that’s one of the reasons why I’m so thankful I chose to write about my miscarriage on this web site. Our pregnancy was one that was planned for, hoped for, longed for. I recall in vivid detail exactly how I found out that I was pregnant. I remember how discovering that pink line on the pregnancy test felt like Christmas morning. I laugh about how many times I got up during the day to go look at that test, and how my heart flip-flopped each time I got a glimpse of the double lines. I took so much pleasure in planning how I would tell Roger, and oh!, how he was surprised. And I loved that he teared up, just a little, when he discovered our news. And several weeks later, in the blink of an eye, a flip of the ultrasound wand, our baby was gone.

Then there was the overwhelming outpouring of love from each of you. I read every single comment, sometimes multiple times over, and it was like the Internet was giving me a hug, holding my hand, rubbing my back, and telling me that yes, it hurts, but you’re not alone. Thank you, each of you, for the comments you left on my previous post. Thank you for coming around at a time that I felt so lonely. Finally, I get it. I get how important it is to have companionship, in all of its myriad forms. I understand how valuable a gentle word is when one’s heart is filled with sorrow, despite our culture’s whispers to give the griever a few days for – what? The anguish to settle in? Or for us to pull ourselves together? I don’t exactly know.

But I do know this: I can genuinely say that if this miscarriage helps me know how to love others better, to console others better, be able to better comfort those who are grieving a loss, or to walk with another woman as she faces that dusty, deserted road of miscarriage, I will consider this an important, unforgettable and worthwhile (albeit painful) life lesson. Merlyn’s rush to be by my side, infused with your dozens and dozens and dozens of comments, has taught me one thing in spades: compassion. And I think that’s something we could all use a little bit more of.

| Permalink | Comments (18)

Nothing can prepare you for waking up six-and-one-half weeks into your pregnancy -- your first pregnancy -- to discover fresh blood in the one place it shouldn’t be.

No one can explain the fear that shoots through your mind, or how you will exhale a barely audible, solitary word, no, or why your hands shake that badly as you frantically dial your doctor’s phone number.

No one can help you hold it together as you try to talk to the receptionist without your voice trembling and your first tears pooling in your lower eyelids (you can’t stop it from happening, no matter how long you hold your breath or how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut), or when you call your husband and all you can squeak out is “Please come home, now” before you collapse against the wall in a sobbing heap.

Nothing can still your heart when a sweet two-year old and her very pregnant mom sit down across from you at the doctor’s office, and you realize that child you’ll never have. Maybe another one, maybe somewhere down the road – but not this one that you cherish already.

And no amount of pressing your lips together will prevent them from involuntarily turning downward, forcing unexpected, hot tears to stream down your face. And maybe you’ll look away, partially cover your face, develop a new and sudden interest in your husband’s National Geographic magazine as you bury yourself in your own agony, but you won’t expect to be simultaneously embarrassed and grateful when that mom recognizes your pain and relocates within the waiting room, her daughter toddling behind her.

I remember the ultrasound, and being elated to see the womb that held our child, and feeling that first twinge of hope that everything would be okay. And then the fear settled in as our doctor, his face contorted in concentration, measured the sac and hypothesized that our baby had stopped developing. He handed me a tissue as he explained what he believed was happening.

I only remember parts of our conversation. 15% chance. Inevitable miscarriage. Possible chromosomal abnormalities. Nothing we could do to prevent it. Our doctor’s grave, apologetic tone. He placed us in a high percentile for miscarriage, with an outside hope that we may just not be as far along as I had originally calculated. I remember clinging to that outside hope, not wanting the possibility of miscarriage to be real. Every thought and every conversation related to pregnancy and miscarriage and babies and family led me to fall apart again and again and again.

Three days later we went back to run more tests, to check my hcg levels. We had expected them to double, but instead they had only increased 25%. But that’s a good sign, right? At least they’re increasing! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am nothing, if not obscenely optimistic.

And a week after that, we went back for our third appointment. The goal was this: to see a heartbeat. All three of us – the doctor, Roger and I – stared at the sonogram, our eyes following the movements of the camera, waiting to see a tiny bulge, a pulsing beat. We didn’t. And now we have two options. One: Allow the miscarriage to occur naturally. Two: Allow our doctor to perform a D&C to remove the fetal tissue.

I don’t know which to choose. I went to the mall for a little retail therapy after my third appointment, and wouldn’t you know it? I chose the one entrance in the anchor store that was surrounded by children’s clothing. I made my way to the mall entrance, and the first store I saw was a maternity boutique. I stopped for something to eat and after I sat down, I looked next to me and realized I had sat across from three highchairs. I just…I just can’t get away. And all I want to do is escape, as immature and temporary as it may sound.

For now, I’m comforted by the silence of my home. I’m comforted by the birds chirping outside. I’m comforted by the words of my family and friends. And most of all, I’m comforted by my husband’s strong arms wrapped around me.

We may never know the answers to “Why?” and “Why now?”, and maybe we don’t need to know the reason this happened. But we do know who God is, that he is gracious and merciful. I know that we’ve prayed that I would miscarry this child if he/she wasn’t healthy. And I think, for now, I’m just going to have to trust that God was answering my prayers. It’s all I can hold onto.

| Permalink | Comments (92)

(This is a series in Weird Things About Me. Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here.)

When I was in college, I met a guy who didn't drink soda for ten years.
[Insert blank stare here.] He told me he did it just to see if he could.
[Insert blank stare here.] And, I don't know if he meant his news to do this, but it impressed me. So I decided: hey! I should do that! Except not with sodas, because that would be too easy. (For me, anyway. I wasn't that addicted to them in the first place.) Instead, I decided to give up another thing. Something that I craved. Something that I lusted after. Something that was sweet and creamy and sinfully delicious.

I gave up chocolate.

I know, okay? I know. What was I thinking, giving up chocolate? But I did, and I did it hardcore: no chocolates, no cookies, no brownies, no mousse, no hot cocoa beverages, no Tootsie Rolls even. I didn't let one iota of cocoa filter through my system. I had originally set out to hold my chocolate fast for five years - yes! Five years! - which, for a chocoholic like me, seemed like an eeettteerrrnnniiitttyyyyyy. Two years had passed and I had lost thirty pounds (I loved chocolate that much! Thirty pounds worth! It is a sickness, I tell you.) and it's not that I didn't eat dessert (because believe me: I eat plenty of desserts - sorbets and tarts and my new favorite, key lime pie). It's just that I didn't even crave chocolate. I wasn't even tempted by it.

What I was taunted by, though, was Roger. We were dating at the time, and he simply couldn't believe that I wasn't interested in chocolate. This is because Roger is a closet chocolate fanatic. He wants it always, at all times, and often I will find Roger peeking into our cupboards, hoping to discover that I've purchased him something during my latest trip to the grocery store. And at this point in our relationship, I think it's okay for me to admit that Roger loves chocolate even more than I do. It's his vice. (Though I think it would be fair to admit that he prefers the high-quality stuff -- think milk chocolate Lindt Lindors rather than Hershey's Kisses -- and I can't say that I blame him. It's like comparing Ruth's Chris Steakhouse to Golden Corral.)

So exactly two-and-one-half years into my chocolate fast, I gave Roger a gift: the gift of chocolate. We had dinner at the Restaurant at Pisgah Inn, and were seated in front of an expansive window, high on a mountainside overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. And as the sun set into the slate-grey hills, Roger and I shared Chocolate Silk Pie. It was perfect, both the moment and the dessert, and I couldn't imagine a better way to break my chocolate fast.

Honestly, I wouldn't have done it if I didn't believe that I could go on for the next two-and-a-half years, or for the next twenty years, without eating chocolate. I knew that it would be easy for me. But sharing something with Roger that he loved so much? Well, that made the decision even sweeter, and even easier.

| Permalink | Comments (11)

One of my favorite things about being an aunt - perhaps even my right of passage - is that I can spoil my niece and nephew and then give them back to their respective parents. And that is why this weekend was so much fun. It was my niece's second birthday, which meant that in the two days leading up to her party, I was in my kitchen baking and baking and baking, and then whipping and whipping and whipping, and then mixing icing colors until they were just so. I love baking birthday cakes for my family and friends, but not quite so much as I love their reactions when they see the sweets.

Annabel's birthday party was barnyard themed - totally appropriate since my brother and sister-in-law live in the country - complete with tractors, hay bales, barbeque, the classic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, red handkerchiefs and farm animal-iced sugar cookies. Taking it a step further, Roger and I made (not one, but two) themed cakes to feed the crowd.

The first cake, a piglet, was crafted from a homemade vanilla wedding cake with swiss buttercream icing and filling.

Click on image to enlarge.

Both cakes were built on a double-layer filled base with a six-inch domed cake for the head. The pig's snout and feet are each one cupcake, and the ears are one-half cupcake each. The tail is made from a strawberry licorice pinwheel (the rest of which I devoured). Grapefruit candies gave the ears a little more dimension (sadly, I didn't sample these). The eyes were made from blackberry candies (one of my husband's favorite candies, I wonder who picked out those?), with banana-shaped hot pink eyelashes. (Runts candies, which tasted like banana even though they were pink. Which was sort of weird to me, but I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe strawberry-banana?) The nostrils were Reese's Pieces (chocolate + peanut butter = yum) and the hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos (I think I officially got off my diet after all the "sampling" I did while making these cakes).

The second cake, a lamb, I made from a not-overly-chocolatey chocolate buttermilk cake and chocolate-overdose buttercream icing (which, together, were a perfectly balanced combination, though I think the marshmallows and chocolate chips really took the cake over the top).

Click on image to enlarge.

The sheep was relatively easy just because it didn't matter what the icing looked like since it would all be covered. I smoothed the chocolate-overdose buttercream icing across each layer, then Roger and I set to work applying marshmallow after marshmallow after marshmallow, OMG am I still putting marshmallows on this thing? Yes, yes I was. We took great care to place the marshmallows haphazardly - some standing on end, some horizontal, some vertical - to give it the effect of fluffy wool. The face, ears and feet were covered in chocolate chips. The face was created from blackberry candied eyes and a nonpareil nose. The hooves were chocolate-covered mini Oreos, just like the pig cake.

Both farm-themed cakes were a hit. Roger asked guests whether they would like mutton or pork, and I countered with dark meat or white meat. Get it? A little black sheep and the other white meat?

| Permalink | Comments (11)

I’ve been off work for the past week, gearing up for my new position with my new employer, and I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of my time off wandering around the house, wondering just where I packed all my old makeup. Because with all that makeup are skincare samples from Estee Lauder and Elizabeth Arden and Lancome. Anti-aging and wrinkle-defying samples. And since I’m currently having a little problem with two pesky creases between my eyebrows, I thought those samples might come in handy.

Except I can’t find them. What I did find was kind of miraculous: several months ago, a publishing company sent me a bevy of books to peruse, with the hopes that I’d review them on this site. I’ve never quite gotten around to it, what with the move and the never ending house remodel. And the fact that 80% of our boxes are still packed, including all those books. And I still can’t find my underwear. Anyway, so the title of this book stood up, waved its (color-coded) pages in the air and screamed at me: How Not To Look Old. When I first received the book, I remember thinking to myself: Hey, Hatchette. Who do you think I am? Why in the world do you think I would ever need this book? But when I discovered it again this week, I couldn’t NOT sit down and flip through it right then.

And, yes, those chapters on what jeans and jewelry to wear or how to apply your makeup and have your hair cut were interesting, but I found just what I was looking for in Chapter Eight: Manage Your Wrinkles. It is the holy grail of skin care – everything I ever wanted to know about age spots and fine lines and deep creases and large pores and broken capillaries and uneven skin tone. The book included solutions for each trouble, along with suggested cleansers and moisturizers and home micro-dermabrasion kits, everything from drugstore brands to upscale brands to prescription-only brands. Included was an explanation of dermatologists along with reasons why I might want to visit one, and what treatment I might want to get during my appointment. And to top it off, the book included a listing of recommended salons and spas in several large U.S. cities – including Dallas. I kind of feel like I’ve been let in on some big secret, with my go-to list of who does brows best in Dallas (Eliza at Exhale Spa in Hotel Palomar), where I should slip in for a facial (Renee Rouleau Salon in Plano), who I should visit to get the sexiest bangs in town (Richard Hayler at Neiman Marcus/North Park Mall).

But anyway, my point was that, thanks to this book, I now have an Official Skin Care Regimen. It sort of makes me feel certified as a woman. I spend a lot of time each morning and evening smearing products across my face, but in reality it’s probably not any more than you were already doing. (You look smashing, by the way. Have you lost five pounds?) I have an army of special cleansers and exfoliants and moisturizers and serums and deep-wrinkle treatments. Truth be told, I actually have a starter kit. I went into the store this week to buy a full line of products, and the sales lady simply would not allow me to do it, encouraging me instead to get the beginner’s kit so that I could even see whether I would like the product. I do like it, very much in fact, and I think I’m going to turn my starter kit into my travel kit.

The first night I used the products, I floated into the bedroom. Roger was distracted and didn’t even look at me. I left for ten seconds, thinking maybe he just didn’t realize how important this was, and then I slipped back into the room and cleared my throat. He still didn’t budge.

J: (exasperated) Roger!

R: (looks up, is clueless) What?

J: (staring at him, half-throwing my hands in the air ) Hellloooo! Don’t you notice anything different about me?

R: (swallows hard, looks me up and down, wishes for a Twix to shove in his mouth) Ummm, you look … pretty?

J: (cocks head to side, isn’t buying it) Don’t you mean that I look younger? And maybe wrinkle-free?

R: (remaining clueless) Can I just answer that in the morning? You know – after your de-wrinkler has had all night to soak into your skin and … de-wrinkle?

I’m not quite sure when I became so infatuated with whether or not my skin is aging. And even though Roger didn’t IMMEDIATELY see a difference (although as my husband he should already know to say that he did, even if he didn’t, though I suppose it’s good that he didn’t lie, because I totally would have caught him in it since I had only used my new skincare treatment ONCE, as if he’s really going to see a difference that soon), I can say at this point that I love my new cleanser and moisturizer and exfoliant and serum and all that other stuff I now use. Because they make me a Certified Woman Who Cares About Her Skin. The products haven’t made me break out yet, and to be honest, that is really all I care about. (Well, that and my new obsession with my wrinkles. Obviously.)

| Permalink | Comments (8)

I’ve never been one of those women who fretted about dry skin or worried about wrinkles or examined her locks on a regular basis for evidence of graying. It always kind of amazed me, actually, that people spent time even worrying about these things. Until it happened to me.

It all started with the white hairs: first I found them on my shins, of all places. And last week when I was styling my curls, I found several silver threads hidden among my espresso-colored ponytail. Not a big deal, I thought – there’s really not that many. And maybe they’re my crown of wisdom. They show how much life experience I’ve had! I will embrace them!

Then this week, while sweeping mascara over my eyelashes, I was distracted by a shadow between my eyebrows. I adjusted the light and it didn’t disappear. Had I been squinting? I wiggled my forehead, trying to relax my face. The shadow was still there. I moved to another mirror – and then another room altogether – to get a second opinion. And lo: I had wrinkles. Two of them, in fact. Permanent creases that undoubtedly stemmed from my worst habit: furrowing my brow. I do it when I’m thinking, when I’m concentrating, when I’m listening, when I’m frustrated, when the sun is too bright. I’m constantly reminding myself to stop furrowing my brow – it actually gives me a headache – and yet I cannot stop. I’ve even tried putting a piece of tape between my eyebrows, so that when I feel it crinkle I will stop. And do you know what happened? I tore the tape off, annoyed that I couldn’t move my face. (But, hey: easier than tweezing. As long as the tape isn’t crooked.)

I somehow managed to make myself look like Owen Wilson. Send help.

And so, I’m on the prowl for the illusive wrinkle-removing cream. I’ll try just about anything than you can recommend, because I’m far too young to have this much “life experience.” Though we’ll call it that for now.

| Permalink | Comments (9)

(This is a series in Weird Things About Me. Part One is here and Part Two is here.)

When alone in the car, some people sing. I talk. I’m very talky, incessantly chatting, always giving speeches and monologues and holding conversations. And it’s not even that I’m re-playing past exchanges in my mind. No, they’re all one-sided discussions that I’m making up as I go along, where I play both (or all) parts. And if I don’t like how my talks turn out, I go back and re-make them up with different endings. It is a sickness. Kind of like having an imaginary friend. (Except I don’t, I swear.) (Diana, I didn’t mean it. Don’t be upset.) (Ha, kidding!)

Usually I’m just playing through scenarios in my mind, bantering back and forth with myself about whether I really should buy those shoes or watch that movie or blog about my house remodel. Innocent enough, right? Until I started confusing my inner monologues with real conversations, that is.

A few weeks ago I attended a friend’s wedding. While sitting with friends at the reception, I noticed a girl a few tables away. I knew her, though I couldn’t figure out from where we knew each other. I sat, staring at her, thinking to myself: her name is Kelly. She’s a pediatric nurse. She has a kind of raspy, deep voice – but she’s never been a smoker. She’s very animated when she talks. Just then, she stood up to greet someone and I heard her voice - just as it had always been! - rise above the crowd.

I knew all this about her, like she was a long-lost friend. And the longer I watched her, the more annoyed I became because I couldn’t remember our connection. I started running scenarios through my mind, hoping that would help jog my memory. We played on a girls’ flag football team together. I could totally envision it, us sweaty and laughing and high-fiving. We went shopping together, and I could see us walking and talking at the mall, having met up after work. We went camping, sitting around the campfire and talking about the deepest things that somehow only campfires and forests and the star-studded sky can draw out.

I finally got up to go talk to her, momentarily distracted along the way with other friends, and when I got to her table she was – poof! – gone. I’m left with this imprint of her on my mind, wondering where she is and who she is and why I know all these things about her.

And – I’m sorry – but I just have to know if I’m alone with these neuroses. Because in my opinion, talking to myself is one thing. But making up friendships? That’s just weird.

| Permalink | Comments (7)

I developed my longest-running crush with Ren when I was in eighth grade. He was a little older, by (should I admit this?) 20 years, and almost every day we would spend quality time together (well, it seemed like every day, though I can’t imagine my mother allowing that). I would sprawl across our living room floor, snack in hand, and he...well, he was a bit of a rebel. Ren was full of drama and loved to dance.

Wait – we all know I’m talking about Footloose, right? And Kevin Bacon? I rewound those choreographed scenes over and over and over again, the parts where Kevin taught Willard how to dance, or when Kevin was dancing through the rafters in the warehouse, or when they all snuck out to the dance bar across the state line. Even the footwork in the opening credits had me hooked.

Beyond the movie, though, I really knew nothing about Kevin Bacon. I didn’t know what other movies he was in, for example, and I certainly didn’t know that (by the time I discovered Footloose) he was married. Truth be told, I didn’t find out he was married until just last night.

I was looking through part of the swag we got at BlogHer this year, and included in our tote was a copy of the August 2008 Redbook magazine. Kyra Sedgwick is featured on the cover with this blurb: “How she and hubby Kevin Bacon keep it sexy after 20 years” and I’m sorry, wha? Hubby? Kevin Bacon? 20 years? MY FIRST LOVE HAS CHEATED ON ME? Say it’s not so!

I shared my shock with Roger, who just stared at me, dumbfounded. I get it, okay? Not everyone shares my love for Kevin Bacon. Not everyone thinks he’s hot, or will swear to see any movie he’s in simply because he’s in it. And I’m okay with that. But Roger took it one step too far, what with all his comments about my irrational crushes on actors who can’t act. I mean, Roger hasn’t even SEEN Footloose. How can he issue such a blanket statement?

In general, I think Roger has good taste in movies – with the exception of Blade Runner and those stupid Aliens movies – and now I’m beginning to wonder if I really am alone in my love for Footloose and Kevin Bacon and any movie containing a high volume of dancing (see: Center Stage, Step Up, Bring it On, Save the Last Dance, Billy Elliot and any other movie I’ve temporarily forgotten but have certainly watched, probably several times).

Still, Kevin Bacon is tops for me – beyond his movies and looks and dancing, I adore that he’s a family man. I respect that he’s been married for 20 years to the same woman, and in Hollywood, no less! And that just makes me love him all the more.

So this begs the question: who is your Hollywood crush? (Or can you and I bond over Kevin’s weird hair and dimpled cheeks? Swoon!)

| Permalink | Comments (20)

I woke up yesterday morning with creaky bones and achy muscles. I have nothing to attribute to this - unless you consider a marathon cookie-baking session for a friend’s going away party that I co-hosted the night before – other than old age. That said, yesterday I turned another year older. I am 30 now, and truth be told, it wasn’t quite as frightening as I expected hitting this age would be. Except that time when my father-in-law gently pointed out that I was leaving behind my third decade and beginning to work toward my fourth. Uhh...har, har, har. Thanks for the reminder.

The highlight of my weekend – beyond the surprise Roger arranged for me: a massage and facial and foot scrub and hot towel wrap and ... sorry, where was I? I kind of got lost there, wishing I was back on that table with not a care in the world.

Aside: that’s a lie: my mind couldn’t stop spinning throughout the entire massage. It was a couple’s massage, and Roger arranged for me to go with my friend Erica, and there’s nothing more awkward than two modest women left alone in the same room to strip down and get onto our respective massage tables. We finally agreed on turning opposite directions, pulling off our clothes as quickly as we could, and then diving for our tables and yanking up the sheets. It worked, by the way, and I’d totally do it again. We thought we had arranged for two women to give us the massages, but as it turned out I had a woman and Erica had a man, and so I spent the massage alternating between worries: (a) was Erica okay with that man? - Incidentally, I tried mouthing to her, “Are you okay with that man?” but she couldn’t see me because it was, uh, dark. I thought maybe her eyes had adjusted and she'd be able to see me, when in fact I think her eyes were closed; and (b) what does my back look like when I’m lying down? I honestly have no idea. Does is spread all out or stay taut? I wonder if my masseuse has ever massaged anyone who was really, really big? And do massage tables have weight limits? And I wonder what her most horrifying client story is – maybe someone who had really bad body odor? Or just someone who couldn’t relax? Oh, wait.

Neuroses aside, the highlight of my weekend was sitting very still while Roger painted henna art on the tops of my feet. I absolutely adore it and can see myself making more trips to Indian grocers for henna, more henna, must have henna.

| Permalink | Comments (11)

(This is a series in Weird Things About Me. Part One is here.)

Two weekends ago, Roger and I went to see two movies: Wall-e and Wanted. And – I can’t help this sickness of mine, it’s like a plague – every time I go to a theater, every time I wander down the dimly lit aisle to find my seat, every time I gingerly lower myself into that seat, I can’t stop thinking the same thing. I think about it during the movie, and when the credits are rolling I’m still apprehensive about it:

I worry that I’m going to get lice.

Do you do this? Do you worry that you’re going to get lice every time you sit in a seat that is not your own? Particularly in a dark room, when you don’t know who sat in that seat before you? There’s really no reason I should worry about this, since I’ve never actually gotten lice from a movie theater, but I am still concerned nonetheless.

Most people worry about – I don’t know – whether someone with big hair will sit in front of them (though I suppose that has been eradicated with the wide-spread adoption of stadium seating, thank goodness), or whether those people over there are going to be talking throughout the entire movie, or why the person sitting in front of you insists on sending text messages during the movie. Honestly, you texters! Your phone’s backlight is bright in that dark theater. BRIGHT AND ANNOYING.

Ahem.

To be fair, the people running rampant with lice may not even realize they have vermin nesting in their hair – and that’s when it gets really scary. Think about the hats you try on in stores, the restaurants booths you sit in, the subway and/or taxi seats you touch on a daily or weekly basis. And then think about how far I’m imagining those little suckers can jump. (Which is to say: at least 12 inches. I can’t prove it, but I bet they can at least jump a foot. And I bet they have good aim, too.)

I’ve never really considered myself a germophobe, but right now I'm entertaining the option of wearing a shower cap the next time I go to the movie theater. It certainly wouldn’t be as distracting as that text-messager in front of me, I’m sure of it.

| Permalink | Comments (16)

A couple months ago, The Mike Stand tagged me for a Six Weird Things About You meme. I wrote a similar entry a while back, but it was actually a photoblog of Six Weird Things About My Home. I wasn’t feeling vulnerable enough at the time to share six things about myself, I suppose, even if it was just about my addiction to chapstick. (Foreshadowing!) Without further ado, here is another weird thing about me:

I’ve since purchased a home and moved, and those six weird things probably all still apply, but to a different space. Our remodel is a never-ending project, one with dusty concrete floors and unpacked boxes and holes in the drywall. We’re loving our new house more and more with each change we make – though at this point we’re still living with blank white walls (to be remedied soon-ish!) and we still have all those dachshunds.

As I thought through weird things about myself – and believe me: there are a lot – I concluded that everything requires explanation. Isn’t that the way it always is? And so I’ve devised a plan to make each tidbit I expose into its own post, which seems like a much better idea than describing everything in a single post, an entry that would undoubtedly be more than eight pages of text. Lucky you.

A few months ago I purchased a lip gloss at Holly’s suggestion, though I want to make this clear: I bought it because (a) it was cheap, so if I hated it I wouldn’t have wasted much money; and (b) she lauded its ability to look good on anyone, which – you know – kind of seemed like a challenge. Would it look good on anyone, including me? (It did. And I’m still wearing it.) However, I didn’t purchase the lip gloss based on her explanation of why she bought it: she wanted her lips to look chapped, because they turned “the most perfect shade of pinky-red.”

I mean, a perfect shade of pinky-red sounds great, but Holly is a unique case. To wit: her lips look good when chapped. When MY lips get chapped, I can barely pay attention to the color because I’m too concerned with all that skin peeling off. And then the cycle starts: I lick my lips, I bite them, I mash them together. I soak my lips in chapstick and lip balm and lip gloss and anything else I can find that promises to relieve chapped lips. I don't care if I buy it at the drugstore or the grocery store or a department store. I just care that it works. (Which, incidentally - I'm always open to suggestions if you have them.)

I squirrel away several chapsticks and lip balms in my bathroom drawers, at least two in my purse, two on my nightstand, one in each car. I keep spares at my parents’ homes, in my desk at work, in winter coats that are stashed away in the closet. When Roger and I go out and I leave my purse behind, I fill his pockets with my tubes of lip gloss. And when I find that I’m mysteriously without? I stop and buy some. I am addicted. And maybe that’s not so strange.

What IS weird, though, is that I cannot fall asleep without covering my lips in a protective layer of balm -- I mean, it makes sense, perhaps, considering Roger cannot sleep without a fan blowing on him (which subsequently blows air on me) -- and I know this because I have tried. I have tried, to no avail, to break myself of this chapstick habit, and the result is always the same: I lie awake for hours and all I can think about is how dry my lips are going to get if I don’t roll over, unscrew that cap and swipe the applicator over my lips.

Am I alone in this? Tell me I’m not alone.

| Permalink | Comments (13)

In January of 1996, during my senior year of high school, I participated in Presidential Classroom. It’s kind of a nerdy thing to do for high schoolers who are into politics – which is kind of ironic since we couldn’t even vote yet, but whatever – but like blogging, it’s only nerdy if you’re not the one doing it. For me, it was the culmination of my involvement with student council, my staunch political views and determination to actually be a politician one day.

I should go on record right now to say that I doubt that will ever happen, unless I’m President of the PTA. My concern for the world dominated by Democrats and Republicans has fallen by the wayside, in fact, it’s fallen so far that I generally have no clue what is going on in the election arena unless it’s a presidential election year (and then, hoo-boy, I love watching the debates on television). Still, I’m only mildly aware of the candidates and all their campaigning. I mean, they’re just mud-slinging and making promises they can’t always keep and saying the same thing over and over and over again, and honestly, it’s not even the President that’s in control, it’s the Congress that’s in control over most decisions that affect our day-to-day lives. So, huh, I guess I should be participating in those smaller elections after all.

Anyway, Presidential Classroom is a week-long event in Washington, D.C., where juniors and seniors are invited to live in a hotel with like-minded peers from across the nation. I had roommates from Puerto Rico, the Bronx and Connecticut. We participated in mock-caucuses, roundtable discussions, toured the Capitol, met with our hometown congressman and state senators, and were generally educated about how our government works.

That trip is still my favorite memory from high school. I learned so much about myself, about the world, about our government. It was a lesson in history, in business and political savvy, in the importance of my voice. That trip was also the last time I visited Washington, D.C.

However! Next week Roger and I are visiting our nation’s capital for a few days. We’ve been researching and making lists and comparing lists and adding more to our lists, but we haven’t asked anyone else for their input yet. Everyone knows that the best way to get insider information about a destination is to ask someone who’s been there before. Roger has never been, and I haven’t been in 12 years. We're the type of people who like to do and see as much as possible, even given a limited amount of time. Which brings me to the point: if you were going to D.C. for the weekend, what would you do? Where would you eat? Where must we go? What gems can you share with us?

Otherwise, I’m kind of afraid that my 17-year-old self will try to give Roger a tour of our nation’s capital. And you know what that means, right? I’ll end up at the Mall dancing and singing along with a Jamaican band, just like I did 12 years before.

| Permalink | Comments (11)

I’ve lost my underwear.

Now, don’t you worry yourself, because there is good news: I do have the seven pairs I packed in my suitcase when we moved more than two weeks ago. The washing machine and dryer are hooked up (thanks, Dad!), so I’ve been able to wash our clothes over the past couple of weeks. Still, there are dozens of pairs that should be somewhere in our house, and it kills me that I don’t know where they are.

I’ve searched for them, and I know exactly how they are packed: in a white trash bag, which I then stuffed into a black trash bag. In an awkward moment of modesty, I was desperately afraid that, while carrying dresser drawers, the guys helping us move were going to see my unmentionables. So I hurriedly stuffed them into the bags, and threw them onto the moving truck. We had already packed over 100 boxes, and still, we ran out. Trash bags provided the perfect improvisation. Incidentally, we also packed our couch cushions and decorative pillows in this way, and they’re all accounted for. Which brings me to the conclusion that somewhere, somehow, those trash bags may have been thrown away in a cleaning frenzy. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.

On one hand, some of my favorite things to wear were in that drawer. When I got married, I was given a piece of advice by a friend who had married the year before. The advice was on a simple piece of paper, and if you don’t already know, let me share it with you: “Always wear pretty panties.” Even if no one else sees them, they make you feel pretty. It’s true - you should try it!

On the other hand, if everything from that drawer has been relegated to the dump, at least I have the consolation that I get to shop for NEW pairs. If there’s anything I like to shop for, it’s under-things. (And shoes, for that matter.) Tables piled high with silk and cotton are like a tractor beam, pulling me forward, and even if I don’t buy anything, I still have to look. (Just in case, you see.)

Unless I uncover them soon, I think I may be doing more than just looking at those tables. I foresee an entirely new, ahem, "wardrobe" in my future.

| Permalink | Comments (17)

(Click for larger image)

Roger gave me this card at midnight the morning of Valentine's Day, because he couldn't stand the thought of having something for me and not sharing it. We're kind of like that, generally unable to hold back surprises, because we're just so excited to give them to each other.

I love 3D cards, and I love glitter, and with all the elements of this particular card, it's absolutely perfect.

I'm not so much of a bath-taker, except when I'm relaxing. I can spend hours in the tub, bubbles and all, reading a book or flipping through magazines.

I've even been known to fall asleep soaking in the bath. It's because I'm hardcore like that.

| Permalink | Comments (6)

I may keep a blog about Britney Spears -- in fact, some people have even commented here before that I kind of look like her -- but that’s always where I drew the line. Until recently.

This past Friday night, Roger and I went to the Dallas Museum of Art. Every third Friday the museum offers $10 admittance, free Starbucks, live entertainment, karaoke and scavenger hunts. People pour downtown in droves for this monthly event, and the museum is alive with the young, the old, the goth, the well-to-dos. It's the closest Dallas comes to competing with the energy of other more hip, urban cities, which, naturally, is a draw for me.

But it wasn’t just any ol' Late Night at the DMA – it was its 105th anniversary. And maybe that anniversary wouldn't be that big of a deal if you didn't know anything about the beginnings of my relationship with Roger. You see, our first date took place five years ago, during the DMA's 100th anniversary. In celebration, the museum opened its doors for 100 hours straight. And so, just because we could, our date began at 10 p.m. and ended at 2 or 3 a.m. I mean, when else could we wander around a museum at 1 a.m.? We had to take advantage of it.

So I was getting ready to go out on Friday night, and I was thinking about what to wear. I was staring in my closet as I am wont to do, trying to draw inspiration, when it occurred to me: I should try to re-create the outfit that I wore five years ago. I mean, how fun would that be, right? Except the more I thought about it, the sooner I realized -- in utter horror -- what I had worn for our first date. Picture this (seriously, you're going to want to click that image link for the full effect):

A white waffle-weave thermal undershirt. Under a cornflower-blue, short-sleeve graphic tee. With a pair of cotton, charcoal grey, drawstring tracksuit pants. Like sweatpants, without the elastic. And, to top it off -- and this is the perhaps the worst part -- I paired this outfit with black, high-heeled leather boots. Like these.

As if that weren't bad enough -- and I kind of didn't want to admit this to you, because this is more evidence of the epitome of my (lack of) fashion sense -- I thought it would be appropriate to wear my black, mid-thigh-length lambskin leather coat. (Is it redundant to say "lambskin leather"?) It was cold outside, I'll have you know. Somehow, it just made sense to me.

Why are you staring at me so blankly, Internet?

You'll be glad to know that I didn't try to re-create that outfit on Friday, not even in the slightest, and that instead I wore a tasteful turtleneck sweater with jeans and cute brown shoes, plus golden, dangly earrings.

The amusing thing is that I *did* re-create that outfit on Saturday afternoon, and then I wore it to a friend's house on Saturday night. Except without the boots. Or the coat. Instead, I wore sneakers. Which kind of makes it acceptable, doesn't it? Say yes, Internet, because I need to be affirmed here. I'm beginning to question whether I really am more like Britney Spears after all, what with my apparent inability to dress myself properly, despite my access to an entire wardrobe of lovely clothes.

At least with time, my taste has improved. I can't say that much for Britney.

| Permalink | Comments (15)

I've played those games in the car, or sitting around the campfire, or wherever -- and you probably have, too -- that go something like this: "Name your top five _______." The blank is something generic, like "genres of food" or "favorite colors" or "pieces of clothing."

For "places you want to travel," mine went something like this:
1. Bangkok
2. Maldives
3. Istanbul
4. New Zealand
5. Ireland

Of course, each of the places named above would be more than just a trip to that city, and each of the destinations listed above are places I've not yet traveled. Ideally, Bangkok would be part of a six-month stint around Southeast Asia. Other stops would include the Thai islands and Chiang Mai (Thailand), Hoi An, Hanoi and Saigon (Vietnam), Bagan and Mandalay (Burma), and Siem Reap (Cambodia), as well as many little towns that we would pass through while traveling. And then of course there would be Singapore, Hong Kong and Beijing, with stops in Shanghai (to visit friends) and Nanjing (to show Roger around my old stomping grounds).

(Note: For the sake of time, and space, I'll stop naming cities. Unless you really, really want to know. And then I'll happily inform you, but beware: am long winded on the subject of travel.)

I'd love to visit Japan, but I'm getting the feeling that six months for the places I've already listed would barely scratch the surface for this type of trip. Japan will need to be another trip, maybe mixed with South Korea. The most time I've ever spent in South Korea was eight hours in an airport, six of which I was sleeping in the hotel that was actually INSIDE the international wing. Also during that trip, I paid seven dollars for a can of Sprite.

The Maldives would include visits to India, both the north and the south, as well as Bangladesh and Sri Lanka.

Istanbul would include Greece, Romania, Turkey, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary and Austria.

New Zealand would require Australia, as well as a Great Barrier Reef dive, because of all that time in seventh grade that I spent daydreaming about being a marine biologist. I'd probably also hop north to visit Indonesia and Malaysia while touring the Great Outback.

And then, the dramatic cliffs of Ireland. London and Scotland would be involved, as would Iceland. For a very, very long time I've wanted to visit the baths of Iceland.

So, you see, by naming five cities to visit, I really get to tie in more than 30 other cities and/or countries, as well. That works for me.

It seems as though the New York Times is doing something similar. In December, the publication complied an article highlighting 53 places to visit in 2008.

I'm happy to report that very few of the places I want to visit are on this list. That's a good thing, since that means when I travel to those places, there will be that many fewer people to congest the streets and beaches and various attractions. I'm kind of selfish that way, though I have to admit that the New York Times article made me curious about a few places I've never considered before, like Mauritius and Essaouira, among others.

Since the New York Times peaked my curiosity about these different places, it got me thinking: Perhaps you know of or have visited some cities/countries that I'm overlooking.

If you've stayed with me this long, tell me: What are YOUR top five?

| Permalink | Comments (8)

It's been a couple years since I've made a New Year's Resolution (more on that later), mainly because I find myself making resolutions throughout the year - why save them up for one day? Plus, that's kind of overwhelming. I'd rather amortize them throughout the 365 days.

This year, however, is different. This year, I'm making a resolution.

You see, I get frustrated living in Dallas because I'm not the typical Dallasite.

1. I rarely hit the mall on the weekends (hate the crowds)
2. I don't dress in the trendiest fashions (I prefer classic styles, styles that -- while super-cute right now -- won't cause me to cringe when I flip through photos several years from now)
3. I don't visit the latest and greatest "hot spot" bars in the city (which is probably also the reason I don't ever know what to order at a bar. I can count on my fingers the number of drinks I know by name, and prefer to order a drink that goes something like this: "I'd like something pink, sweet and fruity, and I don't want to be able to taste the alcohol." And then I bat my eyelashes and smile sweetly. It often works, but every once in a while a disgruntled bartender flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes at me)

I do, however, love to explore. And I'm beginning to think that the reason I dislike Dallas (in favor of San Francisco, for example) so much is because I don't know what all the city has to offer -- even though I've lived here for twenty years. I haven't taken the time to explore its nooks and crannies, the way I explore cities when I'm on vacation.

Over the last year, I've taken my four-year-old nephew to a few attractions around town - we've gone to the Neiman Marcus Children's Parade, visited the 20-foot interactive snowglobe at Willow Bend, examined dinosaur remains at Fair Park and explored the train display at North Park. I still want to take him for a ride on the Tarantula Train (a train that runs between Grapevine and Fort Worth Stockyards).

And so this year, I'm resolving to Get Out There.

For example, I've only visited the shopping district at Lovers and the Tollway once - ONCE - and that was only to eat at a burrito bar. I'd like to poke my head in the shops and see what that area has to offer.

When I was researching the Tarantula Train, I learned that Grapevine has a pretty cool little downtown area and some of the best wineries in our area (which should seem obvious, given the town's name).

It's been years since I've visited either the Stockyards OR Sundance Square during the day. (Often, it's at night before dinner or a performance at the Bass.)

And I've never been to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas.

I'm making a list, checking it twice. I want to discover Dallas the way a tourist might discover Dallas - after all, it is the city I live in. I should know what the city has to offer.

With that in mind, what do you know about Dallas? Where should I visit? What MUST I do? What have you done and loved? Where are your favorite dives?

I'm begging you to flood me with your ideas, because right now my list is awfully sparse.

| Permalink | Comments (20)

The problem with buying gifts for a white elephant gift exchange at work is that I always end up picking out something that I want, and then I spend hours scheming on how to either (a) wrap it so that no one will pick it or (b) steal it the third-time-round so no one can steal it away from me.

And then I wonder: why go to all that trouble? Why not just buy one for myself? It’s only $10, afterall.

The problem with that, you see, is that then I’ll look like a copycat. I can’t buy something for someone else and buy one for myself also, and then give one away because then I’ll either look like I’m copying them or I’ll look like I think my little cubicle decorations are so awesome that everyone needs to have the same type of decorations that I have.

Even though the ONE cubicle decoration I have IS awesome. It’s also the gift that I had originally planned to give away in the white elephant gift exchange, before I sequestered it for myself. I just couldn’t bear to let it go.

Meet Harry. That’s not his given name, of course. He’s an Ugly Doll, and his original name is Target. I can’t call him Target without wanting to take a trip down the street to SuperT, so I renamed him Harry. This is why:

A one-eyed, snaggle-toothed doll with a hairy chest! Am I alone in thinking that is unbearably cute? Perhaps a face (and, er, a chest) that only a mother could love?

I’ll tell you what I’m NOT alone in, though: keeping gifts for myself that I’ve bought for someone else. And I know I’m not alone in this because Roger also has a white elephant gift exchange at work. And Roger loved his gift so much that he decided to keep it for himself, too. (Wow, all this gift-buying and gift-keeping makes us sound incredibly selfish. We’re not actually selfish at all, we just happened to find two things in a store that we were each destined to have, even though we didn’t know it at the time. Well, okay, maybe we DID know it, but wouldn’t keeping it for ourselves just make us responsible members of society, since we could recognize that we wanted it, keep it, and vow to buy another gift? That seems very responsible to me.)

Roger’s gift: a tape dispenser (in red). Get it? Tape? Ha!

Anyway, so now we both need to go shopping for gifts again, and neither of us know what to get. Roger is thinking something along the lines of a gift card, but I can’t tell you where because some of his co-workers read this site. (I’m looking at you, Lulabelle.) I can tell you this, though: it’s a good store. I would totally steal that card.

But what should I get? Internet, I need your help. And since I know how opinionated you are, I figure you’re just the ones to help me. What have been some of YOUR favorite gifts to give (or receive) at a white elephant gift exchange?

| Permalink | Comments (22)

My family got our first computer in the early 1980s. It had a hideous quad-panel Windows system and came with a programming book that taught us how to code in DOS to create swirls across the monitor. And though it was low-tech compared to today's standards, it was the most amazing thing we'd ever seen. (Technologically speaking, I mean.)

Soon we graduated to playing family Quest games - namely, King's Quest, Space Quest and Police Quest. (And guess what?!? Roger knew how much I loved those games and got them for me last Christmas! The games have been reprogrammed to work on Windows XP. Long live 1985!) Then there were the educational programs, like Macon Beavis Typing. (Or was it Beavis Macon? Whatever.)

Ever since then, I've been (a) obsessed with inserting two spaces between every sentence I type and (b) traumatized by having to push the Shift key opposite the letter I'm attempting to capitalize. Does anyone actually use the Shift key on the right? Because I can't be the only one who feels this way.

In my new job I'm being re-programmed to use only one space between sentences, and it's almost killing me. How do I conquer this? For now I have turned on that little paragraph-icon key so that I every time I hit the space bar it inserts a mark. And then I painstakingly look for double marks and delete one of them. By the end of the day my nostrils are flaring and I can begin to see permanent creases across my forehead.

So I'm taking a survey: Do you insert one or two spaces between sentences?

| Permalink | Comments (60)

There is something about me – something deep within me that believes all things and hopes all things that are for the greater good. There’s something about me that faces reality, cocks my head to the side, and then examines that truth from a different perspective. A perspective of hope. Of trusting beyond hope for what seems insurmountable. I dream of big things, of the unlikely, of miracles, even. I do believe in miracles, because my life is full of them. I’m a walking testimony of everything that is good in this world, despite the evil that lurks…waiting. And tonight I was reminded of that good.

When I saw my brother’s name on my caller ID, I didn’t think anything of it. It’s not common for us to call each other and chat, aside from the occasional question about plans to get together. With Thanksgiving approaching, I figured he was calling about our plans for the holiday. Which is why I was surprised when he put someone else on the phone, without much of an introduction at all.

In fact, when I first started talking to the child, I didn’t even know who it was. And I do mean “it” – I wasn’t even sure if I was talking to a boy or a girl. At first I thought my brother was at my sister’s house and had decided to put my nephew on the phone. And then the little girl told me her name was Lexi. The name plundered through the accordion files of my mind – I had heard that name on several occasions before. I even recalled repeating it to myself, long ago. Was that his next door neighbor’s daughter? Why was I talking to her?

And then she started telling me things she knew about my childhood. Stories that had been written in hot Texas summers and cemented in the minds of my cousins, my brother and myself. It occurred to me who Lexi was: the daughter of my oldest cousin, Rachel. Rachel was more like a sister to me than a cousin. I had always looked up to her. She was someone I had shared my room with for several months while she was in high school and I was in middle school. Rachel. My heart fluttered. Could it be? I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly thirteen years.

Thirteen years since her father, my uncle, had died.

Thirteen years since our families had a falling-out over something that my teenage mind couldn’t understand. I still don’t.

Thirteen years of life, of memories, of time lost.

I had written her letters that went unanswered, never knowing why. I still don’t.

My brother, while traveling near her home on business, spent his evenings searching for her.

He found her.

Thirteen years later, and her voice sounds just the same. I can picture her freckled face, her straight button nose, her high cheekbones, her arched eyebrows. My ears get hot, a lump forms in my throat, my face flushes. Before I can prevent it from happening, my forehead wrinkles and lips purse. My bottom lip juts out, tears spill from wells in my eyes. Something in my heart feels broken.

I’ve wanted to talk to her for so long. I’ve wanted to reconnect for more months than I care to count. I wondered if I, too, was being written off with the rest of my family, punished for an argument from so long ago, an argument that I wasn’t even a part of.

If marriage to my husband has taught me one thing, it is that it’s okay – healthy, even – to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. And so I did.

I told Rachel that I missed her. Hot tears fell. My voice cracked. She missed me, too. Her voice cracked. She asked if my hair was still long. Long, and curly, I replied. I told her I married three and a half years ago. Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished that she had been there for that.

We talked for forty one minutes. The phone beeped, then disconnected. I stared at it, willing her to call me back. Call me back. Call me back. Call me back.

She did.

The battery had depleted and she had to run outside, climb in my brother’s rental car and plug the phone in to continue the conversation. We talked for another forty nine minutes. I cried the entire time.

I mourned the loss of our relationship. I sobbed because she was found again. I can’t stop crying, off and on, off and on, and now I’m not even sure why. I have high hopes for redeveloping our friendship. I dream of the day our families are reunited. But for now, I’m content just knowing that she’s still out there, thinking of my brother and me, telling her children about the fun we used to have together.

Miracles happen every day. Even if they don’t occur to me, or to you, they still happen.

Tonight was mine.

| Permalink | Comments (20)

This morning, while lying on my bathroom floor, I thought up a new weekly blog series called As I See It. It’s all about (wait for it, wait for it...) HOW I SEE THINGS. Quite literally.

You see, I woke up this morning at 4:37 a.m. because I had somehow managed to partially throw out my back. I laid in bed for two hours, hoping that if I remained very still, not moving even an inch, the pain would subside and my spine would go back to normal. The thought of being paralyzed and in pain for the next four days sent me rolling off the mattress and limping to the freezer. I grabbed the icy gel pack and made my way to the guest bathroom, where I threw the finger-numbing bundle on the floor and covered it with one of Roger’s t-shirts. And then I laid there, on the frozen pack, staring at the ceiling.

It was kind of boring, lying there for twenty minutes with nothing to occupy my thoughts other than how I thought the Internet might also want to see my ceiling. So I took a picture of it with my camera phone. As I See It was born.

I don’t know why I decided to lie down on the cold, hard bathroom floor and stare at the ceiling. I could have iced my back anywhere, perhaps somewhere more comfortable (and warm), like my couch. Or in bed. But lying on the bathroom floor made sense at the time, and you must remember that the time was very early in the morning – earlier than I’m accustomed to, anyhow - and we all know that drunk ideas and early morning ideas are rarely ever good ones.

I’ll illustrate that last fact with the next picture, which I took because I thought maybe the Internet needed to know what I looked like As I Was Seeing It. Why I thought this was a good idea, I don’t know. My hair looks like it was combed with an eggbeater, my mascara is smudged all around my eyes, and my bathroom floor? Well – my floor I haven’t cleaned in a week. Wait, no, it’s been longer more like two weeks.

Don’t judge me, Internet, because it was very early in the morning and I obviously wasn’t thinking very clearly, and also because there are people out there who haven’t cleaned their bathroom floors in, like, three months. Or worse, they’ve NEVER cleaned their bathroom floors. And if that is you, Internet, just don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if you have never cleaned your bathroom floors, because that will make me think you’ve maybe never cleaned your entire bathroom, and if that’s the case I might be afraid to come over to your house one day, for fear that I might need to use the restroom while I’m there.

And you should know that my floors are typically so clean you can eat off of them – seriously, you could, because I scrub them on my hands and knees, Internet, with ANTI-BACTERIAL WET WIPES. Screw my Swiffer Wet Jet, I’m armed with Clorox.

Well, I’m typically armed with Clorox, anyhow. Right now I’m just staring at the ceiling.

| Permalink | Comments (16)

A few weeks ago I sent an email to Whoorl with a simple subject line: "Hair. Help."

Oh – why hello there.

I was having a hair crisis, and in case you didn't know, Whoorl is the go-to girl for hair crises. I emailed these pictures of my hair to her, plus sent her paragraph upon paragraph of more information than she ever wanted to know about my mane and how I style it and what products I use. I mean, if she's going to help me, she needs as much information as possible, right? I thought so, too.

But here is where I have to be honest: I like my hair. I like the color. I like the curls. Most of the time, I even like the length and the style. It's just that, in general, I don't feel very polished. I feel like I have a haphazard look, like maybe I belong on a beach in a sarong, selling trinkets to foreign tourists. (On second thought, a beach doesn't sound bad right about now...)

Check out those long, luscious locks.

The thing is that my hair is really super thick. I have loose curls – they're not tight at all – but it's definitely more than a wave. Most of the time, I feel like my hair is so heavy (because it is) and just hangs there (because it does) awkwardly. If I leave it down, it falls into a crooked part in the middle of my scalp.

I really don't know what to do with it other than shrug my shoulders and hope for a better hair day tomorrow, a day where there will be less frizz and more togetherness. Hello out there? Am I the only one who has this problem?

I'm tired of ponytails, of buns, of pulling it half-back in a clip. I told Whoorl that it's like when you walk down the street and see a woman (that woman is usually Whoorl, but that's beside the point) and everything about her is so polished - from her shoes to her clothes to jewelry to her hair. And right now I'm that person who just stares after her, wishing I could pull her away for a day of shopping and coiffing. I frantically try to memorize everything about her so I can go home and try to re-create her look. To sum it up, I just need HELP.

Wait - do I have a mullet? It looks like I have a mullet.

I don’t straighten my hair because I've learned the hard way, despite my optimism every time I try, that I don't know the first thing about straightening it. I have used a flat iron, I have used a blow dryer. Afterward, my hair generally looks like someone took a wire brush to a poodle. (Note: I'm not using a wire brush.)

I don't want to have straight hair permanently (Remember? I like my curly hair. I even want curly hair.), but I would like to have the option of it every now and again, just to change things up a bit and feel a bit more polished. In response to my hair crisis, Whoorl taught me a few tricks of the trade, which I totally plan on employing in the next few weeks.

That is, unless I can find a way to permanently relocate to a beach. Preferably in Thailand. Or Belize. I won't be picky.

| Permalink | Comments (28)

Left to myself, I'm not a runner. Or even a jogger. I'll walk. I'll bike. I'll swim. I'll skip. I'll rollerblade. I'll train on the elliptical. I'll do somersaults, whatever. I won't run.

Something about taking steps in such quick succession makes my heart rate shoot through the roof, like a misfiring machine gun, and to me it feels almost as frightening. Which is why I'm still not sure why I joined a running class several weeks ago, or even why I'm considering signing up for another.

Before the class began, we each had to write down our goals for ourselves and give them to our trainer. Mine was simple: I want to run a mile. And then I want to run two miles. And then I want to run a 5k. Without feeling like I'm going to die.

The first night of class was hot and humid and we were training next to the Dallas Mavericks, which was sort of intimidating to me. I mean, they're professional athletes and I was totally winded every time I passed them. My pride hijacked my body and I was convinced they were all staring at my red face, sweaty shirt and leaden legs. I was heaving and couldn't breathe, and even though they were just doing crunches on the sidelines, I'd be damned if I didn't run when I passed them. Every. Single. Time. I'm still not sure why I was compelled to save face in front of the Mavs.

So that first night I pushed myself too hard – what with all that running, and all – I actually thought I was going to pass out. And I'll admit it here: after class, I cried. So they moved me down one level, which sort of bruised my ego, but by the sixth night of class, I was actually enjoying running, which has always been an oxymoron to me. In fact, at times it was even FUN. Is that normal?

Of course, I should also admit that I use the term running loosely. It's more of a jog. Or actually, no, it's more of a prance. I'm in a prancing class, and I know this because I can stop running and start walking and I don't lose my pace with my group.

(Should I have admitted that?)

Last night was our thirteenth class and we ran relay races, circa third grade. There's something to be said for long, powerful legs and easy, short distances. The sprinter in me leapt to attention and I'll tell you this: I totally schooled our opposing team. There's nothing more terrifying than the sight my body rushing toward you in a very matador-meets-raging-bull way and I'm feeling quite pleased about it today.

This weekend I'm running my first 5k, and though I doubt there will be any sprinting involved, I'm pretty certain that I'll be able to prance it without feeling like I'm going to die.

| Permalink | Comments (23)

Several months ago, a friend called to ask whether I wanted to join a running class with her. At first I laughed, not thinking she was serious, and then she said to think about it. I did, and the answer was still a decided no, because when I think about running I think about seventh grade track class.

Track class was full of self-assured girls, girls who knew that they could outrun anyone in a dark alley if need be, and I wanted to be one of those girls. After a month on the track team I realized that I would never be a distance runner – that I was better at jetés and pirouettes – and that preference landed me square in front of a hurdle.

Hurdles were frustrating if only for one reason: form. I preferred to extend my legs in a full leap, arms gracefully stretched out, chin tilted up. My track coach preferred that I pull my hind leg into a herkie, and while I excelled at running hurdles, I hated warm-ups because they involved running. Even as a seventh grader, I knew that I would rather have my leg submerged in a glacial whirlpool and wrapped up like a mummy than face the prospect of rounding another corner on the track. I faked an injury to get out of the class and I never looked back.

Which is why, when Nicolle followed up with me last week about the running class, I amazed myself when I said yes. I knew it would be tough for me, but I didn’t think doing the class would be THAT big of a deal until last night, when I drove to our first meet. I hadn’t even started exercising yet and I was already out of breath. My hands were trembling; my quivering lips felt like a current of electricity had surged through my veins; I could feel my heart fearfully pounding in my chest. I was having my first anxiety attack, and I hadn’t even pulled into the parking lot.

I hadn't planned on things turning out this way. I had taken great care to prep myself for the class: I shaved my legs, drank water throughout the day, tried on different exercise outfits. My goal was to pull off the “I’m new, so go easy on me, but I don’t want to look too much like an overachiever by wearing everything you suggested in the handbook” look (read: I decided not to wear the ball cap). And yes, I did read the entire handbook. I drove home from work in the Texas heat with the windows rolled up and the air conditioner off, so I could acclimate myself to what the weather would be like when I was running outdoors. Surprisingly, I decided that it really wasn’t all that bad. Of course, I wasn’t actually moving my body except to shift gears, so I don’t think I could have possibly made an educated decision about the torrent of sweat that would stream from my forehead.

We only ran twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty miles. You should know that I use the term “ran” loosely. Like most people, I did a combination of jogging and walking, finishing only five laps in the timed period. As if that weren't embarrassing enough, we trained alongside the Dallas Mavericks, who were so tall they could have each just stepped over my 5’7” frame as they sprinted past me.

When I finished, I was dizzy. My body felt off-center and heavy, and I wasn’t sure whether I was going to cry, vomit or pass out. I wanted to do all three, in exactly that order. But I couldn’t cry because that would mean defeat. I couldn’t vomit because all those people would witness it and remember me as that girl who threw up the first night. I couldn’t pass out because I wasn’t sure anyone there was strong enough to carry me farther than ten yards. And believe me, the last thing I wanted was to come-to as a slew of men and women took turns dragging me down the street.

I was home for a solid hour before my body stopped sweating. As I laid on the floor, I couldn’t decide whether I was going to regret taking the class or if it was going to be incredible. I’m hoping for the latter.

In the meantime, I think that I should probably take up karate, since my near-twenty-minute-mile “run” won’t be getting me out of a dark alley any time soon.

| Permalink | Comments (16)

The thing about reading magazine beauty articles is that they give you just enough information to make you dangerous, and the next thing you know, you’re spouting that information out in public, in school, no less, as if you’re an expert on ingrown nails. A seventh-grade expert with frizzy hair and tightly rolled jean cuffs.

It’s true, and my seventh-grade crush was the beneficiary of my vast podiatric knowledge. I recognized his cry for help – he was begging for my expertise, mind you, it’s not like I just vomited it on him – when he mentioned within earshot of me that he thought he might have an ingrown toenail. For the record, I did consider for a moment that perhaps I shouldn’t say anything, that perhaps I shouldn’t tell him my theories on ingrown toenails, but then I realized that it wasn’t so much my theory as it was Seventeen magazine’s theory, and if it was written in Seventeen, it was practically the gospel. So I told him, and as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I probably should have just kept it to myself. It kind of sealed the fate of our future, or the lack thereof, and he kind of hated me for the next five years. We graduated high school and never spoke again, and I’m quite sure he’s never forgotten what I said since I have never forgotten:

“You know, people get ingrown toenails when they wear
dirty socks.”

I wasn’t trying to imply that his socks were dirty. That would be blasphemous. After all, he was the best dressed guy in our grade, with soft, curly hair and cute little dimples that melted into his face when he spoke. I only meant that it’s the reason some people got ingrown toenails. His reasons were altogether different, I’m sure, I just never had the chance to find out how. Until recently.

Three weeks ago, I decided to get a pedicure. I’m kind of obsessed with having short toenails – those long ones capable of opening beer cans sort of freak me out – so before I went, I clipped my overdue toenails to an appropriate length. Granted, my overdue toenails are probably the equivalent of the general population’s preferred length, but I think there’s something to be said for meticulous, careful grooming.

I arrived at the salon, cozied myself into the pleather chair and hung my feet in the warm, soapy water. I watched as Jenny, my technician, organized her supplies and draped a towel across the edge of the foot spa. She gently lifted my right foot from the bath, inspected it for a few seconds and then looked up at me: “Did you cut these yourself?”

Proudly, I admitted that I did. I didn’t feel ashamed – not one bit – until she admonished me: “Don’t ever do that again. Never. Never this short.” She tried to file them, but there really wasn’t that much to file. I offered a nervous giggle and agreed to never cut them that short again, but the damage was done. I figured they would be freakishly (for me) long again in just a few weeks, and then I’d hand over the pedi-reigns to Jenny for the rest of the summer. That was my plan, anyway.

And then it started to hurt when I walked for long periods of time, like something was constantly poking my toe. I told Roger, and he helpfully suggested that I shove cotton under what was left of my toenails. I agreed, and spent a week with little bits of cotton trying to escape for a breath of fresh air every time I took off my heels.

When the pain didn’t subside the following week, I figured that I just needed more cotton. So I kept changing the little tufts out to prevent the sides of my toenail from digging into my skin. Then, yesterday, I looked at my toe. I mean, I didn’t just look at it. I inspected it.

It wasn’t possible that I had an ingrown toenail, I reasoned, because I don’t wear dirty socks. I rarely ever wear socks, unless I’m going to exercise, and even then I only wear them for two or three hours max. So an ingrown toenail, according to my wealth of knowledge on the subject, was out of the question.

But my toe really hurt and it was swelling and turning an odd shade of purply-red. I tried pressing on the red part (it could just be a bruise!), but every time it hurt. I should go ahead and apologize for posting a nasty picture of my toe, most of all to myself, considering my obsession with pretty feet. I’m sorry, okay? But you need to see what I’m seeing, so that we can properly diagnose this abomination.

Where there is diagnosing to be had, there is Google Images to accommodate, and now I’m certain that I do have an ingrown toenail, even though I DON’T WEAR DIRTY SOCKS (I'm looking at you, Seventeen magazine).

I'm convinced it's going to require surgery and am waiting to hear back from my doctor. In the meantime, I'm looking on the bright side: it could always be worse. (How's THAT for meticulous grooming?)

It turns out that cutting your nails too short is the number one cause of an ingrown nail, and now I'm wondering: Has Seventeen heard the news?

| Permalink | Comments (39)

It's kind of bizarre that I own a curling iron, particularly when one considers that I have naturally curly hair. I'm not sure why I ever bought it in the first place, but this morning it came in handy in the most unexpected way.

I've never been much of a morning routine type of person. I don't wake up at a certain hour, eat breakfast, shower, get dressed and do whatever morning-routine-type-people do. In fact, my lack of routine has never really been an issue before.

(Unless you count yesterday: I had been at work for two and a half hours when I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to put on deodorant – and how I forgot this, I'll never know, because it's kind of a crucial part of my morning, like getting dressed or brushing my teeth – so I monitored myself all day long, so vexed was I that my hygiene might be askew. I made it all the way through the day without experiencing offensive odors until I got on the elevator to go home that afternoon. And on the elevator were only two people: a man and me, and the stench of body odor hit me so fiercely that I started gagging and toppled over. I assumed that the man couldn't smell it because he didn't seem visibly concerned about the olfactory offense at all. When he got off the elevator, the pong followed him. I stared at his armpits as he walked away, expecting little field mice to pop out and glower at me with their beady little Bubonic Plague eyes, because it smelled like HE had skipped deodorant for a lifetime, not just a day.)

Rather, my mornings go something like this:

7:00 a.m. -- Alarm clock trumpets a tune from the local Classical station. On off-days, it blares the March of the Day, and believe me, it's enough to make one levitate – eyes open and hand raised in a salute – from a dead sleep.

7:14 a.m. -- Still lying in bed, ignoring the time and drifting in and out of sleep.

7:26 a.m. -- Roll over, look at the clock in horror; realize I need to get out of bed so that I can get to work on time.

7:34 a.m. -- Still lying in bed, pretending to think about what I want to wear to work that day.

7:41 a.m. -- Throw back the covers. Run to the shower.

7:56 a.m. -- Pull clothes out of the closet, hurriedly get dressed, fix hair and smother face in makeup. Luckily, I'm fairly low maintenance and only wear blush, mascara and lip gloss. Except today, because I skipped the mascara so that I would have time to brush my teeth. I do have priorities, after all.

8:13 a.m. -- Walk out the door, pray for no traffic.

Today, however, something happened between 7:56 a.m. and 8:13 a.m. that concerned me, and my eyes darted around like Bill Clinton caught in a lie. I needed an escape route, a worthy substitute, because something was wrong with my shirt: it desperately needed to be ironed. I was running late and hauling the ironing board out of the laundry room closet, setting it up, plugging the iron in, waiting for it to heat up, ironing my entire shirt and putting it all away again required more time and energy than I was willing to allow myself.

One thing you may not know about me is that I have an uncanny ability to improvise, and I think it's genetics since my dad was a Navy S.E.A.L. It's ingrained into everything I do – from putting on makeup to cooking dinner – and at the drop of a hat I could probably make an explosive device out of a toothpick and a bottle of Heinz 57.

So I dusted off my curling iron, plugged it in, and thirty seconds later I was ironing the top four inches of the vertical opening of my blouse, which was the only part that I cared about. Since the rest of my shirt would be hidden beneath my sleeveless sweater, I reasoned that no one would care whether that part was rumpled. De-wrinkling a shirt with a curling iron is relatively easy, as long as you take care not to give your shirt a temporary spiral perm. I knew that one day owning a curling iron would be advantageous. Now I know why.

I think there's something to be said for improvisation, especially when everything you need is at your fingertips and you're too lazy to assemble it all. I mean: why make a pipe bomb with gun powder when you can use steak sauce from your refrigerator instead, right?

| Permalink | Comments (22)

The first time I wore fake fingernails, I was in fifth grade. They were Lee Press-Ons, and I was a pre-teen trying to impress my friend, Lisa.

That's just how our relationship was, as awful and misguided as it sounds. She would show up to school with a cute outfit, complete with MC Hammer-style pants, and I would try to one-up her the next day. She would hairspray her bangs four-inches-tall, and I would create a five-inch tidal wave the following morning. She would let me watch Nickelodeon at her house, and then we'd go to mine and I'd try to convince her that it was better to have twenty acres of land to roam. PLUS A HORSE. I usually won, though only marginally, considering she had Mystery Science Theatre 3000.

I'd walk about, flittering my blood-red fingernails every which way, hoping to invoke some sort of envy on her part. Then, inevitably, I'd knock against a desk, or walk into a wall, or trip over a strand of hair, as I am clumsily wont to do, and a fingernail that I had painstakingly peeled from its sheath and carefully pressed onto my finger would fly across the room like a red, elongated fruit-fly chasing the scent of a discarded watermelon rind. And there I would be, horrified that I had only nine crimson fingernails, scheming a plan to hide my left index finger all day long until I could get home to replace it.

The second time I wore fake fingernails, I was in eleventh grade. They were an oxymoron: real fake fingernails, the kind that were glued on and painted over with acrylic, then buffed and polished until they were as smooth as a high-end hooker's legs. I was going to my first prom, and it was important that my fingernails look perfect, as I would later find out, because my hair was a hot mess. When I gave my stylist free reign, I didn't mean that I wanted her to flip my head over, give me a French braid up one side of my scalp, with a curly side-ponytail coming out the other half.

Go ahead, imagine that. I'll wait.
In fact, I'll even help with a picture from prom:

I tried to play it off, like the fact that I looked like Helen Keller had fixed my hair didn't bother me. I convinced myself that no one else would have my same style -- and believe me, no one did -- and then when my date arrived, I found myself apologizing to him for his unfortunate luck of having to be seen with my hair that night. You should know that it didn't work out, that we really didn't talk much after that, and it has taken me until just now to realize why.

I kept wearing real fake fingernails until after I graduated from high school, when I became a very, very poor college student. But not so poor that I couldn't buy beer on the weekends. In hindsight, I should have spent that money on real fake fingernails. It probably would have significantly increased my GPA that year.

Somewhere along the line, in-between real fake fingernails and the end of my freshman year of college, I developed a nasty habit. I didn't bite my fingernails. I don't understand how people can stand to do that; instead, I bit my cuticles. It may not seem like that huge of leap to you -- from fingernails to cuticles, that is -- but the difference was at least enough to make me a snob about how disgusting it is to bite one's fingernails. It is a disgusting habit. I hope you don't do it. My habit, on the otherhand, is perfectly acceptable. Maybe even hygenic, since it's more like pruning myself and less like eating bacteria that has collected under my nailbed.

It's a habit I've hung onto for the past ten years. It's something I resort to when I'm feeling nervous or insecure or worrisome or all three at the same time. When I'm through gnawing on myself, each finger is raw and at least one finger is bleeding. I've shoved my fingers so forcefully into my mouth and I've been so determined to get every last bit of skin off my cuticles that I've actually had to have a root canal because of it. I'll repeat that so you can get the full effect: MY BAD HABITS CAUSE ME ROOT CANALS. Yours?

That's why, three months ago, I got real fake nails for the third time. You see, with all that acrylic on my fingernails I can't get close enough to gnaw on myself. Real fake fingernails became my tooth-destroying, $60 per month preventative measure. And tomorrow I'm taking them off.

My cuticles are no longer raw. I think I've kicked the habit. I hope I've kicked the habit. God, please let me have kicked the habit.

Plus, I can think of several other things I'd rather spend $60 each month on. Like maybe a new hair stylist.

| Permalink | Comments (20)

I’m not sure why I’m obsessed with celebrities. I’ve never had an upclose encounter – I mean, I’ve certainly never squeezed Gavin Rossdale’s bum – unless you count that quazi-brush with Imelda Marcos last year in Manila. If you would even call it that.

Still, I have an obsession and I think it’s high-time that I admit it. Roger and I are in Chicago right now, home of Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. When we were wandering around the Hancock Tower observation deck, in fact, I couldn’t stop thinking OH MY GOSH, I’M STANDING ON TOP OF JERRY SPRINGER’S CONDO RIGHT NOW. Which: Why? I don’t even like Jerry Springer. And then I would look out the South window, and there! There is Oprah’s penthouse! All the blinds were shut, but I was convinced that if I stared long enough, she would peek out and I would see her and…then what? Maybe she’d invite me over for coffee and dessert?

That’s why, when we walked past the Park Hyatt and saw the Maybach and Lamborghini parked directly in front of the hotel, we knew that Something Important was about to happen. We stood around, inspecting the lines of the Lambo and the drooling over the buttery leather interior, waiting to see what happened. And then they walked out. No one we recognized, unfortunately, but they were all dressed in white – head to toe in white hats and white shirts and white pants and white shoes – and I was wondering if they ALWAYS dressed like that, because how inconvenient would that be if it was after Labor Day? And did they coordinate, or was it coincidence that they all showed up wearing white?

And then he was there, among them, his corn rows weaved tight and his bling, well, blinging. He was wearing a black leather shirt and jeans, and I didn’t know that he was anyone important until I caught a glimpse of his watch, because no one I’ve ever seen has worn a watch like this one. The diamonds were so bright and so glittery that it alone could have funded quadruple my expected retirement. The wristband was probably two inches wide, and the face of the watch was as big around as my thigh, all diamonds. I grabbed Roger by the arm and excitedly said, “Watch – just watch – I bet he’ll get in the Lamborghini. Who do think he is? Snoop Dog?” It was the corn rows, I swear. I actually don’t even know what Snoop Dog looks like.

Turns out, it was R. Kelly and a group of all-white-wearing friends, who were having dinner at NoMI. Which leaves me to hypothesize: Do you think R. Kelly has some sort of rule that forces his friends to wear white when they spend time with him? I don't think that would work for me. I look much better in ivory.

Technorati: diamond, jewelry, bling

| Permalink | Comments (16)

If the condition of my sneakers could be trusted as any indication of how frequently I exercise, you might be tempted to think that I never do. And here is where I out myself: I’ve owned these shoes for four years.

::Hangs head in shame::

There was a time in my life when I had to buy a new pair of sneakers every six months. I loved to exercise, loved to rollerblade, loved to run the bleachers at my university’s football stadium. On top of that, Thursday through Sunday I spent my evenings dancing at local bars. And lo, I was a good dancer. I won contests and I was proud of it.

The problem, you see, is that I just described my life ten years and a hundred pints of Phish Food ago. Since that time, I’ve purchased a dozen memberships at a dozen gyms, and I have quit a dozen times, too. I’m not sure when or how it happened, but I stopped liking the gym. For me, getting exercise now is like eating vegetables: I’m perfectly happy to do it, just don’t let me know that it’s happening.

A couple weeks ago, some friends and I were at the park throwing around a Frisbee when it dawned on me: I was doing things like throwing. And running. And leaping. And sometimes, even catching. (Other times, diving and rolling.) And it kind of felt like exercise, except that I didn’t mind doing it because it was fun.

After sharing my revelation with Roger, that exercise can be fun, I decided that I would stop forcing myself onto the elliptical or the treadmill or the weight circuit at the gym. Instead, I promised myself I would do something I enjoyed. Which is why tonight I took a Latin dance class.

There was a time when I would have excelled in that class. There was a time when my arms wouldn’t have gone to the left when everyone else’s arms were to the right, or when my feet would have effortlessly salsa-ed. There was a time that I would have gotten it right on the first try when the instructor shouted into her microphone, “Cha cha cha” or “Flying Mambo!” Tonight was not that time.

Tomorrow night is my first hip-hop class, and I’m desperately hoping that I’ve retained at least some bit of rhythm. I’ve got my pride to maintain, after all.

| Permalink | Comments (21)

I never had allergies until I lived with a roommate who owned two cats. And then another girl moved in, with two more cats, which made the human to cat ratio in our home about four times higher than I could withstand. For the past seven years I've blamed my allergies on those cats, though I counted myself fortunate that my allergies were limited to only one short season. Recently, I learned that I was wrong.

For the past couple of weeks my eyes have itched – a tickly itch I couldn't ignore – right at the hairline of my eyelashes. Initially, I assumed I had developed a sudden mascara allergy, so I threw away my favorite mascara (How could I have been so stupid?) and I switched brands. (Seriously. The stupidity. Sometimes it overwhelms me.)

When the allergy didn't dissipate, I threw away my contact lenses, certain that a new pair would solve my problem. It didn't. That is why this weekend, in a moment of desperation and against my better judgment, I asked my mom for advice.

She told me I wouldn't like her answer, which meant that I already knew what she would say. (Remember the late-night incident of 2006?) It involved one of two ingredients: baking soda or apple cider vinegar. I groaned. Not skipping a beat, she told me to dilute a tiny bit of apple cider vinegar in water, and then use a Q-tip to rub it along each of my eyelids. I looked at her like she was crazy, knowing that the vinegar would sting like the claws of a thousand feral cats dancing across each of my delicate irises. (Like TNT, I Know Drama.)

Weighing my options, I decided that the vinegar blend might be a better route than I had previously taken, especially if my original course had me on the path to throw away the rest of my makeup. That's why two nights ago, when Roger watched me retrieve the vinegar, he began to lament: "Great. That's so sexy. Tell your mom THANKS A LOT for making me lie next to a human-sized dill pickle all night long."

From the bathroom, I rolled my eyes and opened the bottle. The stench hit me like a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall. I considered how much of the vinegar I should dilute, remembered how desperate I was, and decided: None. When I do something, it's never half-hearted. I am the Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor of home therapy. I take my vinegar straight up, full strength, none of this pansy-footing around with diluted liquid. I dipped the cotton swab directly into the bottle and swept the wetted cotton in a circle around my eye.

And then I died: It felt like red-hot coals were searing my cornea.

It's been only two days, and my eyes are back to normal. And now that I've purged my makeup bag of its mascara, it's time for me to visit the Mothership at last (and I'm taking suggestions).

| Permalink | Comments (17)

A couple weeks ago, Roger gave me a diamond nose pin to replace the one that I lost last year at BlogHer. I'm still not sure how that happened – it was on the bathroom counter when I fell asleep and was mysteriously displaced when I woke up – but that's another story for another day.

This past Friday night I decided to wear the diamond all weekend, and after work I spent an hour coaxing it into my nostril. I figured it would take a little extra effort because it has been a couple months since I last wore a nose ring, but I didn't realize that in that short period of time the flesh inside my nose would grow over the hole. I hadn't planned on re-piercing my own nose (read: ouch, hot tears streaming down my face, and what is it about pain that makes one's nose run?). I also wasn't prepared for the dull ache that would occur every time I flared my nostril (which I do surprisingly often, I've learned).

I'm not allowed to wear my nose ring to work, which has been a constant struggle for me because: Diamonds. How can you tell me I can't wear diamonds to work? And it is yet another reason, though a very small one, that I want to … well, you know. That, and the impending move. (Wait. Did I just slip that in there, all sly and unassuming?)

That's why I took the diamond out on Sunday night while preparing for the week ahead. Since I had to re-pierce my nose just two days before, I decided to wear my "placeholder" ring – it looks like a tiny brown mole on the side of my nose – to make sure the hole didn't grow closed again, and set to work inserting it. Here's the outcome of that, in numbers:

Two: the number of nights I spent tucked into the bathroom sink, trying to get my face as close to the mirror as possible

Two: the number of hours I spent each night before giving up, realizing I just can't do it, it's just not working, I might as well stop trying

Two: the number of hours I'll probably devote to it tonight, yet again, though I probably won't sob like I did that first night, wailing about it to Roger in a way that would make only Jane Austen proud (and Roger laugh – laugh! – at me), though admittedly (don't tell Roger), I was a bit obsurd (okay, very obsurd), what with the wailing and gnashing of teeth at 1 o'clock in the morning

Last night, when I tried to put in my placeholder ring, I got it about halfway in before I realized: Hey. This isn't coming out the other side of my nose, and it should have been there an eighth of an inch ago.

After a little more prodding and investigating, I realized that the screw (the type of nose piercing I wear – the back is curled so that it lays flat against the inside of the nose and holds the piercing in place) was actually curling through the cartilage of my nostril instead of poking through on the inside my nose and laying flat against the interior of my nostril. Does that make sense? To clarify:

So here's my conundrum: Should I suck it up and try to re-pierce it again, hoping the ring goes through this time instead of burying itself within my cartilage? Or do I wait a couple months, go to the Indian jeweler, and ask them to re-pierce it and insert the screw for me? (Assuming they'll do that. I don't actually know. Yet.)

| Permalink | Comments (22)

I've been a fan of good dental hygiene ever since my first date in seventh grade, when my boyfriend climbed in the backseat of the car and grinned widely at me. He had just eaten breakfast, and remnants of masticated cornflakes were lining his gums. I was repulsed that he hadn't brushed his teeth, and shot my mother a wide-eyed look of worry through the rearview mirror.

Having never used an electric toothbrush, I've never understood the allure of owning one. Sure, I've seen them in stores. I've even watched them in action. But I've never been able to tell whether the electric version was that different from the manual brush, aside from the larger body and constant buzzing. That was before this weekend, when I bought one.

As soon as I got home, I tore into the packaging and pressed ON. It worked! I questioned whether I should stick it in my mouth, considering my affinity for washing everything before I use it (dishes! clothes! food!), but threw caution to the wind and anxiously squeezed my Colgate Total onto the bristles.

I put the toothbrush in my mouth and pressed ON again, slightly jumping when it roared to life in my mouth. I've never had anything vibrate in there before.

Was I using it correctly? Was I supposed to rub it along my teeth and gums, or brush vigorously, like I normally do? I walked up to the mirror and watched myself. It felt like my entire head was shaking.

I took the brush out of my mouth to inspect its movements, unintentionally dousing myself in toothpaste. The pulsating head flung a mixture of paste and saliva all over my mirror and walls and I watched helplessly as it dripped on the floor before I could shove the brush in my mouth again.

And then it turned itself off. Was that really two minutes? I only brushed the back quarter of my mouth. I continued watching myself in the mirror, turning the brush on twice more. After brushing my teeth for a full six minutes, I still wasn't sure that I was done.

So then I manually brushed my teeth with the Sonicare, too. Just to cover all my bases.

Afterward, I sat on the couch running my tongue around my mouth. If God could be my dentist, this is totally what it would feel like. Like plastic. Or like someone had poured hot wax in my mouth (except, you know, without the pain) and it had dried. Everything was smooth. My cheeks, my gums, my teeth, my tongue. And I didn't even brush my tongue!

I don't know why I've waited this long to buy a Sonicare toothbrush, but something tells me I've been missing out. Something also tells me that a certain someone should have used one many years ago, even if it meant keeping it on the kitchen table next to his cereal bowl and milk.

| Permalink | Comments (20)

You know how they say men think about food and sex – and nothing else? I’d say that I’m the same. Almost.

Any given day, I’m either thinking about food or travel. I subscribe to a variety of food magazines and blogs, but my favorites are the travel sites and publications. They’re the first I check in my feed reader, even before I check my email. (And for those of you who know my addiction to email, that’s saying something.)

Food has always been a symbol of community for me: growing up, it was where my family spent time together each evening. Food was a foundation for me as I bonded with my mom and my grandmothers while they taught me how to cook. I love being in the kitchen -- after all, the way to my husband's heart is through his stomach, right? -- crafting recipes and trying new finds on eager (and hungry) friends.

I'm fascinated by the way people interact with each other and with food when they are in public. There's little better than visiting a gourmet restaurant and observing those around me while filling my belly with lime-infused pozole, or grilled mimosa shrimp, or fresh tomatoes drizzled with pesto and topped with grilled provolone.

Lately I've found myself making snap judgments when I watch a group of people walk into a four-star restaurant wearing t-shirts and dirty jeans. It's like a punch to the gut -- whether the maitre d's or my own, I haven't decided -- and I watch with a furrowed brow and careful eye as the party is seated.

I make snap judgments based on one's style of eating, whether someone loads up on their first go-round at the salad bar or if that person takes a modest amount and returns for seconds (and often thirds) later. I've watched as couples and families sit at a table and scarf their meal, leaving the establishment less than an hour after they were first seated. I've stolen glances at others who linger, enjoying their conversation and savoring each morsel.

When I’m not eating or thinking about food, I’m mentally planning trips around the world, taking note of foods I want to eat while I’m there or places that I simply must visit. I have tons of travel clippings related to my long list of domestic and international "some-day" destinations. I busy myself with imagining everything from the flights and train rides to those places to the ways of life of the locals.

Mental images of busy streets dance in my head, giving way to boutique shops and outdoor food markets with flies buzzing near the raw meat. I don’t even mind those flies, whether real or imagined. They represent new cultures and experiences and the very mores of a society.

My mind invents the beaches and the waves and sailboats and hammocks and lovers wandering hand-in-hand, clutching fruity, tropical drinks as they pick their way through rocks and kelp. With my mind's eye I watch the local children playing in the alleys, sticks and balls strewn about, stopping only to wave at passers-by or to cuddle the kitten that crawled out from beneath the pier and beam footprint of its home.

This weekend, between bouts of gawking and glancing at others, I watched myself. I watched myself gnaw on Cajun-rubbed ribs at a Renaissance Festival while managing to massacre my mouth, cheeks and chin with bits of meat and seasoning. I watched myself satiate my craving for veggies with marinated artichoke hearts, Swiss potato gratin and crisply steamed green beans and carrots from a salad bar. I watched myself celebrate my love for garlic picanha, savoring bite after bite, discussing the recipe for the steak's rub with the server.

And as I headed out the door, I watched myself gaze at a clock and realize that our party, while dressed the part, had eaten three courses, paid and left the restaurant in precisely one hour. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become like a typical American diner, not lingering over the meal with good company, savoring every bite and hanging onto every word.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become a scarfer.

I've been mulling over this atrocity for the past few days, and now I'm curious: what do you do? How long do you spend preparing a meal versus eating it? By and large, how long do you linger in a restaurant? Are you good for a quickly turned table, or is eating out an affair for you?

Personally, I'll be disappointed if my next meal isn't fueled by great food and great conversation. And only then, perhaps, will I return to my obsession with traveling.

(This will be soon, I hope, because I just read an amazing article about a restaurant in Spain, El Bulli, which has me salivating over my passport. Considering the establishment has been voted several times over as the Best Restaurant in the World, and since the meal is served over six hours and 35 courses, I think I'll have plenty of time for conversation, don't you?)

| Permalink | Comments (19)

If someone asked me today what my mission statement is as a wife, I would tell them it is to wholly love my husband, to support him, to encourage him. I want him to die (not yet) knowing that there was someone who adored him, who treasured him, who wanted nothing more than to see him succeed in his career, in his friendships, as a father, and as a spouse. Especially as a spouse.

I never knew when I was single that I would feel this way.

I never knew that one day when I married, I would leave the door open when I showered, or that it (mostly) wouldn't bother me if my husband walked in while I was peeing.

I’d always heard that you should marry your best friend, but my best friends had always been girls, and I certainly didn’t want to marry them. I never knew that a man could know me so well. So … perfectly.

I'm glad I've found one that can. And does. And will.

(Happy Anniversary, Roger.)

| Permalink | Comments (33)

The last time I checked my BlogLines feed reader, I had 166 entries waiting in my "Daily Reads" category. That number is a little overwhelming, obviously, so I shut the window, go back to work, and several minutes later check the site again just to see whether the number has changed. (It has, there are now 168, and part of me is beginning to think that I could make reading blogs into a full time job.)

Meanwhile, I'm staring blankly at my keyboard, willing the words to type themselves, contemplating the source of my writer's block, which I totally don't get, by the way. I mean: my dentist doesn't have dentist's block. My tailor doesn't have tailor's block. My cab driver doesn't have cab driver's block. (Fine, I don't have a regular cab driver, or even take regular cab rides, but if I did I'm certain he wouldn't have blocks. Unless they were road blocks, which the cab driver couldn't really control, now could he?)

I don't know about you, but when I'm feeling down, and like my life is a little too boring, I love to shop. I've tried, believe me, and have new clothes to show for it, but this time shopping hasn't helped my writer's block (or my boredom). Oddly, this makes sense to me, since my writing is in the virtual world and my new skirt is in the very real world. Ergo, I'm trying something new: a virtual makeover. (Thanks to Jenny at MamaDrama for the idea!)

I've been toying around with the idea of doing something new with my hair anyway, and this is where you come in: which style do you like on me the best?

(To view styles, click the link below).

Continue reading "Shopping Usually Helps" »

| Permalink | Comments (32)

There's been a lot of talk lately in our home about graduate school, and for fun during my lunch break today, I took a sample GMAT test online.

The quiz began with the quantitative section of the standardized test, and perhaps now is an appropriate time to explain just how much I loathe math. When I am assaulted with an algebraic equation, my heart stands in abeyance, my breathing ceases and I just stare in horror. Was there ever a time in my life when I knew what to do with x?

Are those equations supposed to make sense? 1/x = 3.5 means nothing - nothing - to me, and although I got the answer right you I should tell you that I had to do some Internet research before solving it. You see, my addiction to the Internet isn't limited to reading news and blogs and celebrity gossip. I use it for algebra, too.

It's because of this fact that I hope I'll have a few things available to me during the exam, like Internet access, a calculator (admittedly, I used it today to add 15+8 – if I hadn't done that, I would have just counted on my fingers, and since I never know who is lurking around my cubicle, I thought the calculator was the smarter option since at least I would give the appearance of intelligently calculating very, very difficult problems), Swiss chocolates, and loads of extra time.

Because I'm quite certain there is a more direct method of finding the correct answer than taking the multiple-choice responses supplied and plugging each into the equation to see which fits it the best.

Of course – I'm not terrible with math. I'm quite adept at calculating 40% off when I’m shopping, and I’m the one in our household who is responsible for balancing the checkbook. What's really a wonder, though, is that each time the checkbook balances correctly.

I was working along happily, or as happily as one can when one hasn't taken math in six years, when I happened upon this question:

Frank is 15 years younger then John. In 5 years John will be twice as old as Frank. How old will Frank be in four years?*

I stared at that question for about ten seconds, and ten seconds is a long time to stare at text – go ahead, time yourself. I'll wait – and all I could think was: "Frank is 15 years younger than John.
TTHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN."

Naturally, from there I began picking apart the sentence: Why isn't the number 5 spelled out, like the number four? Who wrote this? I don't think this question would actually appear on the GMAT. Can I report it anywhere? Is there a suggestion or complaint link? And how do I report it without seeming OCD?

Alas, I could not report it, and had I done so, there would be no avoiding my OCD tendencies.

I scored well on the English portion of the test, as I suspected that I would, but my math score was sub-par. I'm blaming my score on the grammatically unsound equations, and also a significant lack of chocolate in my system.

Who knew dieting could have such an effect on arithmetic?

*The answer, by the way, is fourteen.

| Permalink | Comments (26)

Earlier this week, I was interviewed by Whoorl. Yes, that Whoorl, the one who thinks my artistry is so spectacular that she made up an award to give to me. I'm glad that someone finally sees the value of my Microsoft Paint drawings, because my own husband is embarrassed of them. Seriously. He thought they didn't deserve to take up space in my Flickr account. Considering my shiny new award, though, I think I totally got the last word on THAT.

If you haven't been interviewed yet, or even if you have and you really are that much of a narcissist, read the instructions at the bottom and I'll interview you.

1. Wood floors or carpet? Why?
BAH! Do you dare even ask me this question? Wood floors, wood floors, a million times over, wood floors.

The thing about carpet is that you never know what's hiding in it. When I was a kid, we moved to Texas from Washington (state, not DC, I am always asked to clarify this). My parents bought a house in the country that had been empty for only four months. And do you know what happened during that time? An extensive family of scorpions moved in. On top of that, the carpet was cream/chocolate/burnt orange shag, which meant it was a camouflage haven for the infestation. And do you know how I kept myself entertained that summer? Sitting on the stairs, looking down on the living room, watching for movement so that I could quick! Call Dad! I found one! I FOUND A SCORPION!

Plus, wood floors are prettier. And don't go out of style. I mean, mauve carpet? No. Just, no. Stop it.

2. Do you like cookies/desserts with or without nuts?
It's complicated, you see. I tend to like cookies unadulterated, and I also like most desserts without nuts, unless the nuts are finely chopped, and even then I'd prefer them sprinkled on top of the dessert rather than included in the mix. Something about a walnut half on my pie, or a thick macadamia hovering in my cheesecake that just rubs me the wrong way.

However, when it comes to chocolates, I am exactly the opposite. I like crisped rice and gooey caramel and coconut and pecans and almonds, but please, not all at once. I typically don't like pure chocolate, unless we're talking Lindt Lindor Milk or Noir (milk chocolate or dark chocolate), and then holy mother of Moses, I won't stop sucking the goodness out of them until they're all gone, they're THAT delicious.

3. What is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning?
I can tell you a million things I do before I go to bed (please note the lip balm that must be in place and cell phone that must be plugged in), but when I wake up in the morning? That is more difficult. You'd think that after twenty-eight years of developing a routine of sorts, I'd know what I do in the morning. Truth be told, I don't think that I actually have a regular routine. Or, maybe I do and just don't want to admit it to you.

Fine, fine. I will.

Roger and I have gotten in this horrid habit lately of staying up 'til midnight or so, which means that we sleep in until the last possible moment, and even after we wake up we lay in bed calculating how much time we can shave off our morning preparations before finally throwing off the covers and racing to our respective showers so that we can still get to work on time looking semi-presentable. This generally involves Roger acting completely rational and me running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

4. What is the most adventurous thing you've ever done? UPDATED!
Huh. Wow. I feel a lot of pressure right now to describe something uber-adventurous. In fact, I'll admit to you that I even broke open the dictionary and read the definition of "adventurous" (def: inclined to undertake new and daring enterprises; full of risk; requiring courage; hazardous) so that I can be sure to pick the right experience for you. Anal, much?

I guess I could tell you about study abroad in China, but that wasn't too risky or hazardous. Then there was that time last year in the Philippines that the pilots flew with the cockpit door open the entire flight, and I was in the first row and got to see all the buttons and switches and lights, but that wasn't too adventurous since I didn't actually lean over to press all the buttons and flip all the switches and turn on and off all the lights. There were those backpacking trips in Colorado, which were each six days, but the only risk I took there was not bathing for as many days, and is that really a risk when everyone else is doing the exact same thing?

So, I'm feeling very un-adventurous right now. MUST. FIND. ADVENTURE. NOW. (Please feel free to submit your suggestions. Such adventure should be dangerous and risky and exciting, but not so dangerous and risky and exciting as to make me not want to do it.)

Update: Last night, Roger reminded me that I've been skydiving! It's true! I have! I jumped three times, each time with my chute hooked to the plane so that it opened on its own. The first time I jumped, my friend made a video. It involved lots of shouting and fear once I stepped out onto the bar on the plane because OH. CRAP. the wind coming from behind the propeller - it was like 200 mph!

I thought my shoe would blow off, and how in the world would I manage to land without a shoe? Somehow, the lack of a shoe was more concerning to me than the fact that I was about to jump out of a plane. On purpose. Anyway, I don't have that video anymore because in college I was totally lame and recorded over it. That was in the days prior to DVR or Tivo, and I just had to watch that PBS feature on Ethiopia. [Hello, my name is Jes, I'm a bit of a nerd.]

Suggestions for adventure are still encouraged.

5. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
You know, I wouldn't consider myself completely swollen with pride, but I don’t think I'd change that much about myself.

I've often wished that I was more athletic, had smaller thighs or a less round face (do you know how hard it is for me to find sunglasses that I like?).

But I think there's more than the exterior - I have to be able to wake up in the morning, albeit late, and live with my own sense of integrity. At this point in my life, I can do that – and that is what's important to me. I like who I am.

So – wanna play?

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” [Or you could say something about my charming wit, beautiful hair, etc.] <--Y'all. Am lame. I literally copied and pasted this section from Whoorl's site, and didn't even notice this sentence until someone left a comment about my great hair and I was all, "What? How do they know? It's totally true, though." Am leaving it up in case any one else wants to participate in the flattery. Shameful, I know.
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

| Permalink | Comments (22)

I'll admit it: I'm a tub girl. I always have been, I probably always will be.

In the normal course of getting ready for the day, I don't bathe in the tub. I reserve the tub only for those special occasions – those days when I'm exhausted and needing desperately to rinse away the stress of the world. For me, a bathtub can do that. It's like an alternate universe.

My baths are very predictable, very orderly:

• I draw the hot water.


• I add half a bottle of bubbles, unless the bottle is small, in which case I add the entire bottle. (I'm serious about my play time.)


• I grab a good book and set it on the edge of the tub or a nearby stand.


• I arrange between 8-15 candles around the bathroom. (I'm serious about my lighting, too.)


• I get a glass of wine, or sometimes ice-cold water, or during the winter, perhaps a mug of hot chocolate (with plenty of marshmallows, naturally).

As soon as I lower myself into the tub, I have only one goal: to make the perfect bubble bikini. I'm not sure at what age I first started doing this, though I'd venture a guess that I was a pre-teen who was obsessed with hiding my developing body, if even from myself. Now I do it just for fun, sometimes wishing for colored bubbles – because wouldn't it be awesome to have a pink and white polka-dotted bubble bikini? – strategically arranging the heaps of suds and then calling for Roger to come admire my handiwork. I'm sure it all looks the same to him – how is this bikini any different than that bikini last month? – but to me, it's a tour de force.

When finished as a bikini designer, I grab my book, try to prop my elbows up on the tub walls, and attempt to read it without allowing the pages to dip into the bubbles, or worse, the water. (Which, if you've tried doing the same, you know is nearly impossible. Especially when you fill the tub that full with water. It's already sloshing over the sides and puddling on the tile below – how is it that I think I can avoid drenching my book in the very same water in which my body is pruning?)

I've laid in the tub imagining how to remedy this situation, whether I should just drive to Home Depot and purchase a board to lay across the tub walls in front of me (however ghetto that might appear), or if I could rig a shampoo caddy to fit my needs.

And y'all know what? A bathtub caddy already exists, and appears to have been made just for me. It has a candle holder and two wine glass holders, as well as a prop for a book, and I think this device is about fourteen levels of perfection, except that now I'm going to have to make up new excuses for summoning Roger.

| Permalink | Comments (30)

Some people's lives just seem too perfect. I have an acquaintance who loves to cook (and is good at it!), loves to decorate (and is good at it!), loves to paint (and is good at it!) and gives classes on gift-wrapping (and is good at it!). On top of this, she is a Harvard MBA grad, extremely successful business owner and, in general, just a nice person.

She recently gave me two of her prized recipes for Sangria, and as I read over the list of ingredients, it occurred to me: (a) I don't have this liquor in my cabinet and (b) if she hadn't given me exact brand and flavor names, I'd have no idea what to buy.

This is the thing: while I do enjoy a good Midori Sour, I know relatively little about mixed drinks. Embarrassingly little. I go to a bar and start fumbling around like a high schooler with her older sister's ID, trying to act like she knows what she's talking about, when really? No clue.

This weekend, while perusing the latest Williams Sonoma catalog, I had an epiphany: I should create my own cookbook of mixed beverages. I don't know why it's taken me this long to arrive at that conclusion, considering I spend an exorbitant amount of time in the cookbook aisle of Half Price books, and that time always includes at least half an hour staring at the pages of 1,001 Martinis and Mixed Drinks Your Friends Will Beg You To Make* and then feeling overwhelmed, replacing the book on the shelf, and moving on to the pastas.

I get maybe a bit too excited when I find easy recipes, like the Pineapple Greyhound (featured in the Williams Sonoma catalog I was reading – yes, reading – this weekend), or Shawnee's Bourbon Slush (via LittleBirdie.net) or the JN Intoxication Engineering Project (courtesy of hoards of Jurgen Nation readers who obviously know more about alcohol than I do, because most didn't even bother to include the measurements for each ingredient).

Since I know that my readers are totally hot, ultra-savvy and wickedly intelligent, I figured you may know a thing or two about alcoholic beverages**. And since I love running contests, the best two recipe submissions for an alcoholic beverage will win a prize***. The most awesome part? I already know what those prizes will be.

* Not actually a book, though it probably should be.
** The recipes submitted will (a) be added to my personal collection and (b) be submitted to JN's Intoxication Engineering Project.
*** I like to share the love, so I'm instituting the policy that one individual cannot win both prizes.

| Permalink | Comments (24)

When I was in seventh grade, my mom brought home a jar of capers from the market. I had never heard of capers, which look like pickled peas – and ironically, they are pickled, but they're not peas. Capers are tiny flower buds from a caper shrub (either pickled in vinegar or brined in salt), and when you think of it that way, don't the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? My mom always taught me not to eat berries off of bushes, LEST I DIE – and as I rotated the jar in my hands I realized why she had purchased them.

Attached to the jar was a small fluorescent sticker that advertised the product for only seventy-five cents.

I can see myself now: hand on hip, hip cocked out to the side, impossibly frizzy hair. I laughed, teased my mom, and then asked her what she would cook using the capers. She didn't know, she said, which only instigated more teasing.

For that, I would like to apologize, Mom. I finally understand the joy you take in grocery shopping, and even more so, I identify with the exhilaration you feel when you find items not only on sale, BUT ON CLEARANCE.

I understand this because the genes I inherited from you have matured, and I am the same. I am you, and it is not my worst nightmare, like my twelve-year-old mind used to believe it would be. It is a privilege that I'm like you. And one day, I am sure my own children will release high-pitched giggles and tease me incessantly when I purchase a container of corn smut, or whatever new food I find at the store and decide to bring home.

Since then, my mom has always kept a jar of capers in her pantry. Maybe it is a reminder to herself to always be on the lookout for new, exotic foods to try. Perhaps it serves as a reminder of my brother and I. Or maybe she's still trying to convince me that she actually cooks with capers. (Maybe I'll just stop speculating and call her to ask.)

Jes: "Mom, do you remember the time you bought those capers?"
Mom: "What? No. What are you talking about?"
Jes: (exasperated) "Mom. You can't not remember."
Mom: "…"
Jes: "Mom!! I've teased you about that for the past fifteen years! How can you not remember?"
Mom: (playfully) "Maybe the teasing was so painful I blocked it from my memory."
Jes: "Whatever."
[Refresh her memory. Laugh.]
"Mom, why do you keep buying capers?"
Mom: "I keep thinking I'll figure out something to do with them."
Jes: (clickety-clack, clickety-clack)
Mom: "Are you typing? Jessica Lynne…"

I've eaten capers in several dishes, all prepared by an executive chef and not by my mother, and lo: they were good. So, for my mom, who taught me to love all types of food from every different culture, I give you this recipe: Buca di Beppo's Chicken Saltimbocca, quite possibly the best dish on the restaurant's menu. (And finally, a recipe that involves capers!)

About: THIS DISH
The word "saltimbocca" means "jump into the mouth." This recipe is aptly named, because this delicious dish (pounded with Prosciutto and massaged with sage) seems to fly from your plate to your mouth.

About: CAPERS
The flavor of capers is piquant and lemony. Capers add pungency to Mediterranean dishes like pasta sauces, pizza, fish, meats and salads. They go well with olives, arugula, anchovies and artichokes.

CHICKEN SALTIMBOCCA

INGREDIENTS
4 (5 ounce) chicken breasts
4 thin slices Prosciutto ham
1 tablespoon fresh sage
3 ounces (1/4 c. + 2 Tbsp.) olive oil
1 ounce (2 Tbsp.) all-purpose flour
5 ounces (2/3 c.) artichoke hearts, quartered
1/2 ounce (1 Tbsp.) capers
4 ounces (1/2 c.) white wine
2 ounces (1/4 c.) fresh lemon juice
2 ounces (1/4 c.) heavy cream
1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon salt

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Lightly salt chicken breasts.
2. Sprinkle chicken breasts evenly with chopped sage.
3. Place sliced Prosciutto on top the chicken and pound it into the breast until the thickness of the chicken measures approximately 3/8-inch.
4. Heat olive oil in a saute pan.
5. Lightly flour chicken pressed with prosciutto.
6. Place chicken in heated oil, Prosciutto side down.
7. Brown one side, turn and brown the other side.
8. Drain off excess oil, and deglaze with 4 ounces of white wine.
9. Add artichokes, fresh lemon juice, cream and butter and cook until sauce is thickened.

On a large platter, place chicken breasts topped with sauce and garnish with capers.

Serves: 4

Source: Chef Vittorio Renda, Buca di Beppo

| Permalink | Comments (24)

More than two years ago, I showed up on the doorstep of a stylist for our first date together. Our first and our last date together. So really, it was just one appointment and then I migrated on with my fickle ways.

She was a hippie working in an upscale salon, and she loved talking about her life as a vegan. Before meeting her, I had never realized that not only do vegans not EAT meat, they don't use products that have been near meat.

Or, something like that. I really don't remember much from our meeting at all, other than the fact that it had been nearly three years since I had cut my hair. Y'all: Three years.

My locks were pretty stringy, and unkempt, and dryyyyy. Gah – did I mention the dryness?

You people who know me? Who have spent time with me? How can you say you are my friend and allow me look the way I did, all string-y and brittle-ish? Was it so you would look that much better when standing next to me?

The hippie – let's call her Ember Rose – took one look at my hair and was all, "Guurrrrllll…[long pause]…Your hair is shameful." She spoke the truth, and I knew it. She asked me if I had been using Pantene*. And I was so surprised, because Yes! Isn't Pantene, like, what the popular kids use? Me, too! Me, too!!

After I gushed a little that during college I had finally made the switch from Suave to Pantene, Ember Rose explained to me that Pantene shampoo uses certain chemicals that strips each strand of hair and damages it, and then the gobs of wax in Pantene conditioner gloss back over the strands, giving them a nice coat of wax. That's why Pantene wants you to use them in conjunction with each other – its' a conspiracy! (?) She was so convincing that I totally bought into it. I had been using Pantene for many years, and my mane was stripped, stripped, stripped.

After she chopped off seven inches of the offending locks, she started with hair therapy and talked me through each step of what she did. Have I ever told you that I have a horrible memory? You see, I don't want to repeat myself, but I don't remember whether this subject has ever been addressed before.

If not, I should tell you now: I have a horrible memory. And: Gah. I cannot imagine how it will be when I am pregnant, because don't pregnant women have horrible memories, too? So when Roger comes home from work and I stare at him blankly, my hand gently resting on my protruding belly, it's not out of the question that I'll be thinking: "Who is this guy, again? And why does he have a key to my home?"

So. Anyway. My stylist was using several intensive treatments on my hair, trying to recondition it, though I couldn't tell you what those treatments were. That is when she introduced me to the Pureology hair care line.

And I have been in love ever since.

The End.

Pureology shampoo and conditioner is somewhat expensive, yes. It is my one splurge. (Okay, fine. And also my foundation, and powder, and blush and mascara and lip gloss. But that's it. Promise.)

(And besides, a girl's gotta do what she can to look good, right? I mean, particularly if she doesn't exercise. Personally, I wear lots of glitter on my face to distract from my thighs.)

(Because if you're gawking at all my sparkle and shine, chances are you won't notice the two redwoods that support my torso.)

I've said it before and I'll say it again: it is proven that people with tendrils curly hair (me!) should only wash their hair once every few days. Something about curly hair needing to stay moisturized and hydrated, blah blah blah. With Pantene, I had to wash my locks EVERY DAY because otherwise they would closely resemble fast food fries – you know: the kind that, when wrung, droplets of grease splatter about?

And do you know why Pantene does that? Oh, believe me. I'll tell you why.

Pureology is 100% vegan. It contains no chemicals. It doesn't strip my hair and then add wax like Pantene does. The natural oils produced by my body are being re-absorbed into my hair and scalp, which means I only have to wash my hair only every three or four days. With Pantene, those oils were sitting on top of my wax-covered coiffure like a layer of oil on a tarmac.

If I don't remember any one thing for the rest of my life (or at least during pregnancy, but I think I'm okay, since I currently have a two-year supply of Pureology at home), I hope I'll always recall what Ember Rose taught me: Pantene sucks.

* Ha, sidenote: I just typed "cheap shampoo" into Google Search, and guess what the first Sponsored Link was? Pantene.

| Permalink | Comments (24)

I'm a guest author today over at No Pasa Nada. Go! Enjoy!

An excerpt:

I worked as an assistant to an elderly man two days a week. My job was to (a) iron his shirts and pants, (b) cook him dinner and (c) vacuum his house. For this he paid me $15 per day. He loved me, naturally, because I’m a good ironer. I love starch. And so did he. It was a match made in heaven, except he was a good 60 years older than me. That didn’t stop Anna Nicole Smith, but I have to draw the line somewhere.

| Permalink | Comments (2)

Filed Under: Irrational fears

For the past two years, nearly every time I sit down on the toilet, I have a sudden and irrational fear of snakes. Snakes, guilefully lurking in the plumbing, waiting until my posterior is exposed, and then lurching upward, striking quickly, and biting me.

And then I'll be dead, with my pants down, and I'll probably have hunched over and fallen to the ground and my husband, Roger, will have to find me like that.

And that's not how I want him to remember me.

Look at these pictures! Also, these articles! How could I not be afraid? THERE HAVE BEEN FATALITIES!

| Permalink | Comments (25)

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.

Continue reading "Weird Things: A Photoblog" »

| Permalink | Comments (14)

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?

| Permalink | Comments (18)

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

| Permalink | Comments (16)

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?

Continue reading "Without a Trace" »

| Permalink | Comments (7)

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 * * *)

Continue reading "For the Foodie in Each of Us (and even those that just need a little extra help in the kitchen)" »

| Permalink | Comments (22)

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

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

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

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

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

Continue reading "Seattle" »

| Permalink | Comments (25)

When I was single, I promised myself that when I was married there would be certain things my husband would never know:

1. He wouldn't know that I bleach the little hairs on my upper lip.
   
2. He wouldn't know sometimes smelly gases escape my body.
   
3. He wouldn't know that, when I'm sick, I stuff tissues up my nose and let them hang there because I'm tired of blowing my runny nose.
   
4. He certainly wouldn't know that, in moments of desperation, I revert to my mom's secret ingredient: apple cider vinegar.

My mom is convinced that either baking soda or apple cider vinegar will fix or clean almost anything. When I was a teenager, she would mix a concoction of water and the vinegar, dab it onto a cotton ball, and sometimes chase me around the house trying to help me "dry up those pimples."

Continue reading "My Mom's Home Remedies, or Why I Ended Up With Cotton Taped To My Face Last Night" »

| Permalink | Comments (25)

Seriously: at what point is my skin going to just melt off my body? At what point will my organs begin to cook? I think I’m currently medium rare.

You know you’ve arrived in life when you spend your Friday night in this way:

Giddily assembling the new Swiffer WetJet that you just bought at the grocery store, where you also labored over what type of peanut butter to purchase. Choosy moms choose Jif. I’m not a mom yet, but I have baby fever, and it’s certain that I’ll make a great mama (or at least a choosy one) because Jif is my favorite brand.

I not only chose Jif. I’m anal enough to choose the kind with 33% less sugar. And with low sodium. And with less calories.



So while you were twisting about on a dance floor, or shrieking about snakes on a plane, or prancing around in a tiara, I was sitting on my kitchen floor attempting to assemble something without first reading the instructions, which goes against every bone in my body since my college degree is entirely based upon being the person that wrote those instructions. (I will admit that after the assembly, I read the entire instruction booklet. The guilt was unbearable within me.)



And in-between assembling the three parts to the Swiffer (really? It wasn’t that difficult. I didn’t have that many options to screw it up.), I ate giant handfuls of caramel popcorn.



I eyed the packaging suspiciously when I read, “Cleans tough, greasy dirt & dried-on stains!” Has anyone tried the WetJet formula on their clothes? Say, a chef perhaps? Or a car mechanic? Someone with lots of stains and greasy dirt on their clothes? Because I may just forgo Tide in favor of WetJet next time I do laundry.



Also, is anyone else the least bit bothered that the WetJet cleaning cloths look oddly like giant maxi pads? They totally stole the stay-dry technology from Always. I’d recognize it anywhere.



While I was busy Swiffering and gorging myself on deliciously sweetened popcorn, Roger was sorting through the mail we’ve received over the past four months. And then he began cleaning out the storage boxes full of mail. And guess what he found? MAIL. FROM. APRIL. 1996. That was ten years ago. In April 1996, I was still in high school, cruising the main strip until my ten o’clock curfew.

Gah. I was so cool. Obviously, not much has changed. I can stay out later now, but why would I when instead, I can assemble mopping devices on my kitchen floor at home?

| Permalink | Comments (23)

When I was younger, I begrudgingly went shopping with my mom at yard sales. I likened it to hell because of the hot, burning sun boring down on the roof of the car, in which I undeniably slumped my body and crossed my arms in protest. I would stare out the window, watching my mother, hoping she would see how miserable and pathetic I was. I secretly hoped she would come to my rescue and say, "You don't want to do this, honey? Let's go to the movies instead!"

Rather, she would come to the window, knock on it, and crouch down to tell me in a sweet, motherly tone that I should at least roll the window down so I would have fresh air. She would invite me to come look around if only to get out of the hot car – had I known that was a ploy of hers to get me shopping, I certainly wouldn't have done it – and I would undoubtedly find a couple books or a skirt or some decorative item for my room.

When I was little, I hated those days. Now that I'm older, I cherish my memories of them. I still (albeit rarely) go yard sale hopping with my mom and I love watching her milling around, looking at someone else's belongings, whittling the price of a Pottery Barn mirror (great condition, original tag still affixed on the back of it: $69) down from the marked price of $10 to a mere $4.

From my mother, I learned the skill of bargaining. She is the reason that I prefer to shop the sale racks at the mall: if I only have $100 to spend, wouldn't I rather have 3 shirts, a new skirt and a couple pairs of slacks from the racks in preference to the one pair of jeans I could buy otherwise?

Continue reading "Now on my business card: Chirky, B.E." »

| Permalink | Comments (17)

I am haunted by purchasing feminine care products to such a degree that merely saying the word gives me the creeps: Tampons.

I'm the woman who can't just buy a box at the grocery store - I have to buy other unrelated items, like a pound of asparagus and six apples and 93% lean ground beef and a loaf of freshly-baked sourdough bread and maybe some finely shredded cheddar cheese and a few bottles of contact solution just to make it seem as though I haphazardly found myself on the feminine care aisle and casually threw a box of them into my cart, without so much as checking the price or the brand or the size(s). Gross.

I feel like vomiting now, just admitting that.

Continue reading "Dispensers: dispensable" »

| Permalink | Comments (36)

I just read a movie review and started sweating and swearing. My stomach leapt toward my heart and my hands were shaking. It is rare that I become so emotionally involved in reading something that I actually get mad - but in this case, it took only one sentence: "[Hounddog]...written and directed by Deborah Kampmeier...calls for [Dakota] Fanning's character to be raped in one explicit scene and to appear naked or clad only in "underpants" in several other horrifying moments."

I read elsewhere that both Dakota Fanning's mother and her agent are urging her to do this movie because they both believe it is "Oscar worthy." I also read that Dakota was somewhat traumatized by the role. Why do the reviews of this film not mention the outcome: does the movie at all address the psychological affect upon the victim of such a crime? And at what point do we make a stand for morals rather than escalate our own fame and wealth?

The premise of Hounddog resonates deeply with me. I don't discuss much of my past on this site, but now seems to be a fitting time for me to speak out against our culture's apathy toward sexual, emotional and physical violence.

Eight and a half years ago, I was raped. It was a time of fear, of embarrassment, of not knowing exactly what to do with myself. I felt shame. I felt responsibility. My best friend - someone that I trusted at the time and who made a grave mistake in the advice she gave me, advice which still makes me hot with anger - told me that "it happens to a lot of girls, it's not a big deal or something to get upset about."

Continue reading "Provoking Mixed Emotions About Rape Since 1997" »

| Permalink | Comments (39)

Attending the BlogHer workshops confirmed to me that what I’m doing at work, while I enjoy it, is not my passion. My passion is writing and connecting with others – building a community where people can meet and share their lives. I’ve always known that my talents center around hospitality. I think blog communities are a great way for me to exercise that talent.

I have several ideas storming for new community websites, but am overwhelmed by my own ambition.

Several of you have asked me who I met at BlogHer. My answer? Everyone. Almost. There is no way I could ever give a recap of my thoughts on the people I did meet (but Miss Zoot did an excellent job of doing just that) - there were too many to name.

I met women whom I admire. I met women who made me laugh. I met women who are brilliant. I met women that I wished I had taken longer to talk with.

I learned a lot from the different sessions that were held on Day One and Day Two. But more than anything, I learned so much about myself. And perhaps that is the best thing that I could have taken from the conference.

| Permalink | Comments (6)

The last few days have been weepy and awkward. I’ve felt the highs of joy, excitement and contentedness, and I have felt the lows of restlessness, sadness, numbness. And I have no tangible reason for my emotions.

And, no, I'm not pregnant.

My family members are healthy. I have a nice (albeit sometimes boring) job. My husband is the most amazing guy I know – I’ve never felt so secure or so loved by another person.

Today, I am 28 years old. I do not know what the day has in store. I do know that, so far, my life has not been the culmination of prettiness and perfection that I once imagined as a fur-coat-wearing child. And yes, that was real fur, rabbit fur, because my grandmother knew what every four-year-old girl truly wants: pearls and rabbit fur and to prance around in her mama's stilettos and lipstick.

I’ve never been the girl who began planning her wedding before she completed Kindergarten. I was too busy trying to flash the “I love you” symbol with my fingers to all the boys, except I always held up the wrong three fingers: I chose to use the fingers that say, “I’ll have three cookies, please” or “I only want three of those magic mushrooms, thankyouverymuch.” That should have been my first clue that I would be a late bloomer.

Although I didn’t know whether I wanted tulips or orchids (and it’s a good thing a married such an opinionated designer, lest I still be standing with my florist, trying to “envision” the look of the event), I did know that I wanted to be a mom.

I’ve always loved to write, but never knew whether it could be a career. Beyond anything else, my heart’s desire was to be for my child what my mom was for me: the mom who played with me until I was old enough to go to school, who greeted me at the door when I came home from school, who drove me to all of my extra-curricular activities, who went on bike rides with me to pick blueberries.

I imagined that I would marry by the time I turned 26, which I did, but just barely. I imagined that I would have my first child by the time I was 28, which I … haven’t. Things just don't always turn out how we think they will. Roger and I are still probably several years from having children.

So here I am, contemplative and melancholy and perhaps a bit misty-eyed, maybe with a stomach too full of Mexican food and maybe I keep burping tortilla chips that are acidic and sting a little, and I’m wondering how the rest of my life will unfold. Will we get 100% out of debt? Will we have children? Will we buy a house and live the Great American Dream: The Mortgage? Will we have an opportunity to move overseas? Will Roger and I travel the world, visiting quaint villages and the purest beaches? Will our kids be at least manageable? Will we regret having children? Does anyone (who wants children) regret it later?

When I was young, I didn’t factor in the trivial things in life, like debt. And financial security. And my own selfishness. And now I’m a little confused about my pretty and perfect plan, because most days I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is (other than living in Dallas - I could take it or leave it).

It's a melancholy day. A day full of uncertainty. But a good day, at that.

| Permalink | Comments (24)

A while back, OD posted a meme on his site and I promised him that I would answer the questions another day. Lucky for you, today's that day. I made a mental note to post this when I had nothing else to post.

Actually, I have many other things I would rather post. Unfortunately, I left my pictures at home so I can't use them. Perhaps that will come later today, when I get tired of not having my pictures and just start drawing images. Oh, lucky you!

MEME. Because you just can't get enough about me.

Post your answers in the comment section, and then post the meme on your site for others to complete. Unless, of course, if you're just about as tired of these as I am. But see, this works well for me, because YOU have to answer them, not me. Ha! Let's see how well you know me! (Italics are my additions.)

Who are you?
Are we friends?
When and how did we meet?
What brings you here?
Why do you keep coming back to my site?
Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.
Describe me in one word. Or, one paragraph.
What was your first impression of me?
Do you still think that way about me now?
What reminds you of me?
If you could give me anything what would it be?
How well do you know me?
When was the last time you saw me?
Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn�t? Here�s your chance! But if it involves blackmail or matters of national security, just email me instead.
Are you going to put this on your blog and see what I say about you?

And, just to give you a taste of things to come, a ghostly-white self-portrait of me today. I especially like my eyelashes.

| Permalink | Comments (1)

There is a certain bra you wear when enticing your significant other into having sex. I know this because my husband told me so. We were wandering the mall when we happened upon a Victoria's Secret, and decided to duck in because they were having a sale. And if you want to know anything about me, it is that I love a good sale.

As we were searching through the merchandise, I started holding bras up for Roger to see, asking for his opinion. I held up one bra, and Roger softly announced to me that it was a bra that you only wore when you were about to have sex. He was subtly embarrassed, until he overheard a few of the other women in the store commenting that they wished their husbands would come shopping with them. He beamed at that.

Roger's eye began to wander, and caught sight of the price tags. "The normal price is FORTY DOLLARS for one of
these things?" His voice was incredulous, and he continued, "There just seems to be something wrong about that. Guys can buy a pack of three undershirts for ten dollars." Which, I know, okay? I know. That is wrong on so many levels. It sort of makes me want to be a man. Or, maybe just dress like a man.

| Permalink

Katie asked...
Ok here is a stinker: Do you like me or Beyonka better?
Oh, KT. Way to put a girl on the spot! I like both of you in different ways, for different reasons. I think that you and I both can say that Bianca and I are a lot closer than you and I are right now, and that Bianca is like a sister to me! But I am hesitant to say whether I "enjoy the company" of one of you over the other – I like you both! Very much! Geez. I hope my children never ask me this question.

Ha Ha you have to answer truthfully.
I did! I'm just giving you a hard time.

I will ponder what tidbits of information I want to pump from you and post my qs later.
Your time was limited. You must now forever hold your peace.

Watts family asked...
You said "children". How many do you plan to have?
Roger and I would love to have twins. MAYBE triplets. So, I guess we'd like to have 2-3 kids. And one or two dogs. See how indecisive flexible we are?

eddo asked...
Oh. My. Word. THE OD just posted so many questions that I fear I cannot even start to ask you more in fear that you will be questioned out.
Oh. My. Word. Did you really check my site at 6:50am?

Did you have that fear when you wrote this post?
Yes. I feared that no one would post any questions.

What if just 1/3rd of the internet asked you 1 question? How many questions would that be?
Billions, give or take a few hundred millions.

Do you like to gamble? How bout gambling with your life?
I like to put coins in the slot machines and pull the handle. However, I do like to live. I believe that alone disqualifies me from liking to gamble with my life.

What is your favorite blog site based on overall hilarity (OTHER THAN MINE!!)?
Dooce. She's so dramatic. Though I frequently disagree with her opinions on certain issues, I still think she's witty and tells a great story.

Have a great weekend Jes, I am off to Shreveport!
This I cannot answer. It's not a question.

Ben asked...
Wow. OD OD'd on the questions. But here are a couple from your second favorite male blogger (I don't have to ask that question OD... I already know my place in the food chain).
(Jessica laughs)

What's more attractive, looks or bringing the funny?
These are two different types of attraction. One is to the flesh, the other is to the heart. Both are important. Though I am always the first to say that physical attraction is the first thing that catches my eye about someone (I mean, hello!?! Let's not kid ourselves: I want to be physically attracted to my spouse. Period.), I think that conversational attraction (includes humor) is also SO important. So, even though physical attraction is my initial answer, conversational is my answer for the long-run. The person you marry WILL NOT always look as good as he or she does now, fact of life. But hopefully, you'll both grow together and only get better in the conversational/humor department.

Follow up question: If you said, "bringing the funny" What would you do if you married an extremely hilarious ugly guy, but as soon as you married him... he refused to be funny anymore?
This isn't possible. Someone can't just stop being funny. If it is possible, I would be forced to find SOMETHING about him funny. I wouldn't be able to NOT laugh. This is required.

If your job was to clean the marshmallow making machine every night for the rest of your life(a marshmallow machine cleaning specialist if you will)... Would you still love marshmallows?
No, because I would be an overgrown tub of fat rolls, waddling my way into the delivery bay of JetPuffs, never up for a promotion because I wouldn't be able to fit through any regular doorways.

If you had a choice between living your life with Roger or living with Roger and 20 Roger clones for say a thousand years; would you be tempted or is too much Roger a bad thing?
Too much Roger is NEVER a bad thing. This world could use more of men like him. When we started dating, and even more so since we've been married, I keep finding myself thinking, "Why in the WORLD was he not already taken?!?" And then I say, "Oh, yeah. Because God reserved him for me!!! Thank you, Lord!" (Yes, I really say that.)

Follow up question: When Roger asks you to do something do you ever reply: "Roger Doger"?
No, I don't say Roger Doger. Sometimes, I do call to him by sing-songing, "Roger the Dodger…" but I don't reply to him as you suggested. I reply to him in other endearing terms, such as "Sweetie Pie."

Michelle asked...
Holy cow!Did you ever think you would get that many one word answer questions or were you thinking they would be of a more intuitive type?
Michelle, I am compelled to inform you: my answers are rarely one-worded. That's because I like to talk about myself. Why else would I have a blog?

Were you secretly hoping that people like me that don't usually comment would do so now?
Oh, yes. I see all the random people that I don't know who visit my site (like in Arkansas, and Virginia, and California), and I always wish they'll come out from hiding and say hello to me. Hello, Random People! :)

Would you be offended if I stopped reading your blog altogether if I didn't like the answers to these questions?
Nope, that's your prerogative. However, could you REALLY do that? Don’t you find me positively addicting? I do, but I'm biased.

Can you promise to always keep us laughing like you do now, even when we're older and have multiple children?
That's a pretty big commitment for me. However, assuming that I'll have children then, and subsequently more material to post, perhaps it will be possible to keep you laughing.

Amanda Sue asked...
sheesh. someone is a question hog.
Who is the question hog? Me, for wanting all the questions? Or OD, for asking so many?

i'll just get some good ones saved up to ask you TUESDAY NIGHT AT DINNER!!! HOORAY!
Hey. I'm not sure you asked me lots of questions. did you? It's okay though, because I loved seeing you! Even if you WERE afraid of the vermicelli noodles! ;)

bianca asked...
ben- you rock my face off!!! You are so funny!
You rock my face off?!? Is this a Denton phrase? Because I've heard someone else say this to me, and I didn't quite understand how I "rocked" someone's "face off". Please explain, as this phrase has not yet made its way to Dallas. Understandably.

Od- yikes- jes is my best friend and i don't know half the answers to those questions...and i wouldn't want to!!!!"A" for effort though!
Bianca! You don't know the answers to these questions?!? Hmph!

SquareSlant asked...
1. What is the stupidest thing that you and Roger have fought about?
Oh, there have been so many stupid fights. Like when he asked me what my thoughts were on dinner, and I got angry at him. Or, when he went running and I didn't know where he went, so I got upset then, too. Part of me is curious whether I was actually upset, or just needed to be on medication.

2. Do you plan on working after the bambinos are born?
Roger and I would love for me to have the privilege of staying home with them! Both of our moms were able to stay home with us, and we both feel that it is SO IMPORTANT to the development of the child. Some people, whose parents didn't stay home, don't quite understand our perspective, but we believe in it strongly.

3. When you get mad do you use curse words?
Sometimes. It's actually something that I've been trying not stop doing.

girl from florida asked...
OD totally stole the show. Here's my 2 questions: What do you do when your rear crack itches in public?
Ha! GFF, are you saying that you have a problem with this and are soliciting advice from others? ;) If so, I try to squeeze my cheeks together really tightly until the itch goes away. Of course, I also squeeze them when I'm trying to make my butt look smaller, but unfortunately it really doesn't make that much of a visual difference. It just gives me cramped muscles.

How many times do you think you look in a mirror each day?
I spend the first hour-ish of my day looking in the mirror. Sometimes I pose and smile at myself and talk to myself in the mirror, just so I know what I look like when I'm doing those things. But once I leave for work, I generally only see my reflection when I'm in the ladies room. Other than that, I'm pretty clueless about my appearance.

Katie asked...
ROGER DODGER - Oh my word how have I not thought of that before. Ok Jess that will be my response to roger from now on.
KT, you said you would post with questions later. However, this was not a question. I just wanted to point that out to you. Also, since when did Jes become "Jess"??? It's like the "E" KT. Get. It. Right.

od asked...
"For the next few days, I will unbegrudgingly accept your questions, however many thousands."I just got this thing kick started, there's plenty of room left to max out her thousands limit. :)
Thank you, OD, for thoroughly reading my post instead of just glancing through it like some people I know, Ben*.
* Real names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Watts family asked...
You haven't started answering these questions yet?
I didn't start answering the questions because I was out of town. The questions were to be answered within 24 hours of the closing of the polls, not the posting of the question.

Are you overwhelmed by the response?
Not at all! I love it!!

Melinda asked...
Okay Jes...here I go:1. What is your favorite color? (prolly already asked...but I lost focus after reading 3 of Od's questions (no offense Od, I'm just having focusing issues)
I love hot pink and deep red.

2. If you were change any event in your life...would you do it? And what would it be?
No, I wouldn't change anything. My history has formed me into the woman I am today. Sometimes I wish that I could change things, but then I remember that God has given me my story for a purpose. I know that he'll use it to glorify himself. If I didn't have the story I do, I wouldn't be able to relate to some of the people that I relate so well with. And then, I would be missing out on so much in my life! :)

3. If you could make up any job for you to do and get paid for what would it be and how much would you pay yourself.
I'd travel. I'd get paid to go to anywhere I wanted to, for however long, and to bring my entire family. I would either write an article or film a brief infomercial highlighting each location. I would home school my kids, and would be paid enough to support our family's lifestyle. Therefore, I would pay myself millions of dollars, so that we could do fun things while traveling, and fly friends and family to join us, and eat at incredible restaurants, and still have money left over to save for our children's college educations, or to donate wherever we wanted, or whatever. Please let me know if this position is open somewhere.

Okay...those are my three questions...thanks for being around! :)
You're welcome. I like being around. :)

od asked...
cont'd...--Which is harder to cultivate within yourself, humility or will?
Will.

--what are your core values?
1. Love God
2. Love others.
3. Have fun doing both!

--if you had a "to-stop-doing" list, what would be on it?
Biting my cuticles. Snoring like a squirrel.

--rename you blog and use only one word (not your name); what is it?
Fete

--if your cd player only had one song that repeated over and over, what song would you hope it would be?
"The Kiss" off of The Last of the Mohicans soundtrack.

--if you had never met Roger and married someone else, but then met Roger, could the two of you be just friends?
Of course. I would exercise self-control and self-protection, in whatever means necessary, to protect my relationship with my spouse. But I'm glad I married Roger. He's the most wonderful man ever!

--would you rather be blind or deaf?
Deaf.

And can I ask one more touchy/intrusive question of your readers/friends?
Yes, please do:

--have you sponsored Jes in the March of Dimes walk-a-thon yet?