Chirky

When I learned Santa Claus wasn't real, I was crushed. It was December. I was in third grade. That was the only year I rode the bus home from school, and I mostly didn't mind, except there was one girl on that bus, Brittany, whose sole mission seemed to be focused on making my life miserable.

I lived in the country, which meant that the bus ride was a long one for me, full of stops in town before we headed out my farm-to-market road. But she also lived out in the country, farther out than I lived, and so I had to endure her the entire ride. She was a year or two older, and the only thing I remember about her was her dirty blonde hair and how she mocked me and taunted me.

Now, listen - I realize this really isn't all that bad. But in my eight-year-old world, it pretty much was the worst thing ever. And to top it off, on that December afternoon, she was insisting that Santa wasn't real.

I had asked before, and my parents had always encouraged me to believe in Santa Claus. But this day - this day was different - my mom gave in and broke the news to me as gently as she could. It devastated me. Devastated. Oh!, how I cried. And cried. And cried.

Before having a child, I didn't think much about what I would teach my own children concerning Santa. Now that we have Rayah, I can't stop thinking about it. Granted, she's only three months old - I've got a couple years before I need to navigate that conversation. But it's already keeping me awake at night.

Roger and I intend to teach Rayah that Santa Claus is not real, but that he is a fun tradition we participate in every year. The part that stumps me is this: How do we teach Rayah not to be someone else's Brittany? I want my daughter to be an honest child, but I don't want her to crush someone else in her pursuit of the truth. How do we do that? Is it even possible?

What did your parents teach you about Santa Claus? Or, if you have kids, what have you taught them?

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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. 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" »

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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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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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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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The fashion sense of an eighth grader.

Roger and I had a garage sale this past weekend, and while looking for things to sell I came across these troll baby earrings. I can't remember what possessed me to buy them in the first place, because they're kind of hideous, but I was young and presumably devoid of fashion sense.

So last night I tossed them in a box labeled "Goodwill" just before Roger dropped the box off at the donation center. I wondered to myself whether I should have just thrown them away instead. Who in the world would want to buy troll earrings? I can't foresee that fashion statement coming back to haunt us.

Which is why I'm confused about my feelings today. I'm not just sad, I'm depressed. I want my earrings back, and I don't know why. It's not like I'd ever wear them again. At least not in public.

I emailed Roger to warn him that I'm a little weepy, and I vowed to canvas every Goodwill store looking for them. If I ever find them, I'm going to buy them again. I guess now I know WHO in the world would buy those things. Twice.

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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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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'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.

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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

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When I was in 3rd grade, I would brush my hair from the crown of my head to just below my ears. My ears marked the location where my hair inexplicably morphed into a knotted maze of locks. This barrier prevented my brush from going any further, so naturally, I stopped brushing.

I would literally pull my brush out of my hair, horizontally, and just start at the top again, repeating the pattern until my hair, for the most part, was brushed. (What more can you expect from an eight-year-old?)

After listening to me yell and scream one day after attempting to brush through the tangles, my dad loaded me into the car and promptly drove me to a hair salon. He plopped me down in a large leather seat and gave the stylist these instructions:

"I want you to cut her hair off above the tangles. ALL OF IT."

She looked at dad, and then at the tears in my eyes, and then at him, and then gave in to the more threatening of the two of us.

Dad.

I don't remember her washing my hair and trying to detangle it. I only remember sitting in the giant leather chair, covered by a long plastic bib, watching the scissors cut through my gnarled tresses.

The kids at school said I looked like a mushroom, and I did. I hated that haircut, and at the time thought my father was the meanest man alive for causing such a thing to happen.

It was a moment in my life that was marred by trauma. And that trauma would follow me into adulthood.

Apparently, I still haven't learned my lesson. I still go too long between cuts, and every few months when I break down crying to Roger because "Iiiiiiiii hhaaattteeeeee mmmyyyyyyyy haaaaaaaiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," we both know it's time for me to get a cut.

Yesterday marked eight months since I last cut my hair. My personal record is two and a half years – can you imagine the tangles and the stomping and the yelling? – and last night when I visited my stylist, I had forgotten how closely a simple haircut resembles the feeling of freedom. The burden is lifted, hallelujah!

I sank into her chair and began our session by apologizing:

"Rhonda, I just want you to know that I haven't washed my hair in five days because when I wash my hair, that means I have to brush my hair, and when I brush my hair, I have to deal with the tangles. And I just can't contend with the tangles."

(She stared at me.)

"So you have my full permission to just cut a tangle out when you're trying to comb through my hair. Really. It's okay. I would do the same thing if I were you."

By the end of the evening, ringlets were scattered across the floor beneath me – but none were chock-full of tangles. I've finally found a hair stylist in Dallas willing to work through my tangles, willing to teach me how to keep my hair long and luscious, willing to be patient with my hair when I can't bear to cope with it any longer.

And then I realized: like father, like daughter.

(Plus: a purse full of free samples. Score!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

69

That was too, too, too much.

69222

So she took 51 pills…

6922251

…for 8 days…

6922251 x 8

…and that left her...

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

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

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

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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" »

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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?

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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." »

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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.

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I just woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare that left me emotionally drained and crying. Not just crying - weeping. Tears streaming down my face. Hiccups. Verbal gasps for breath. Nose running. Headache. Entire body trembling. Vomitous convulsions. That type of crying.

I just took two Tylenol PM, though I'm not sure why I want to go back to sleep after that, and my head aches as if I've got a clamp holding my skull together. Right now, the entire left side of my nose is clogged. Silent tears are still streaming down my face, though the shaking and the verbal gasping have subsided.

Simply put, I dreamt that Roger had decided to leave me. He brought home a new "girlfriend" - into our home - where she met his parents, who happened to be visiting us. She looked normal. She looked like someone with whom I would have been friends. It would have been easier, maybe, if she was a prostitute. If she had no teeth and was a drug addict, perhaps. Or maybe that would have made it harder because that was better than marriage to me?

Continue reading "The Internet: It's Sort of Like Group Therapy" »

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I can remember, when I was just a munchkin, standing in the doorway to the garage and crossing my eyes at my mom. She would say, "Stop it, Jessica. Your eyes are going to freeze like that!" And I would laugh and uncross my eyes, just to prove (in my three-year old mindset) that she was wrong, and then I would run out to the swingset in the backyard.

For the past few years, I have noticed that one of my eyes sometimes...wafts. But only sometimes. Like when I cover one eye to read a chart, the other eye will roll away. Or when I'm trying to focus on something in front of me, one eye totally dominates and the other throws a fit and drifts to the sidelines, pouting. It's sort of fun, because NOT MANY PEOPLE CAN MAKE ONE EYE FLOAT AWAY! Had I discovered the ability in middle school, I might have used it to feature myself in the year book (for permanent documentation), or at least I would have had it highlighted in the school talent show, instead of wearing a grass skirt and sports bra whila "hula dancing."

Continue reading "Strabismus" »

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When I was in 5th grade, I was invited to be part of a secret group. A sisterhood, really. Anytime we saw each other, and didn't give each other the appropriate signal, we were allowed to (or more accurately, supposed to) punch each other. Not in the face - just in the arm or something.

I don't remember what the signal was - maybe we were supposed to tilt our head 45 degrees to the left and 10 degrees down, or perhaps we did the Roger Rabbit. Maybe we had to say the phrase, "That's, like, psychadelic" or "STOP! Don't hit me!", which the latter would have been more appropriate.

Continue reading "God: He totally answers prayers." »

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As a child, I didn't understand the difference between different socioeconomic classes of people.

In the fourth grade, I remember a friend telling me she bought her shoes at Dillard's, but I didn't know what Dillard's was. I thought it sounded slightly familiar, so I replied, "Oh. I didn't realize that grocery stores sold shoes."

This was the first time I ever got "the look" from a friend. I should note that soon after that, she stopped regarding me as her friend, because OBVIOUSLY since I didn't shop at Dillard's my friendship wasn't worth her time. Nevermind that I was very well acquainted with TJ Maxx.

Living in the country, we made do with what we had. I never went without - all my needs were always met. Still, life was different from that of my friends.

I would sometimes go bird-hunting with my dad, and I would act as his retriever. I would run after any quail or dove he shot, pick it up, and pet it before putting it in my satchel - all because I felt sorry for it. If you were flying around, and someone shot you down, wouldn't you want someone to feel sorry for you?

That's what I thought.

By age 10 I could shoot a horse apple off of a log with a pistol. Except I didn't like the loud Bang! that the guns made, so I didn't like to shoot very often, and I was simply earplug-phobic. I still am.

Also, I was raised around musical people. My father can play pretty much any instrument you put in front of him, and it will generally sound like he actually knows what he's doing (in reality, he only plays the harmonica and guitar).

Some of my favorite memories are of my dad and grandparents sitting in a circle, each playing a guitar and singing. My grandma plays the electric guitar - that's where my dad gets it from. My dad is a fantastic guitarist! And harmonica-ist. Sometimes, he'll play both at once.

That's just what country life was like. Growing up, my Barbies were often my playmates, to their demise. My favorite Barbie was a guitarist, like my dad and grandparents.

Except she didn't have a guitar.

To make up for this oversight, one day I removed one of her legs and strapped it sideways against her body, like a guitar. But then the "guitar" was so long that she couldn't reach it with her hands. Naturally, I had to remove the OTHER leg, which I attached to her right arm so that it would be long enough to reach her new guitar.

When my mom saw what I had done, she said, "I hope you can find a way to stick those back in there, or else she's ruined." Now, she's a paraplegic. But that's not such a bad thing for a Barbie to be, right?

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When I was in middle school, or maybe elementary school, I hated washing dishes. My distaste for the task was so great that on one occasion I actually hid from my mom after dinner.

My childhood friend, Megan, was at my house, and we concocted this plan to hide in the bathroom after dinner. We cleared the table and successfully snuck away. I hid behind the shower curtain and Megan crawled inside the linen closet.

We were in there, whispering and quietly giggling, when we heard the door open. Someone flipped on the light, and then the door shut. I didn't know what Megan was doing, so I held myself as still as I could, and breathed as silently as possible hoping that our mysterious disappearance wouldn't be short-lived.

I heard pants unzip, and the quiet creaking of the toilet as someone sat down. Then, the sigh of relief. As I recognized the voice behind that sigh, my entire body tensed and I became afraid. If my dad caught me hiding in the bathroom, I would be in T.R.O.U.B.L.E. I finally decided just to wait it out, because How Long Could This Take?

The scent filling the air informed me that this trip might take longer than I originally expected, and after a full minute of absolute torture to my nostrils, my tiny and timid voice reached my dad's ears: "Daddy?"

Silence.

"Jessica, what are you doing in here?!?"

"Ummm" ... (long pause) ... "hiding from mom?"

An eternally long ten-second silence ensued.

"Dad, can I leave?"

"By all means, please do."

"Dad? Megan is in here too."

"Girls, get out!" he bellowed.

I don't know how Megan managed, but I closed my eyes and darted for the door.

Since that day, I've been traumatized. I am entirely unable to use the restroom in anyone's home without first checking behind the shower curtain. EVEN IN MY OWN HOME, EVERYTIME I WALK INTO THE RESTROOM.

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In third grade, I participated in an Easter Celebration at Samuell Farm. My friend and I won the three-legged race, and in return we each received a five pound bag of Jelly Belly's. We also tried our luck at the Easter Egg Hunt,
on the farm, in our pretty dress-up Easter clothes and white patent leather shoes. Whoever found the golden goose egg won the grand prize. It should have been easy to find, because:

a) what egg is gold?
b) a goose egg is about 4 inches tall
c) did you read a & b?

I never found the golden goose egg.

Last night I had a dream about it, though. Except we weren't at Samuel Farm, and I wasn't a third grader, and my little friend didn't exist. Mary Anne and Megan (family friends we've known my entire life - Mary Anne is my mom's age and Megan is my age and we played in our cribs together) and my mom and I had been given a special invitation to an Easter Egg Hunt in Donald Trump's home.

Every egg was a golden goose egg, and twisted apart to reveal a prize inside. Some eggs had a car key, one had a set of walkie-talkies, some held cash. As we searched further and further, the golden goose eggs became more like gigantic, slimy skinned peaches. The gift held within the last golden goose egg was a silver dinner fork, still in its original packaging, complete with a pricetag of $24.77.

Megan excitedly reached within the neck of her shirt and pulled out the silver chain she wore around her neck. On the chain were two dessert forks and one dinner fork that matched the fork that Trump had hidden within this egg.

I don't know the point of this dream, but I thought it was pretty odd that Megan was wearing forks on a chain around her neck.

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