Chirky

(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:

I think I have a problem with new things. If I buy new clothes, I cannot wear them for at least one week. (Unless, of course, it was an emergency purchase and is required to be worn that day.) I don't know when I started doing this, but let me tell you: it was a real problem in junior high and high school, specifically at the beginning of a school year and at Christmas.

I never wanted to be that person who wore all their new clothes at once, and then had nothing new after a week. And so I would spread mine out: the first day I would wear nothing new. The second day I would wear a new sweater with my broken-in jeans. The third day I would wear a previously worn outfit with new shoes. And this would continue for two or three weeks, until everything had been worn once (but none at the same time), as if I was introducing each new piece to my school and my friends, even though probably no one cared. Except me, obviously.

I am the same way about food. I can eat food while sitting in a restaurant with no problem. But if I go to a convenience store to get a drink or a candy bar, or if I go through the fast food drive-thru, I cannot eat the food immediately. I am not that person who tears into their fries while pulling away from the payment window. Instead, I require myself to wait until I am out of eyeshot of the fast food joint (or at least out of the parking lot), and then I can unwrap my burrito, or my burger, or whatever.

Honestly, maybe this is the weirdest thing about me. Does anyone else have any similar behaviors? (Or perhaps admitting the full extent of The Crazy puts me in a category all my own. Either way, you choose.) (Like on Election Day*!)

* Okay, not so much like Election Day, but only because the color of my shoes and my distance from the drive-thru are THAT MUCH MORE IMPORTANT.

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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.

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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.

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(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.

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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?

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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.)

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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.

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(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.

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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!)

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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.

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(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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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(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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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?

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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?

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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.

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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 expecte