Chirky

Tonight Rayah woke up screaming. SCUH-REAAAMMMIINNNGGGGGGG. I went in to check on her, and realized that Daddy was weed-eating outsider her room. I guess it startled her awake, that big whirring noise. It seemed silly to ask him to stop, since I knew he wouldn't be out there for long, though she didn't realize that. So instead, I capitalized on the moment.

I picked Rayah up and settled into the glider, quietly whisper-singing one of my favorite hymns, listening to the sound of the engine outside. As I was singing she quieted down, and fell asleep again on my shoulder. Oh, the countless times I've held her exactly the same way, though back then she was so much smaller. It's been a long time since I've held Rayah when the rest of the house was quiet. Often I miss those newborn days, the late nights and early mornings of cuddling with my daughter.

I tried to memorize how her head felt warm against my cheek. I breathed in her sweet baby scent. I thought about how she's so much bigger now than she was nine-and-one-half months ago, but that my hand, with fingers splayed out, still covers her entire back. I held her securely against my chest, clutching her, not wanting that moment to end.

It did end, but I can still feel her against my cheek. And I'm treasuring that memory, not wanting it to fade away.

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THE GOOD
For the past several months, I’ve been eagerly anticipating The Princess and the Frog from Netflix. Last night, Roger and I watched it. At first, I loved it. I loved (most of) the characters, and that it was set in the bayou of New Orleans. I loved that it gave Disney a new princess, one who didn’t need to be rescued as much as she just need to grow and learn some. I loved that it showed how life doesn’t always turn out the way you think it might. I loved that it encouraged young girls to dream big, to reach high. I loved that it balanced dreaming and wishing with hard work to make that dream happen. Because that’s how life is: you have to sacrifice, you have to have solid work ethic, you have to be willing to work hard in order to succeed. And Disney nailed that.

THE BAD
But there was another side to The Princess and the Frog. A darker, sinister side. I hated the voodoo aspect, which was a much larger component to the cartoon than what was advertised. It was woven throughout the movie, constantly present. The way the voodoo was portrayed in the film was scary (not light-hearted and magical, how I had imagined it would be, considering it is a movie meant for children). It is frightening, and poisonous, and foreboding. Since voodoo is a part of the New Orleans culture, I wasn’t so surprised that it was included – but the way that it was done bothered me. A lot.

THE VERDICT
I was disappointed in this Disney movie, and definitely will NOT be buying it for my daughter. I genuinely believe it would give her nightmares, at least until she is much, much older. The good was really good, and the bad was really bad. There was such great opportunity to make this movie more than it was. Poorly done, Disney.

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I've been thinking a lot about what moms really want for Mother's Day (this Sunday!). And I've been wondering if working moms and stay at home moms want the same things. (Note: By "working moms," I mean mothers who are employed by a company, since I know that stay at home moms also work, just in a different way.)

Lately I've been struggling with balance. (Lately equals the last eight months.) (Coincidentally, my sweet daughter is eight months old.) (I'm pretty certain these two are related.) My life is overflowing with busyness. I'm a full-time mom, and a full-time employee. And I don't mean that I leave the house to go to a full-time job, while someone cares for my daughter. I mean that I stay home and care for her, and that I'm also a remote employee for a company I love. So I work 40+ hours a week at home, while also *attempting* to spend that time with my little girl. Hiring a nanny is out of the question right now, because of the way this economy has affected our family's finances. Which makes for early mornings, and late nights, and busy days. Add to that meals, and grocery shopping, and cleaning the house, and laundry, and I'm willing to bet you can guess which of those slide. (Answer: that entire last sentence.) But I get to spend the entire day with our daughter, and for that I am thankful. She's pretty awesome.

Roger, on the other hand, usually leaves for work before Rayah's up in the morning, and comes home after she's gone to bed. He walks into her room several times a night, just to watch her sleep. And just thinking about that makes me depressed. To love someone so much, but not be able to hold her or read her books or even to listen to her "talk" about her day. To only to get to spend two days each week with her. And even then, it's a weekend filled with busyness, trying to do all the things that the weekdays denied us.

So I've been thinking about Mother's Day. I've been thinking that, sure, perfume or flowers or spa certificates are nice. A thoughtful card is nice. But what do I really want? I want time. I want time with my husband and daughter, without the added stress of everything else that needs to be done. I want a carefree day. A family picnic at the park in our neighborhood. Reading books together in Rayah's reading corner. I want a day to re-connect as a family, a day to take pictures, a day to remember.

But I realize not everyone wants the same things that I do - so I'm curious. What do you want for Mother's Day?

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A couple weeks ago, our little family visited the Dallas Arboretum to get a few pics of Rayah. We picnicked on a grassy lawn, shared our cookies with two adorable little girls who were running around, and worked to keep Rayah from eating dirt. (Literally, I mean. It's not like she was face-planting or anything.)

Roger is usually behind the camera, so I was excited to snap a few pics of him having deep and meaningful conversations with Rayah.

And I think this is my new favorite picture of me and my sweet little girl - we love to lie down and play SuperBaby! while I get in a little arm exercise. :)

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Family and friends regularly ask me how I'm liking cloth diapering, and this is what I have to say: I love it. I love, love, love it. What we're doing is great for our daughter, great for our budget, and great for the environment. And that's what is important to me, in that order. While we haven't always cloth diapered, we did always intend to.

As a brand new mom, I asked myself three questions anytime Rayah cried:

-is she hungry?
-is she tired?
-is she wet?

That is all my brain could muster on two hours of sleep. And really, I didn't even have to ask the third one because Pampers took care of it for me. How smart are they?! When Rayah was a newborn, the hospital gave us several packs of Pampers Swaddlers Sensitive with a WETNESS INDICATOR. Which was awesome, because anytime we wondered whether her diaper was wet or dirty, there was a little line that turned from yellow to blue. We didn't even have to take her diaper off to know its status. And anytime we saw a blue line, we were all over changing that diaper. In the first week or two of her life, Rayah went through about 20 diapers each day. (I'll admit, we might be a little OCD. Mah bebe with a wet diaper? NEVER!) Even with all the hospital gave us, we spent a lot of money on diapers those first many weeks. True story.

But we had our cloth diapers waiting in the wings. While I was still pregnant, I researched cloth diaper types, and finally settled on what I thought would be the best for our family: Bum Genius one-sizes (it turned out we were right - I love this diaper!). Basically, it's a diaper you buy once and it grows with the baby, from seven to 35 pounds. (Though see for yourself: I have photographic evidence that they threatened to swallow Rayah whole until she was about 10-12 pounds.) They have little snaps that adjust to fit (shown here on the smallest setting), and come in a variety of colors (though I do wish there were more, like red and teal and purple, or maybe fun prints).

Each week I would put one of her cloth diapers on her to see if they fit yet. By eight weeks, her thighs had finally chunked up enough for the leg casings to fit properly without worrying about any leakage. For nearly five months now, she's been wearing cloth diapers. At this point, the cloth diapers have more than paid for themselves. We're probably even making money off of them.

I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't want to wash diapers every day, or even every other day. I am a full time mom AND I work full time. I just don't have time for loads and loads of laundry. So we bought more than average and wash them every three or four days. (Uhhh, this may change as Rayah eats more solids. I am aware of that. I am also afraid of that.) Rayah and I do the laundry together, pulling the diapers apart and throwing them in the washing machine. (She LOVES watching clothes tumble around in the washer and dryer!) And now that the weather is warming up, she's helping me lay them out in the sun to dry, too. Such a good little helper!

I know it's not for everyone, but I love cloth diapering. The mom in me loves that Rayah has natural fibers against her skin. The fashionista in me loves color-coordinating her diapers with her outfits. The budgeter in me loves that I'm saving hundreds (in the long-term: thousands) of dollars by not purchasing disposables. The greenie in me is proud that I'm not dumping a ton (literally: each disposable-diapered baby contributes one ton worth of diapers) in our already maxed-out landfills. I'd say it's a win-win all around!

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Roger and I were on a walk with Rayah this evening when we came upon a father kneeled down with his child. At first it appeared as though the child was hurt, and he was consoling her. As we came closer, we heard her crying and pleading with him - whatever it was, she made sure he knew she wasn't going to do it again. Then he started yelling at her. Screaming. SCREAMING.

My neck coiled and my eyebrows shot up. As we were (slowly) walking past, I turned around to look at them. He had his daughter -- she was maybe three years old -- pinned to the ground, in a sort of headlock, while he hovered over her and screamed at her about cars driving down the road. (This was on a walking path in our neighborhood park, bordered on one side by a residential street and on the other side by a creek.) The child's mother stood there, cross-armed, observing. The little girl's face was red and marked with tears. And this father - this father was so oblivious to anything around him, and screaming at her so forcefully, that it seemed abusive to me. He was frightening. The situation was so disturbing that *I* started crying. You guys! I started crying.

Now, full disclosure: I didn't understand the context of the discipline. Had she gotten too near the street (about six feet away) when a car was driving by? Had she been disobedient the first couple times her father asked her to move away from the street? I don't know. But I do know that this man was scary. And angry. He was belittling and intimidating his daughter. I have no patience for that. I wanted to rescue that little girl!

Roger and I quietly discussed whether we should do anything. We stopped and (covertly) watched, waiting to see if he would harm his daughter. We wondered at what point it would be appropriate to step in. In the end, we only watched them. I dried my eyes. The father eventually stopped, they marched past us on their way home, the little girl clinging to her mother's side, as far from her father as she could get. I turned to Roger and said, "I never want to treat our children like that." He had her pinned to the ground in a headlock. She was THREE.

And now I can't get that scene out of my mind - the dad hunkered down, trumpeting his temper; the mom passively standing by; the little girl, back arched, bawling, twisting her wet face from her father's.

I get that every parent has different discipline styles. I understand that I don't know the full story. But I also know that something isn't sitting right in my heart, and even though that family is long-gone, I'm curious: At what point do you step in? Or do you? How do you know when? And what should that look like?

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This morning I received an email from my sister-in-law, Rosalyn, professing her love for spring: "...the daffodils are bursting open, the forsythia (one of my very favoritest signs of spring) is turning into solid rays of sunshine as the blooms appear, and all of the flowering trees are vying to get in on the act! I'm so grateful for spring!"

I couldn't have said it better. The past few days it has been 70 degrees in Dallas, and I've been chomping at the bit to get outside. Rayah and I try to take walks every day. We love watching the ducks swim in the creek by our house, watching the little baby muskrats leap into the water when we come near. The daffodils are blooming in Dallas, also, and last week Rayah and I watched a toddler squeal with delight as he ran through them toward his Daddy. The birds are chirping, and blue jays are fluttering around our neighborhood. The Bradford Pear trees are thick with white blooms - I love watching Rayah's face as she stares up at tree branches - and I'm looking forward to seeing my favorite shade of green as trees begin to bud.

I've always thought that spring is my favorite season - I love the life that begins to emerge. I love that sunlight is beginning to stretch the day. I love the bright, bold colors. I love the warm days and deep blue skies. For me, it's the promise of something more to come, the promise of life and growth and beauty. And I guess that's not surprising, coming out of a dark and cold winter.

Out on a weekend walk with my two favorite people!

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If you (a) have kiddos or are pregnant and (b) are in the Dallas/Fort Worth area this month, I have a special treat for you today! Twice each year, HUGE consignment sales crop up in the metroplex. Forget church garage sales or Craigslist - these are more like warehouse events, with every toy, activity equipment, stroller system, brand of clothing (and sizes to match!) on the market -- and more! And the prices? Well, those are generally pretty awesome.

Whether you're shopping for fill-and-spill toys, boppy pillows, summer frocks, sweet purses, cargo shorts and graphic shirts, an extra stroller, books, more crib sheets, exersaucers, kid-sized activity tables (or nearly anything else), these consignment sales are THE place to go for gently used, inexpensive items.

And I've got all the info for you...

Continue reading "Frugal Fridays: On Consignment" »

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Yesterday Rayah turned six months old.

*faints*

Six months! And as a little birthday present, Rayah taught herself how to roll from her tummy to her back.

Today we also had an appointment with her pediatrician, and it seems Rayah had a bit of a growth spurt! In the past two months, she's grown TWO inches! Here's her stats:

Weight: 16 pounds, 5 ounces (55%)
Height: 26 1/4" (75%)
Head: 16 1/2" (30%)

My little baby is growing up!

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For the past several weeks, Rayah has been watching me very closely as I eat. I began sharing (pretend) "bites" with her on her own spoon of whatever I was eating: soup...cereal...ice cream (most likely). Then, over the weekend, we gave Rayah her first bite of solid food.

It was a winning success!

I am trying to make all of my own baby food, using the Cooking for Baby cookbook. The recipes are really simple and the book has tons of info on storing, freezing, reheating, cooking ahead, etc.

Continue reading "A World of Tastes" »

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I read a book tonight.

Well, that's not fair. I read one-half of a book tonight, and it was more than I needed to read. Halfway into the second chapter, I skipped ahead to the end. I read the last chapter. And satisfied by that, I skipped to the middle and read a few chapters.

Typically, I don't skip around in books. I read them straight-through, the way we're taught to do it, the order in which society expect us to to do it.

But this book...this book was different.

* * * * *

There are lots of things I don't really talk about on this blog, and sexual abuse is one of them. I have a lot of thoughts about sexual abuse, a lot of experience helping women grow through their own hurts. For the past several years I have led self-help support groups for women in the Dallas metroplex.

* * * * *

Last week, I received a press release about a controversial book, asking if I was interested in reviewing it. Typically, those press releases find their way into my trash can before I can get past the greeting -- but this one, for whatever reason -- I read. Then I responded. And today the book arrived in the mail.

* * * * *

In all fairness, I knew what this book was about before I started reading it. I knew that it was about sexual abuse. I also knew that the author was victimized as a young girl. And though this story is represented as fictional, I can tell you that it's not. This is a woman's story. It may not be the author's story, but that doesn't mean that it's any less real.

To Meg Tilly, the author: Gemma made me want to vomit. It is too graphic, the detail too accurate, the emotions too spot-on. That is a compliment to you as an author, to your ability to portray the way so many sexual abuse victims shut down, process emotions, trust false beliefs that are fed to them by their abusers.

Continue reading "Gemma" »

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The first time I ever saw a woman Price Matching was during a Back-to-School sale in 2008. I don’t remember why I had gone to Wal-Mart – I didn’t shop there often – and somehow I found myself in line behind a woman whose shopping cart was brimming with paper and pencils and rulers and backpacks and crayons. And more. Oooooohhhhh, was there more. She pulled out circulars from local stores and began going through them with the cashier. Suddenly, she turned to me.

Now, let’s stop for a second and discuss Wal-Mart. Admittedly, I used to be a little prejudiced. I really disliked shopping at the store. I don’t know why that is, because they carry just about everything under the sun, and if there’s one thing I like (especially as a working Mom), it’s convenience. If I could go through a drive-thru to purchase sunblock, I would. [Note to Wal-Mart: You know what would be awesome? Having the ability to order 20 items or less online, and then swing through a drive-thru to pick up my order. Please consider beta-testing that in Plano, Texas.] [Second note to Wal-Mart: The entrance to your store in Denton, Texas carries the overwhelming stench of vomit. Please send help.]

Anyway, so this woman just turned to me and said: “I’m sorry – this is going to take a while for me to check out. Price matching is something I do to help our family afford for me to be a stay at home mom.”

I just smiled and dismissed the issue, telling her I was fascinated by what she was doing. And really, I was. For the next five minutes, I stood there watching her flip through circulars and compare prices. I watched the cashier ring up the purchase. I watched as this Mom surrendered coupons. And I was stunned. I never knew that you could take an advertisement with lower prices from Tom Thumb or Sprouts or CVS or the dollar store and get that same price at Wal-Mart.

Continue reading "Frugal Fridays: Grocerying at Wal-Mart" »

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My obsession with quinoa all started last summer in Chicago. BlogHer '09 had just come to a close, and I went out to lunch with ElisaC, who is vegan.

We headed to The Chicago Diner. (Meat Free since '83, hey ya!) Looking over the menu, I was beginning to feel a little clueless. I quizzed Elisa on ingredients: What is acai? What is seitan? What is quinoa? What is seitan, again? And pronouncing those ingredients! It was embarrassingly obvious that I had no idea what I was talking about. I finally settled on the Southwestern Tostadas, spread thick with mashed black beans and topped with quinoa and avocado. WOW, were they good. They were so good -- I liked the quinoa so much -- that I decided right then I had to make it again when I got back to Dallas. (You might notice that very dish - the Southwestern Tostadas - is on my menu for this month!)

And that's how we get to today's recipe from Fat Free Vegan: International Quinoa Salad. I took Susan's recipe and developed it into the Lazy Woman's Recipe, because that is what I am: a lazy cook. I like foods that taste good without too much fuss, not that Susan's recipe really looks like much work, but mine is even less. I cut out the chickpeas, and because I usually don't have them on hand I cut out the jalapeno and scallions. I've had lactation consultants warn me that parsley and mint reduce milk production (sage stops it entirely, FYI, though that's not in this recipe), so since I'm nursing right now I've removed those from the recipe. And I've also added back in the olive oil. I tripled the avocado. And I use chicken broth instead of vegetable broth, because that is what I usually have on hand.

This salad is ultra-flavorful and tangy (and a new favorite). I think you'll like it, too. (I would like to include a photo of the salad here instead of just the ingredients, but I took these pictures with my phone, and can we all agree that the iPhone was not made for food photography? So if you want to see what this salad looks like (believe me: you do), check out the images on Fat Free Vegan. They're drool-worthy.)

Continue reading "International Quinoa Salad Recipe" »

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Last week, I read about the Pantry Cleanout Challenge and thought: Hey. I should do that.

And then I forgot.

But when a reader commented that she recently cleaned out her freezer and fed her family of four for the next month, plus spent only $100 at the grocery store on items like dairy and fresh produce, I knew I had to do it, too. And this time I didn’t forget.

So this weekend I emptied out my freezer, took an inventory of every item, and re-organized it all. It was a little embarrassing to discover I had more than 15 pounds of pork, turkey, chicken and beef – that is: the meat in our freezer weighs as much as our daughter – plus bag upon bag of frozen veggies, fruits, cheeses and puff pastry dough, as well as three pounds of butter. Seriously, who am I? Paula Deen?

Continue reading "Freezer Cleanout Challenge" »

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For the past week, I've been staying up late reading a ridiculous number of frugal blogs. This is quite a feat for me because I'm typically falling over with exhaustion by 9pm. I don't really ever talk about money on this blog, but it's something that is persistently on my mind, especially since Rayah came into our family. First the medical bills piled up (which are now paid off, thankfully). Next there was that home renovation we began nearly two years ago. That home renovation that took over our lives.

It's kind of like - and bear with me, because I haven't eaten anything yet - when you go to a Chinese buffet, and that Pineapple Fried Rice tastes awesome, but you think you might also sample the Sesame Chicken. And the Spring Rolls. And the Mongolian Beef. And maybe some Dan Dan Noodles. And whoa - those Garlic Snap Peas - I bet those are good. And then you just can't resist the Mango soft-serve ice cream. With sprinkles. And maybe a cherry. That's what renovating your house is like. Or, that's what renovating our house has been like. Like an over-indulgent Chinese buffet.

Nothing we've done has felt indulgent, of course. But in retrospect, maybe we should have tackled it differently. We scraped the ceilings. We re-textured the walls. We painted. We ripped out the floors. We tore off the baseboards and the trim. We removed a wall here, we built a laundry room there. We installed tile in the kitchen. We're scheduled to install hardwood floors this month. And even though we've tried to do as much as possible ourselves (read: I never knew what a handyman Roger was until we bought this house - he's worked so hard on it!), we've paid an unreal amount to contractors to do the hard parts. And now I'm left looking at our checkbook, thinking: How did we get here? How can we get back to where we were? What changes can I make to our budget?

Continue reading "Pinching Pennies" »

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Rayah was born with a head full of hair, so I've had fun over the last several months buying bows of all colors and coordinating them with her outfits. Since I was traveling to Nashville with Rayah, my mother-in-law flew in town to hang out and spend a little time with her newest granddaughter, too. While we were dressing her for the first day, Mom turned to Rayah and said, "I think your Mommy thinks you're a doll!"

Which, yes. Yes I do. She's a total doll, and I love dressing her up in sweet clothes with accessories to match. Baby clothes are just too much fun! One of the bloggers I met at the conference, Lindsey of The Pleated Poppy, gave Rayah the precious headband pictured above. Isn't it cute on her? Rayah only has a couple other headbands, and somehow neither are pink (one of the colors she wears most often, besides blues, purples and reds), so we're particularly thrilled with this newest addition to her hair accessories wardrobe.

Doll, indeed.

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Last night I arrived home from attending Blissdom, entirely worn out from a fun-filled weekend of learning and networking with other bloggers. I attended BlogHer last year as an enormously pregnant woman, so this was my first time to attend a conference with baby in tow. And while it was a little extra effort, it was the most awesome experience ever.

Most of the the first day, I wore Rayah in my Moby sling - an 18-foot long piece of fabric that wraps Rayah securely against me. And until now, it's been my favorite sling. But this is the problem: since giving birth, my internal thermostat has heated up. I've changed from a woman who curls up in a blanket mid-summer (in Texas!) to someone who wears t-shirts in 60-degree weather. So having an 18-foot piece of fabric wrapped around (and around, and around) me gets kind of...hot.

That, and Rayah really dislikes being in a sling of any kind if I'm sitting down. (Does anyone else have this issue? Is it just Rayah?) When I was sitting during one of the sessions, Rayah was usually sitting on my lap playing or lying on a blanket, playing (I mean, as much as five-month-olds play. This mostly involved dropping her toy and looking around her). If she got fussy, we'd step out into the hallway for a minute until she calmed down. The third time I stepped out into the hallway, a MomBlogger I'd been talking to earlier in the day followed me out. I was Having Issues, and she was there to help.

See, Jessie also works for DittanyBaby.com, a company that makes and sells the Mei Tai sling. She followed me into the hallway, sling in hand. While I held Rayah, Jessie showed me how to wear the sling. And then? Then she told me to that I could HAVE the sling. You guys! This sling is magical!

First: it is not hot, because it has simple straps that hold it in place, not 18 feet of fabric.

Second: Two minutes later, Rayah was asleep. And she STAYED asleep for the rest of her naptime. And then everyone commented on the magicalness of a baby who slept. EVEN AFTER I SAT DOWN. (!)

I wore the sling the rest of the conference, and have been wearing it again since I've been home. Jessie, you're an angel, and I'm an official Mei Tai convert. Thank you so, so much for all your help throughout the weekend!

As for all of the other amazing women I met over the weekend, I'll be linking them here soon. I love having new additions in my feed reader!

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The other day a friend said: "I remember when I stayed up all night on purpose…now it's just painful." And I couldn't sum up my experience as a new mother who tries to Do It All better. I am awake every morning around by 5am because Rayah has sooooo much she wants to say, she can't wait for daylight. So she wakes up, lies in her crib and babbles, and then falls back asleep. And that's pretty much how my days go untll 9pm, when I'm falling over myself to get in bed. Since Rayah came along, my life has been so busy. So exhausting. So full, in the most awesome way I could ever imagine.

When we had Rayah, I was concerned I would struggle with baby blues. I expected it. I prepared for it. And I feel so, so blessed that so far, it has not been a part of my story as a mother. Roger and I wholeheartedly agree that our daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to us. She's so fun, so lively, so curious. She's beautiful, and she's smart. It's been so fun watching her grow, watching her learn to bat at toys, and then grab at them, and now she's putting them in her mouth. EVERYTHING goes in Rayah's mouth: toys, stuffed animals, burp cloths, anything within her reach. I love it when she locks her eyes on me and smiles, that wide-open, toothless, dimpled smile.

I realize that every parent feels this way, or I hope that every parent feels this way. Because becoming a mom has been the greatest privilege of my life. Any doubts that I might have once had about whether I wanted to become a mother have been erased, and now I'm realizing that this is the role I was created for. And that just makes it that much sweeter.

Rayah and I are attending BlissDom10 this weekend!

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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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I just sucked on my daughter's pacifier, to see what the appeal was. I still haven't figured it out.

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Rayah is our littlest reason to be thankful this year!

We hope that you will also have a delightful holiday, filled with family, friends, food and a heart full of thanks.

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I’ve always said that I’d try any food once, which is how I’ve managed to eat things like pig intestine (gross), duck blood soup (gross) and fried chicken feet (surprisingly good). Then there are other foods that I just think are weird, like tomato-flavored Jello (why!?), and peanut butter, tomato and bacon sandwiches (in all fairness, I’ve managed to evade this so far – I like my peanut butter with fruit (plum jam, please), and my bacon with lettuce and tomato – though I’m guessing I’ll try one soon enough).

When my in-laws visited last month, Roger asked his mom to make one of his favorite childhood dishes: Avocado-Banana Salad. I wrinkled my nose at the pairing, but agreed to give it a try. Then I took a second spoonful. And now I’ve spent the past month making this salad, because neither Roger nor I can get enough.

If you’re searching for a unique side dish to serve at a holiday meal or to bring to a friend’s potluck, look no further. This dish uses only five ingredients and there’s no cooking involved, so it’s perfect if you’re short on time but want to deliver high on expectations. Avocado-Banana Salad is beyond creamy, a favorite among children and adults (in our family, anyway!), and is deliciously tangy and sweet. And maybe that’s my favorite part about this side dish – it could also pass as a dessert.

Avocado-Banana Salad

Ingredients
1 avocado, diced
1 banana, diced
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp sugar
3 tbsp cream (you can also use half-and-half, or probably even milk, but I use cream)

Instructions
1. Add diced avocado and banana to a bowl.
2. Measure lime juice, sugar and cream into the bowl.
3. Mix ingredients together gently.
4. Serve immediately.

Serves 2

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One of my oldest, dearest friends got engaged last month, and I've decided to provide her helpful marriage- and wedding-related tips, which I'll do periodically on this site. You see, I'm a firm believer in learning from the mistakes of those who have gone before you (as well as taking notes on what's been done right). And it's in that vein that I am offering these words of wisdom first, since she's planning an outdoor wedding:

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I’ve never really understood the phenomenon that makes parents so narcissistic about their offspring. I mean, yes, she is your child. And in some cases, she is even cute. (Because let’s face it: not all babies are cute. Can we agree on that? Except yours, yours is very cute.) But seriously? Did you really need to whip out that accordion photo wallet to show me each picture you’ve taken over the last 45 days? No, no you did not.

Then I got pregnant, and hung each sonogram on the refrigerator where I could stare at it every time I went into the kitchen. (Confession: I found more and more excuses to make a trip to the kitchen. This may or may not have contributed to pregnancy weight gain.) I loved knowing that the microscopic embryo inside me was growing and maturing and that in a few short months, I would get to hold my child in my arms. (I was also actively ignoring the thought of childbirth, because: Ouch.)

Minutes old

When I first met Rayah, I thought that I had never seen anything more beautiful. Her pouty lips, her full cheeks, the delicate arch of her eyebrow, the way her tiny hands ball into fists and then extend again, watching her bright blue eyes taking in her new environment , the sweet chub of her thigh, the natural highlights in her hair, how the soles of her feet are unbearably soft. Even listening to her coo while she plays, and breathing in the scent of her hair every time I pick her up is magnificent to me. She’s like my newest addiction, and I can’t help but want to preserve every single bit of her.

Two weeks old and One month old

Six weeks old

Every day I find myself picking up my phone and photographing her. And each day I text those photos to Roger, because if I had to be apart from her during the day, I would want the same thing: copious amounts of photographs, just to make me feel like I was there. I flip through the photos on my phone and my heart still skips, even though I see her and hold her every hour of every day.

Two months old

Last night someone asked me whether Rayah wore a Halloween costume, and as I told her about Rayah’s homemade pea-in-the-pod outfit, I instinctively reached for my phone and began flipping through two weeks’ worth of photos until I found what I was looking for. And then I looked up, eyes wide, realizing what I had just done. I had just become That Mom, except I was holding something much worse: the digital version of the accordion photo wallet, with near-unlimited space for MORE photos.

Ten weeks old

As far as babies go, I think my daughter is pretty cute. More than cute – to me, she’s beautiful. So no, I didn’t really need to whip out her photos to show, especially considering I had the live version sitting in my lap at the time. It’s just that I’m so immensely proud of Rayah, and I can’t wait to share her with the world.

Ten weeks old

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Since becoming a parent, I've found that I do a lot of absurd things in the name of Keeping the Peace. At the top of that list is putting Rayah (eight weeks old) to bed each night. She absolutely refuses to fall asleep in her crib before 11pm -- believe me: I've tried, and every time she wakes up within 15 minutes and starts wailing, and that wailing doesn't subside; it becomes a full-blown cry of rage with hiccups and guffaws and disbelief that I would try such a thing -- and so I've gotten into this routine of feeding her and letting her fall asleep on my chest.

If I move within the first 30 minutes, she's wide awake and perturbed, and we have to start the whole routine over again. So I lie absolutely still, propped up with six pillows. I generally entertain myself by reading (turning pages veerrryyyyy quietly) or playing games on my iPhone (volume turned off, of course) or watching TV shows on my laptop (wearing headphones).

At the one hour mark, the poorly choreographed dance begins. I slowly lean forward, my hands positioned behind her head and bottom, my eyes glued to her face for signs of disturbance. I stand up and hold her away from me, her arms spilling downward, my eyes still searching for signs that she's realized she's not on me any longer. Carrying her to her room is like playing that game with the egg in the spoon. You know the children's relay race, where you can't drop the egg, and so you walk very stiffly, carefully holding it, moving as little of your body as possible, all the while chanting: "Don't fall out, don't fall out, don't fall out." Except in my case, I'm thinking: "Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up."

Gingerly, I lay her in the crib. I let her back get used to the mattress while I gently remove my hands from behind her head and her lower half. I back away two steps, still close enough to see whether her eyes pop open. Pause and watch. Take another step back. Pause and listen for movement. Take another step back. Turn off the dimmer switch, which was already set to the lowest setting. Pause and listen for tell-tale grunting. And then I tiptoe back to my room, where I lie in bed and listen for her cry, eventually falling asleep.

It's a little ridiculous, but it works. Most of the time.

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The past seven weeks, since Rayah was born, have been a blur. Time has slipped away much too quickly, and I've begrudged every bit of it. It's kind of eerie how naturally our daughter fits into our lives, how it seems like she's always been a part of us, how much we love this little girl that we only just met.

Pre-Rayah, I was strictly an eight-plus hours of sleep per night kind of woman. I guess I was storing it up for myself, because I haven't seen eight consecutive hours in a loooonnnggggg time. I've surprised myself with my own capacity for sleep deprivation. Yes, those first couple weeks were tough -- especially because we were in and out of hospitals with complications -- but I'll be the first to admit that she's totally worth it, a thousand times over.

Roger and I are totally enamored by our daughter, which is I suppose how we should feel. We can't stop staring at her, trying to figure out which of us she resembles most (we still haven't figured that one out), whose toes she has, if she has my attached earlobes or Roger's detached (jury's still out on that one too, though it seems she inherited her toes from Roger).

Her eyes are still blue, she still has natural blond highlights interspersed through her dark brown hair. Her little thighs are only just beginning to fill out, though they're not quite chunky enough for her to fit into her cloth diapers. Rayah is starting to smile more -- though barely -- and every time I see her sweet dimples, my heart swoons.

We are already seeing little glimpses of her personality, and WOW: she has a flare for drama, and she is VERY opinionated. Of course, considering who her parents are, that's not much of a surprise.

Right now she's in her pack-and-play, kicking her legs and cooing. I like to imagine she's telling Roger and me how much she loves us, too. Even if she doesn't know it quite yet.

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It was 4 a.m. and I woke to a sharp jab in my lady bits. I levitated, sprinted to the restroom, and after ten seconds called out an alarming, “Roooggeerrrrrrrr!!!” It was twenty five days before my due date, almost an entire four weeks of time we thought we still had left, and there was no question whether my water had just broken. There was gushing. Gushing.

* * *

Suddenly our house was a flurry of activity, us calling my doctor, racing to pack last-minute toiletries in the hospital bag, calling my doctor AGAIN (Aannnnsssweeeerrrrrrrrrr, I silently pleaded. He did.), and finally hopping in the car to drive to the hospital. It was surreal, and exciting, and intimidating. We had no idea what to expect, other than being silently aware of how our lives were about to change.

* * *

I remember reading a statistic somewhere that said only 13% of pregnancies end with water breaking before the woman actually goes into labor. I was now a statistic. By 8 a.m. I still hadn’t started experiencing contractions. My water breaking meant that The Area was no longer a sterile environment, and we had only 24 hours to give birth. So we induced labor. The Pitocin drip began, and almost as quickly my contractions began.

* * *

I had two phases of labor: pre-Epidural and post-Epidural. I remember very little pre-Epidural, other than The Pain. I spent two-and-one-half hours curled up on my left side, my face buried in the side of the bed’s handrail, eyes tightly closed, teeth clenched shut, with Roger holding a cold washcloth to my forehead. I tried to focus on his soothing voice, on leveling out my breathing, on anything other than The Pain. Even The Trembling was a welcome distraction, my body shaking so violently I wondered whether I was having a seizure. At one point I opened my eyes to discover a half dozen nurses and doctors surrounding my bed, some rolling my body back and forth, side to side, over and over again, while others fussed over machines. I thought maybe that was a normal part of labor, but found out later that our daughter's heartbeat had dropped from 130 to 50. They were trying to move her off her umbilical cord, which had somehow become compressed under her body.

Continue reading "Labor of Love" »

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On September 2nd, Roger and I welcomed our daughter, Rayah, into our family.

At birth, she was 7 pounds, 15 ounces and 20.5 inches long. Don't let her size fool you, though - she was nearly four weeks early!

I'm working on her birth story, but in the meantime we're enjoying all her little coos, the funny little faces she makes, and getting to spend time with our sweet child as she explores her new world. As we suspected we would be, we're totally smitten.

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For the past week, I've been hearing about Choosing Thomas -- have you heard about this? -- a family chose to give birth to their son, even though they knew he had a fatal illness. They didn't know how long he would survive outside of the womb, how long they would have to love him or cuddle him. They said, "We could have 11 minutes or 11 days."

I just finished watching their story. It was so poignant. They remarked that their son, Thomas, would never know the hurts of this world. He'd only know that for the extent of his life, he was loved. And that he was loved well.

I admire this family, their devotion to their son. I can't imagine allowing such raw emotion to be filmed. But at the same time, what a gift to have his life documented. I hope you'll take a few moments to watch the video.

(A word to the wise: keep tissues handy.)

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This weekend we painted the nursery. Before I tell you anything else, I should explain that I use the term "we" very liberally. Roger is the one doing all the work around here, and I amble in every few minutes to check his progress and tell him how awesome it looks. (Which, it does look awesome. We love the bright, cheery lime color. During the day, sunlight floods in from the window and the color is a very, very pale sherbet shade. In the evening, it becomes darker and more olive-toned. The color is called "Seawall" and this is the thing: I love the sea. So I'm kind of hoping that the wall color will foreshadow how this room will affect our daughter, meaning: SOOTHING AND CALM.)

While Roger works on the nursery, I am busying myself in the kitchen. I spend my weekends cooking, and then cleaning up my (very large) messes, and then making grocery lists, and then shopping. Which pretty much cements that nine times out of ten, I am the epitome of the old cliche: barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. But I don't mind, because I like to cook and think it's fun to serve up delicious food to my husband, who is working so hard on our house. And he likes eating it. So it's a win/win for both of us.

I also spend my time flipping through a variety of children's decor magazines, and I've noticed this trend of placing mobiles over the changing table instead of the crib. Which is utterly confusing to me, because when did we stop putting them over the place that newborns spend most of their time? Or am I supposed to move the mobile once our daughter starts standing up? Or did I have it wrong in the first place? Because I'm entirely planning on attaching the mobile over the crib, if we can figure out how to do it without putting holes in the ceiling.

Speaking of mobiles, we just received ours in the mail! We had custom-ordered it from Gifts Define, an etsy shop of hand-sewn plush designs. It's a little out of context here, since last night I just held it against the wall and you can't see the furniture in the room (ahem, because right now there isn't any furniture in the room), but the mobile is made of five sweet little birdies: yellow, lime, coral, blue and olive. The coral and olive are hues from her bedding, and the other colors will be incorporated in the artwork we're planning for her room.

Next weekend “we” are planning to move furnishings into the room, and sometime in the next couple weeks we’ll design the artwork (Roger is creating the design!) (I love being married to a graphic designer.) and have it printed. In the meantime, we’re staring doe-eyed at five little birds, hoping we’ll get it all done before our daughter arrives. And though her due date is less than five weeks away, we think she might come earlier based on an ultrasound we had two weeks ago. But that’s another story for another day.

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Tonight I began packing my hospital bag, based on Emily’s Great Big Hospital Bag Packing List and the list I found on TheBump.com. I combined both and then narrowed them down based on what I thought I would need. But then it occurred to me that the Internet Knows Things. So I’m including my list below, and if there’s anything I haven’t listed that you think is vital, would you let me know?

Documents: Insurance info; hospital forms and birth plan (I do not really have much of a birth plan – it kind of goes like this: I only want Roger in the room with me, and at the end of labor and delivery I’d like to have a live baby. I’d prefer to give birth vaginally, but if that doesn’t work out, I don’t mind. That is all.)

Clothing Items: 2 pairs of warm, nonskid socks; maternity bra/nursing pads; maternity clothes for going home; possibly a gown for labor/delivery; yoga pants and tops for recovery (Is this right? What did you wear after giving birth? Don’t you have to stay in the hospital for 48-72 hours? Did you just hang out in a hospital gown the entire time?)

Toiletries: Lip balm, eyeglasses, makeup, headband or ponytail holder, toothbrush and paste, deodorant, face wash, lotion, lanolin nipple cream. (Truthfully, I will probably also bring my Bumble & Bumble hair powder, so that it looks like I washed my hair, when really I probably won’t bother because do you know how much effort it takes to maintain my curls? I have to wash, condition, put in hair product, and then dry my hair with a diffuser. And then add MORE products. And that seems like a lot of work to me, especially when I’ll have just finished pushing something roughly the size of a watermelon out of my very un-watermelon-sized lady bits. I’m just sayin’, though I suppose you never know. Maybe I’ll be feeling very ambitious afterward.)

Miscellaneous: Sugar-free hard candy or lozenges; pen and paper; iPhone (doubles as alarm clock, address book, Internet addiction feeder, Twittering device and all-around good distraction, unless Roger is using his when CLEARLY he should be paying attention to ME) with charger; coins for vending machines; snacks; camera/memory card/charger; bath towel (people keep saying how tiiinnyyyyy hospital towels are); very light reading; iPod (if I can’t be bothered to load music onto my phone by the time I deliver, though in this case I suppose I should consider getting speakers, too); tennis ball (for massaging, or throwing at the first person who eats around me during labor and delivery); pillow (because hospital pillows are baaaddddddd); sleeping mask (for pretending that I’ll be able to sleep at all); baby scrapbook (for recording things like sweet, inked footprints); and thank you notes (again, in case I’m feeling overly ambitious)

For Roger: Change of clothes; his own toiletries; mints or gum; his pillow and a warm blanket (for the frigid hospital room); snacks (that he is not allowed to eat in my vicinity)

For Baby: Receiving blankets; hat; car seat; going home outfit; extra baby outfit; socks. (Our hospital provides everything from blankets to nail files to diapers, so there isn’t much we’ll need for baby. I think. Though I’ve never given birth before, so I guess I could be wrong about this. I probably should have paid more attention in my baby care class, but I was too distracted with learning how to swaddle. And give baths. And stop the CRYING.)

I’m trying not to go overboard, but after looking over this list I think that I’ve failed in the moderation department.

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When people ask me What has been the hardest part about being pregnant?, I always pause and think about my answer, a little perplexed because I've really enjoyed being pregnant. I only have six weeks left, and I still sometimes forget that I'm pregnant. Is that even possible? Apparently so.

It's just that nothing about me, other than the size of my abdomen, has really changed. I haven't experienced the same symptoms of pregnancy that I've listened to other women bemoan. I don't have war stories involving my gag reflex and the toilet, or of exhaustion, or of cravings or food aversions. Sometimes I even make up cravings, just to feel more pregnant, like: "Ooooohhh, sweetie. I really want some [insert here: caramel popcorn or garlic bread or fresh blueberries]." And then I get it, and I eat it because I have it and it tastes good, so why not?, but it's generally not particularly satisfying because I wasn't actually craving it in the first place. And I realize how dysfunctional that is, and how awesome it is at the same time, because I'm in a pretty fortunate situation.

Sure, there are some things about pregnancy that are a tad bit uncomfortable (well, okay then - truthfully, only one). Sleeping on my side is something that I still struggle with, because my hips get so sore! Who ever heard of sore hips from lying on your side? But they do, painfully so, and I can generally sleep about 5-6 hours (achieved by flopping back and forth every couple of hours) before I have to pack about four pillows behind me, prop myself up against the headboard, and go back to sleep. And that? That is not really a problem. That said, I'm totally content to endure a few months of sore hips, because what Roger and I will get at the end is entirely worth it.

So there's really only one thing that has been difficult about pregnancy, difficult in the same way that hitting your funny bone isn't always funny - it's also kind of painful - but at least in a somewhat pleasant kind of way. For Roger and me, naming our daughter was one of the most laborious tasks we've encountered during pregnancy. It took hours and days and weeks. It took going on vacation to a secluded island for us to narrow our list down to five that had potential, and that was only after reading through two enormous tomes of baby names. We worked from certain criteria that we had each set:

For Roger, the name had to be short, modern and unique.
For me, it couldn't appear in the Top 100 names for the past ten years (if I'm being truthful, I'd tell you that names in the Top 500 still made me cringe).

We both agreed that we didn't want a name that was easy to make fun of, and we didn’t want her initials to turn into an acronym (so, for example, any names beginning with "E" were out because, when paired with her middle and last name, it would spell ELF). We wanted a name that would be good for a child or a teenager, but also for a 40-year-old professional. And then, obviously, the name had to have a meaningful, positive origin. I mean, we didn’t want to name our daughter something that meant “warthog” in Hebrew, you know?

Continue reading "The Name Event" »

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This is me three weeks ago.

It all started when I was in the self-checkout grocery line six weeks ago. The store employee was watching me, and when I turned to leave, she asked how far along I was. I looked down at my belly, proud of my bump, and said “Twenty six weeks.” Her eyes widened. She looked down at my stomach again.

“Are you having twins?”

My face wrinkled as I glanced down, wondering where she was going with this. Isn’t it true that mothers don’t show as much with their first? Because I didn’t think my bump was all that big. “Twins? No. Just one. Our first.” It turns out her daughter had twins. And that when she was 26 weeks, she was about the same size as me. And that her twins were each over seven pounds at birth. I chit-chatted with her for a while, silently wondering whether that meant I was going to give birth to a 14-pound baby, and questioning how much I should believe what she told me. I mean, how could she really remember exactly what her daughter looked like at 26 weeks? I can’t even remember what I looked like last week!

After that exchange, something strange began happening. People everywhere were acknowledging my stomach. They opened doors for me, and offered to carry things for me, held elevators for me, and asked me questions about our baby, even how pregnancy was treating me. Some just stared. Others have avoided me, like they’re afraid my pregnancy is contagious. I haven’t even started waddling yet! (Personally, I hope that I never quite get there, but when I’m really close to the end and it’s like a bowling ball has dropped between my legs, waddling may be inevitable.) I’ve not yet had a stranger reach out and touch my stomach, though I like it when friends do. In the mall I watched with amusement as a little girl walked toward me, leaning back and pushing out her own stomach as she passed, mimicking my protruding belly.

Continue reading "Super-Size Me" »

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The past many weeks have been a bit of a blur for me -- a hazy, exhausting, sleep-deprived blur. As we've been in the final stretch for BlogHer '09 (Yes, I really am writing about work on this blog. And no, I don't typically do that.), work has become more and more overwhelmingly busy for everyone on the Events team. Updating this site has barely been on my radar, and truth be told, lately I've been living in fear of the BlogHerAds automated scanner. Each day I check my email, wondering if that's the day it will tell me to get myself in gear and post a new blog entry already, sheesh woman, you work for a company that is about blogging. EMPLOYEE FAIL.

* * *

In other (baby) news: Roger and I still haven't decided on nursery decor, but we DID finally commit to bedding. Sort of. Mostly. Since we haven't been able to find anything that we like online or in-store, we asked his mom to sew something for us! She's a wonderful seamstress, so it seemed like a brilliant plan. Until we went to the fabric stores, and couldn't find fabric we liked, and I broke down crying in one store, staring at bolts of fabric, because there were TOO MANY OPTIONS. And too many of those options were TERRIBLE. I blame it on pregnancy hormones.

After re-arranging a dozen bolts of fabric, Roger hit the jackpot with one combination. (Have I ever mentioned how awesome it is to be married to a designer? It's fabulous for people like me, who don't have the skill of IMAGINING how something might look based on a tiny swatch.

Continue reading "They Warn You About Pregnancy Hormones, But You're Still Never Prepared" »

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I've tried not talking about babies babies babies OMG pregnancy babies on this blog, and I've failed miserably. I thought this site wouldn't turn into a straight mommyblog, simply because I've always identified so strongly as a lifeblogger. And then it occurred to me: I'm writing nothing at all about my life. Which has kind of turned me into a non-blogger. I plan to continue writing about my life on this site, and right now experiencing pregnancy is part of my life. So. I will write about it.

Being pregnant is nothing like I expected it to be, mostly because my assumptions about gestating were formed by watching movies and reading friends' blogs. I figured I would be like them, those who woke up every morning dry-heaving into the toilet or couldn't keep down more than water and toast. I thought I would be exhausted all the time, or nauseated, or irritable, or overly emotional, or would have strange cravings and food aversions. If you think all pregnancies are like this, I am here to tell you that they aren't. Everything for me has been so simple, something I'm grateful for.

Absolutely nothing in my life has changed, other than my waistband, and even then that didn't really change until I was a little over five months along. I'm closing in on seven months now, and I still wear many pre-pregnancy shirts, because they show off my cute belly instead of drape it like a tent. Or at least that's what I'm assuming they do. If you see me in public and have another opinion, please tell me. Unless you're my husband. (Warning! Warning!)

Continue reading "On Expectations" »

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I'm always on the lookout for unique things to do in Dallas, and it's even better if they're low-cost or free, right? Especially in a city known for its shopping - hey, it's not like we have beaches or mountains here. Or even rolling hills. Or decent camping without driving a few hours. And for whatever reason, big D continues to tear down its few remaining historical buildings, favoring a concrete jungle instead. Don't even get me started on my issue against the city's actionable stance on historical preservation - finding new things to do is FUN to me.

I get excited about children's parades and Chinese New Year celebrations and international festivals and local performing arts and outdoor moving screenings. So when I saw an article in the DMN highlighting free things to do in Dallas this summer, I knew I had to share:

FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATIONS

Allen USA Celebration - For more than a decade, Allen USA Celebration has always been held the final weekend of June - a great way to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA! a week early. Entertainment includes: regional/national acts, including Smash Mouth (a California rock band) and children's entertainers. Other highlights include a children's area with bounce houses, festival food and a fireworks finale. TIP: free shuttle service is offered to/from the event. Cost: FREE.

Celebrate Freedom - A huge (and when I say "huge," I mean HUGE) outdoor musicfest, featuring Christian musicians Kirk Franklin, Newsboys, Jeremy Camp, Selah, and more. Other highlights include children's area, festival food, fireworks. Cost: FREE (tickets required, get info here)

OTHER FUN THINGS TO DO!

Dallas Museum of Art - Admission to the museum will be free each Wednesday in July from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. That's in addition to the usual free days: each Thursday evening from 5 to 9 and the first Tuesday of each month. Cost: FREE. Also, it's worth noting my favorite DMA event: Late Nights. On the third Friday of each month, the DMA stays open until midnight. Highlights include: art scavenger hunts (so fun!), karaoke and dancing, tours, performances, and more. Cost: $10.

Belmont Hotel Poolside Movie Nights - Every other Wednesday night, the Belmont screens a poolside movie at sundown, with the Dallas skyline as a backdrop. The last movie of the summer, Airplane!, is on Wednesday, July 1st. Bring a blanket, no lawn chairs or coolers permitted. Cost: FREE.

Continue reading "The Best Things in Life Are Free" »

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I think the best part of the Dallas bloggers meetup was not spilling food on myself. (Have I mentioned how messy I've become lately? I think it's nature's way of preparing me for motherhood. I can rarely go through a day without finding food somewhere on my shirt.)

Okay, well, no. Maybe the best part of the meetup was getting to know all the great bloggers who came out to meet each other! It was a small group, but was fabulous because we had the opportunity to get to know each other, hang out and talk, learn about each other's blogs, and have great conversations about everything from driving traffic to your site, to rodeo queens and big hair, to privacy and censorship, to summertime TV, to topical blogging, to parenthood, to BlogHer. We had a fun giveaway with several gift certificates to places like Charming Charlie, Sip-n-Swap and Target. And then we promised to do it all again soon, very soon. (If you want in on the action, join the Dallas BlogHer group.)

Continue reading "DFW BlogHer Meetup" »

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Let's get straight to the point: I'm having a vocabulary issue. And it's quite a dilemma, something that really peeves me, because I keep hearing variations of this word when I eat. Which is often. Except I'm part of the problem, because I don't know which term is correct.

Continue reading "Spread the Word" »

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Five years ago today, I made the best decision of my life. Five years that's flown by much too quickly. Five years of being married to my best friend, the most wonderful man I know.

And tomorrow, we're taking a little trip to a tiny island in the Caribbean:

Where we'll probably do a lot of this:

Continue reading "Sand and Sea" »

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I know exactly when I began fearing the prospect of giving birth. It was more than 10 years ago, and I was in a bible study with four of my good friends. All of whom, at the time, were Baylor nursing students. And I don’t remember much about that bible study, other than their weekly war stories – stories that made me certain I never wanted to experience a vaginal birth. Ever.

Most of the stories that stuck with me were about ripping. DOWN THERE. They were about pain, large amounts of pain and screaming and blood and pushing and pressure and then the TEARING, and then the weeks and weeks and weeks before it healed, before it no longer hurt to do something as simple as using the restroom. That was 12 years ago. To this day, I cannot stand the thought of an episiotomy. To the point that I generally stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut and mentally sing “la la la” if anyone so much as mentions one around me. In fact, I’ll admit that the idea of having a c-section has almost sounded dreamy to me. With drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. Just in case.

Then, last night Roger and I turned on the television and happened to find a documentary about giving birth. A documentary about giving birth naturally. A documentary about giving birth naturally at home. With a midwife. Not a doctor. Just to clarify.

At first it was kind of a freak show to me – who in the world would want to subject themselves to that? That is the sort of thing for ultra-granola women, not the sort for women like me. I like modern medicine. I like to be pampered. And maybe, I am even a little bit girly. I do not like to writhe around the floor, under a table, grunting and clutching my abdomen. (For anyone who has had a home birth, please accept my apologies: I don’t know why this is what I imagined home births are like. After watching this documentary, I am slightly less ignorant.)

Continue reading "Fear Factor: Childbirth Edition" »

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I've seen too many gift guides floating around lately, likely because of Mother's Day, and I have to tell you: for the large part, I haven't liked much in them. Is it because I'm thrifty? Or because my taste in things varies so greatly from everyone else's? Because I'm beginning to think that it's the latter, and I can't be alone in this. In any case, here are a few things that I'm loving lately, many of which I've recently purchased:

Stackable Rings

I'm not sure at what point in this pregnancy my fingers started to swell, but wearing my beloved engagement ring and wedding bands is no longer a comfortable option. When I nearly tore my finger off trying to remove them one day, I decided to go up a size and buy something to get me through the next four months. Check out these CZ stackable rings from Target. I bought four for $16, and am wearing two on my left ring finger. They're super-sparkly, which I love, and if I lose one or a stone falls out or they start to turn green, I'll still have two left over! Score!

Modern Crib

Okay, fine. So maybe you aren't shopping for a crib, but it's taking up a large portion of my nights lately. I've been looking and looking for a modern crib in espresso, preferably one that converts into a toddler bed, and let me tell you this: modern cribs in espresso are not cheap. What up, espresso haters? Does everything have to be in cherry or white or natural? And why are there so many sleigh-style cribs? And do people really spend more than $1,000 on cribs? Because that seems like a waste of money for something that will probably be chewed on, used for only a few short years, and then sold on Craigslist for $75. (Or Best Offer.)

Continue reading "These Are A Few of My Favorite Things" »

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I love cookbooks. I love cookbooks and I love cooking (though I hate cleaning the dishes) and I love good food. And I generally like history, as long as it is interesting. (Which, listen: history is NOT ALWAYS INTERESTING.) So when a publisher sent me a copy of the Military Wives' Cookbook, I was intrigued because it's a cookbook (score!), presumably has good food (score!) to cook (score!), and is filled with little historical anecdotes about our country's military wives. And that's all fine, it's a nice little package, but what I really needed to know was this: what about the recipes? Are they good? And the best way to answer those questions is to test a recipe out for myself.

After flipping through the book, I found a story about a bride who defied her father and married the man she loved. Which, I'm totally a sap, so it seemed like a good choice to me. What's more, she married the man she loved (a military officer) in a shotgun wedding, both bride and groom sitting atop their horses so they could make a quick escape. Which I thought was hilarious, considering this took place back in the 1800s. The story was printed along with a recipe for Quiche Lorraine - I don't know what the correlation was there: was it just a good place for the story, or did they serve that quiche afterward? - and my thoughts were suddenly consumed with BACON.

The key to frying bacon is trying not to eat all of it before you need it for the recipe. This is kind of difficult, because bacon is salty and delicious. And it's crunchy, if you're doing it right. I managed to only eat two pieces, so it's a good thing I made extra. (Okay, fine. I ate two-and-a-half pieces, which no one would ever know because you have to crumble it anyway.) Also, you can never have too much bacon.

While the bacon was sizzling, I whipped the cream (the recipe calls for half-and-half, but I generally consider recipes as guidelines, not rules) with the eggs and mustard and seasonings.

And then I took some of the onions from my mom's garden and I cooked them in the bacon grease. This is the best way to do it because BACON. MMmmmmmm. (Also, the onions cook quickly. So don't, say, realize you don't have shredded Swiss cheese, pull out the deli Swiss, and start CUTTING IT INTO STRIPS WITH KITCHEN SCISSORS. That might be kind of lame. But it will probably work. Hypothetically.) Once the onions are done, you should sprinkle them over the crumbled bacon.

It will be very pretty, and kind of remind you of Christmas. And then maybe you'll want some egg nog. Or maybe you're just pregnant.

After you've poured the cream mixture over the bacon and onions, sprinkle it with nutmeg. The nutmeg doesn't really do anything other than make it look pretty, and remind you of Christmas again. And make you want egg nog even more. So maybe you should just bake it and distract yourself with something else.

If you pair a slice of this quiche with something else, like strawberries, you'll be less tempted to eat the entire pie in one sitting. (It was also very good the next morning.) But strawberries probably won't be enough to stop you from going back for seconds. That's respectable. If you do that, it's a compliment. And, really, have you had enough compliments lately? I didn't think so.

The cookbook is organized a little differently than most, in that it's organized by menu. The menu titles are charming: "White Gloves and Hats: A Silver and Crystal Tea" or "Twelfth Night: A Williamsburg Buffet for Eight" or "A Sunday Reunion With Very Dear Friends." See what I mean? It's kind of a throwback to the days of yore, back when it was totally normal to be invited to Sunrise Coffee or Holiday Dessert Coffee or Afternoon Coffee or Breakfast Coffee -- and seriously? How many types of coffee and coffee gatherings are there? (Note to self: Good topic for coffee lovers.)

So my first recipe from this book was a success. And just for you, I've included the recipe after the jump. And I've also included my edits, because I am horrible at actually following recipes.

Continue reading "I Never Met A Quiche I Didn't Like" »

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It's an odd thing, lying on a cushioned table with my belly exposed, watching the monitor jump to life as the sonogram wand passed over my torso. And there, for the fourth time, was our baby: sleeping soundly, heart thumping.

Yesterday morning was our 18-week appointment. Before our session began, we told the sonogram tech we didn't want to know the baby's gender right away. Instead, we handed her a piece of paper and an envelope.

We saw the baby's bladder, and stomach, and arms and legs. We saw both hemispheres of its brain, took a profile shot with its tiny nose turned up, and then watched as it began to wake up, batting its arms and kicking its legs before settling into sleep again.

The hours ticked by slowly yesterday - no, make that excruciatingly slowly - and the longer I was aware that our baby's gender was there, known, the more I wanted to tear into the envelope and read its contents, or at least hold it up to the light, hoping I would be able to make out whether it was a four- or three-letter word. More than anything, I just wanted to confirm my suspicions. Roger kept the envelope close to his heart, tucked into his shirt pocket, out of my grasp. (Except for that one time I snatched it from him, and he nearly wrestled me to the ground for it. My husband is strong, is all I'll say.)

Continue reading "Envelope, Please!" »

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We have some neighbors who, let's say, greet each holiday very enthusiastically. Thankfully, the most enthusiastic neighbor is one street over and down a block - so I don't see their house unless I purposefully try to. Which, you know, I've kind of developed a fascination with. So I try to often.

When they put up decorations at Halloween, we didn't think much of it. Some people do that, that's cool, the orange and black lights hanging from their rooftop just provide a little extra lighting for kids trick-or-treating and it definitely spotlights them as a candy-friendly home.

Christmas wasn't that big of a deal, because nearly everyone in our neighborhood pulls out the lights, whether red or multi-colored or classic white, whether large bulbs or icicles outlining the home's frame. That's normal. I get that.

And then Valentine's Day approached, and our one very enthusiastic neighbor put up pink and red lights. With heart-shaped garland draped around the lion statuettes on either side of their sidewalk. And romantic greetings splashed across their windows. With giant candy hearts and cupid blow-up dolls on their lawn, blown full-size by some sort of air-blowing machine. And that was a little weird. Who puts blow-up dolls on their lawn for Valentine's? I mean, I get that February 14th is somewhat of a major holiday. I understand the commercialism of it. But really? Decorating your house like that? That is a little over the top.

And then St. Patrick's Day rolled around. And kelly green lights were donned. Shamrocks graced the lion statuettes. Enormous leprechaun blow-up dolls stood tall in their yard. It kind of became a spectacle, and I decided that if they would decorate for Saint Patty's, then I would be disappointed if they didn't decorate for Easter. Because Easter is totally a better holiday. St. Patrick's Day has no point, other than drinking green beer. Easter has a point.

Continue reading "Season's Greetings" »

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Thank you everyone who left comments, emailed, called and sent notes in the mail (Yes! Even notes in the mail!) to congratulate us and to ask how we're doing. The number one question, by far, has been about how much I suffered during our first trimester. And this is the part where most mothers in world will hate me. Or at least roll their eyes with jealousy.

I had no nausea (as long as I ate something every three-ish hours), no vomiting, no heartburn. No smells turned my stomach, I had no specific cravings of MUST EAT IT OR PERISH, and my appetite has neither increased or decreased. I had no exhaustion, no aches, no pains, not even pregnancy dreams. In fact -- other than a missed period -- if I hadn't seen our baby on ultrasound, I might not believe that I was even pregnant. (Which makes this documentary about women who didn't know they were pregnant until they went into labor seem a little more plausible, except really? That expanding belly and those fetal movements didn't give it away?)

The most difficult part of pregnancy for me, so far, has only begun to occur in the second trimester. You see, I've been trying to teach myself to sleep on my side for quite a while - but side-sleeping is painful! I don't understand how people do it. My hips go numb and my hip abductor muscles are shooting with pain and I don't think it's a coincidence that Mario Badescu just sent me an email about diminishing puffiness and tired eyes. Because I am not getting any sleep. Which is why I've started shopping on Craigslist for a recliner that I can use during pregnancy, because that's the only way I foresee getting any sleep: propped up on my back, cuddled under a blanket, and NOT ON MY SIDE. Is this a normal problem? Because I've not heard anyone talk about this before, and I think I've tried every variation of side-sleeping and pillow combination ever created.

(Though I have to admit: it's doing an awesome job of preparing me for when the baby comes. So there's that.)

The second most common question you asked was whether I'm showing yet, and the answer is: just barely. At 16 weeks, I'm still wearing nearly all of my pre-pregnancy jeans, and I've only just begun wearing maternity tops. But mostly because many of my shirts are fitted, and when I wear them and my stomach pokes out, it looks like I'm a little more plump around the middle rather than pregnant. I have exactly five maternity tops: black, pink, blue, grey and white, and I have a feeling that by the end of this pregnancy I might need to burn them. (Though I'll still admit to feeling giddy every time I put one on.)

And the third most common question was about this website. Will it turn into a mommyblog? I don't have an answer to that question quite yet, though I think it's fair to say that I write about my life, and this is a part of my life. Also: I've been holding this news in for a loooonnnnnggggggggg time. You'll have to bear with me while I flush all of the newness of writing about baby, baby, OMG BABY out of my system.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Last week, my laptop crashed. I've never had that happen before, where it worked fairly well the day before and the next day wouldn't even turn on, so I wasn't sure what to do. And then I remembered the Geek Squad.

Now, truth be told: before February, Geek Squad wouldn't have been on my radar. But I attended BlissDom '09 in February, and Geek Squad was a highly visible sponsor at the conference. I thought: "Hey! They support bloggers! I will patronize them and see if they can help me." Because we've got to support each other, right?

So I took my computer to my local Geek Squad (at Best Buy) and explained the problem. The goal: either to fix the problem, or to recover all the data from my hard drive. While I was standing there, the Geek tried to plug in my computer to "run diagnostics." Except he couldn't get it to power up, so he told me all was lost, and my only option was data recovery.

I blinked.

I understand that my laptop is almost 3 years old. And that laptops need to be replaced every so often. And really, the most important thing to me is the data. Every work-related file I owned was on that laptop, and I couldn't really work without those files. Every photo and video from every trip that Roger and I have taken - both foreign and domestic - was on that laptop. And I was desperate to get those back. And then there were the recipes that I've been collecting for that cookbook I'm writing (the one that I've been writing for the past five years, but still), and they were all lost too.

Data recovery suddenly became all I cared about, so yes, I paid $108 to have them extract my files and folders and bookmarks. It was an easy decision.

Though the Geek told me it would take 3-4 days, I was elated the next day to receive both an automated email message and an automated phone call: my order was ready! My laptop was ready for pickup! And with it, I assumed, ALL MY DATA. I rushed to Best Buy, and excitedly approached the Geek. He looked up my order.

Geek: "Oh, it looks like we owe you a refund."
Jes: Blank stare
Geek: "I'll just put that back on your MasterCard."
Jes: Blank stare
Jes: [This is where it would have been helpful if someone had actually called me to tell me what was going on, rather than sending me an automated message to inform me that my "order was ready."] "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. Why are you giving me a refund? I don't understand."
Geek: (as though I'm an idiot) "Because we couldn't pull your data off your hard drive. It's broken."
Jes: Blank stare
Jes: "Well that's not my last option, is it? I mean, it can't just be un-recoverable just because you guys can't get it off. Can't you extract my hard drive and plug it into another computer?"
Geek: "That's what we did. It just kept spinning. Your hard drive is physically broken. The only way to recover that data is to send it off to our White Lab."
Jes: "What is a White Lab? Where is that? What is the cost?"
Geek: "A White Lab is a like a giant clean room, like where FBI-like people take apart the computers of white-collar criminals to investigate them. Our service center is in Kentucky. I've seen it cost as low as $260, and as much as $1,700. Plus $34.95 for shipping."
Jes: Blank stare "Ummm, yeaaahhh. I think I'm going to look into other options. You can go ahead with the refund and I'll take my laptop."

Because I REFUSED to believe that sending my laptop off to a service center in Kentucky was my last option. I live in Dallas. Dallas seems more...advanced...than the entire state of Kentucky. Certainly there is SOMEONE in Dallas who can help me.

A man in Best Buy, who overheard the conversation, stopped me and recommended The Computer Wizard. "He's a computer forensics expert, he's been doing this for a llooooonnnnggggggg time, you should check him out," he says. If he can't help, he'll know who can. [Actually, the conversation was much longer than that. But I'm paraphrasing.]

As it turns out, The Computer Wizard is just two blocks from my house in Plano, Texas. So I took my laptop, with my flailing faith in Geeks, and explained the situation. He listened to me talk (on and on and on) about my Geek Squad nightmare, and how I refused to believe they were my last option, and then I told him about the problem I was having with my computer. And then he told me that just last week, he had someone in his office saying the exact same thing. That Geek Squad told them they couldn't fix the problem. And the Computer Wizard could. My hopes soared a little. So I trusted my laptop to him, and left his office, fully confident that this man knew his business.

And two hours later, he personally called me:

Computer Wizard: "There's nothing wrong with your hard drive. I was able to pull all nine gigs of your data off with no problem."
Jes: Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!! "That's awesome news! Thank you!"
Computer Wizard: "Your [something I don't remember] is broken, but it doesn't affect your hard drive AT ALL. This was easy. So just bring in your new computer and we'll transfer the files over, or you can buy a 16gb flash drive and we'll put the files there."

So in the end, I got all of my data. And I'm so thankful for The Computer Wizard. And no offense to those nerdily cute Geeks with their wrinkly shirts and unbrushed hair, but the moral of the story is: DON'T USE GEEK SQUAD . They're really, really, REALLY incompetent.

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Today, when checking email, my heart dropped into my stomach. Now, it's true that I get creeped out kind of easily - I know that, and it's part of the reason why I refuse to watch Freddy Krueger even if it is the middle of the day and all the lights are on in the house. I. Just. Can't. Handle. It.

So when I was going through email today, and saw that a certain person was following me, I stopped and stared, confused. Because the person following me has my same name. And I don't know if you've ever opened your email and seen "[insert your first and last name here] is now following you," but let me tell you: it is both confusing AND creepy, especially because you know it's not spam because spammers haven't gotten that creative yet. (Note to spammers: Don't.)

I've never really thought before about how creepy Twitter can be, but now I'm on the lookout. And I'm fairly certain that once someone with my maiden name starts following me, I'm going to start looking over my shoulder in suspicion a lot more frequently.

[If you want to follow me on Twitter, by the way, please do. Because I'm pretty certain WE don't share the same name.]

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For the past few weeks, I've been taking a cake decorating class. This shouldn't come as much of a surprise, considering my love for making cakes. I have a ton more than I've ever chronicled on this site, and I figured it was time to up the ante and learn the Proper Way to Decorate.

Originally I thought the class was a little beneath my skill level, consider we're learning how to make stars and drop flowers, and HELLO, I already taught myself to do that. But after this last lesson, what I learned was that I made up how to do it, and I have no technical skill whatsoever. I do not do things properly. And I am okay with that! I didn't do math problems properly in high school or college either, but I still got to the same answer! (Most of the time.) Isn't that what counts? I say that's what counts.

The problem is that I work from home, so I really don't have anywhere to take these cakes once they're finished. And Roger works for a boutique design agency, and it took them an entire week to eat the last cake I made - there just aren't as many people as there is cake. So I end up with a plethora of cakes surrounding me, begging to be eaten, and my thighs refuse to do ALL of that eating. True story.

This week I made a classic yellow cake with buttercream icing. It's a simple, playful thing, in primary colors, with two cute little clowns on top and a decorative border. Also, check out that striped icing - I'm so fancy!

Do you want this cake? I will give you this cake. I have not even eaten one piece of this cake! That is maybe the true miracle.

If you live (or work) anywhere between downtown Dallas and Frisco, I will deliver this cake to you. As long as you are not creepy. (Please let me know if you are creepy.) Share it with lots of your co-workers - you can even take credit for it, I don't mind! - and they will love you forever. (And in this economy, don't we all need to be loved a little?) (Answer: Yes.) (Other answer: You want the cake.)

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Since we've been involved in what will surely become the longest remodel in the history of home remodels, I've become a lot more intimately acquainted with the inner-workings of a house. Like electrical wiring. (Well, sort of.) And plumbing. And what toilets look like when they're removed from the floor. And let me tell you: it is ... unpleasant.

So when I saw on CNN this morning that there is a new restaurant in Hong Kong called "Modern Toilet," curiosity got the best of me. You know, I understand themed decor. I do. But this place - wow. The toilet lids and glowing urinals hanging on the walls, and seating made of toilet bases aren't what bother me. But eating out of a mini-toilet bowl?

That's one restaurant that I'd keep a lid on.

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I recently installed Google Analytics on my site, and I have to tell you: I am not impressed. Maybe it is because I'm no longer writing daily entries (shame on me, I know), or maybe it is because these extended, unannounced absences are really taking that big of a toll on this site, but there has been a noticeable drop in my stats lately. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not really one to watch my stats all that much. I'll pop in maybe once a month, just to see what's going on, but I really just don't have time to research it, as horrible as that may be considering that I work for a blogging community. And my entire job revolves around blogs. You'd think I'd take all of the knowledge and expertise I've picked up around these circles and at these conferences and implement it. I mean, what's the purpose of going to all these seminars about building traffic and writing better if I don't actually do it, you know?

Anyway, so I recently installed Google Analytics on my site, and I really actually kind of hate it. Not because it doesn't do the job - it's just that it does its job a little too well. I've been used to statcounter.com for the past four-and-one-half years. Statcounter is like that best friend that tells you that you look great in that low-cut dress, you know the one, even if it is two sizes too small. It inflates your pride a little, is what I'm saying, or it does mine, anyhow, and massages your shoulders while smugly handing you a champagne flute and encouraging you to toast your success.

Google Analytics, on the other hand, is like that best friend who is always maybe a little too honest. It's the friend who tells you that your size 6 pencil skirt should really be a size 10, and that you've got rolls and bulges where you never knew they existed. It hands your pride to you on a platter, flaws exposed, gruffly suggesting that you should eat a breath mint before exhaling within a five-foot radius of its delicate nostrils, and would you mind changing from that bulky seafoam sweater to a plum cashmere v-neck? It'd really enhance your complexion. And your figure.

All that to say, I kind of miss statcounter, with all its flawed, beefy reports and gentle, pride-soothing numbers. Which possibly means that I don't care all too much when you lie to me, as long as you can make it sound believable. So I'm thinking it would be a good idea if Google Analytics could create two buttons for search results. The first would generate reports as it currently does. The second would offer just a little massage, just a little champagne, a space that is just a little pull away from reality. And that space, I've found, is exactly where I want to live.

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Confession: I judge restaurants, hotels, parties -- even my friends -- by the fork I'm given.

If it's heavy, clean and has curved edges, I have an inkling that the food will be good. If it's tinny and has sharp sides -- the kind that threaten to cut my skin when I turn my fork on its side -- I approach the meal with more caution. Because if you can't pick out good cutlery, how can I trust your skills in the kitchen?

Moral of the story? Invest in the good stuff. It makes you look like you know what you're doing, even if you don't.

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When I confessed I gave up chocolate for two-and-a-half years, I didn't mention that my abstinence totally changed the way I consume chocolate. That is, I can't eat it straight. This baffles my husband, who considers a handful of chocolate chips as dessert. To me, eating plain chocolate is like taking a shot of Jack and letting it swirl around your tongue for five minutes before you get around to swallowing it. It's just too much, too intense, too startlingly pure.

So when BlogHer and M&M's Premiums contacted me to review their new candies, I knew two things: One, despite my distaste for plain chocolate, I love regular M&M's. The outer shell is just crunchy enough to break up the plain chocolate, and I figured if I liked the fancy version as much as the original, it would totally be worth the taste-test (they didn't exactly have to twist my arm, you see). Two, when I received the box full of all the new M&M's Premiums flavors, I realized that my taste buds were in a heap of trouble, and I better employ the help of several friends (it pays (in morsels of chocolate) to be my friend).

And, since I consider you my friend, I'm giving away even more M&M's Premiums to a lucky winner. All you have to do is answer one simple question.

Click here to watch the video and enter the contest!

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Two things I'm loving today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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For the past many years I have ignored making resolutions, mostly because I know that within a couple weeks (or days, or hours) I will have already abandoned whatever proclamation I've made. Until last year.

Last year I resolved to Get Out More, to do and try more things, to explore new areas of Dallas. Then Roger and I bought a house, and started remodeling, and on top of that we both made new career moves. While the year has been full of change for us, it hasn't been full of exploration. So I'm planning a Resolution Rollover, and adopting last year's plan to 2009. I can do that, can't I? But that's not my only plan.

I'm making a second promise to myself: to get more organized. This is kind of a shoo-in, because Roger and I just finished designing our closets and will soon have walnut and platinum storage systems lining our closet walls. For the past few days I have been near-drooling over the upcoming installation, and this is why:

We have two closets in the master bedroom, and this is the first closet. The second will have drawers and shelving, which will completely eliminate our need for our collective three (three!) dressers and armoires. And maybe that is what I'm most excited about: my evil plan to eradicate all extra furniture. So minimalist! Clean lines! Be still my heart; thou hast known no better than this.

And so while I'm organizing my home and exploring my neighborhood, I'm curious to know what you'll be doing. Have you made any New Year Resolutions?

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For the past three nights, I have been very focused on practicing The Side Sleep. I've taken a diagram (very helpful indeed, TUWABVB), your comments and your emails to bed with me. (Uhhh, it's not quite how it sounds.) And you know what? I think it's helping. But what do you do about the thumping? Because I can't quite get past that.

Do you know what I mean? The thumping you can hear, except maybe it's more like swishing? Am I the only one that gets annoyed that I can hear my heart beating through my ear? Like a seashell? EXCEPT LOUDER?

And then, inevitably, I start thinking about oatmeal. I'm either thinking about it because it's what I associate with a healthy heart (I don't know, whatever, but it's always Quaker Oats and never the instant, pre-packaged stuff), or I'm thinking about it because it's what I know I think about when I'm associating a healthy heart with something, and the fact that I'm NOT thinking about it drives me to think about it.

And so I'm lying in bed at night thinking about breakfast, except I rarely even eat oatmeal for breakfast, which makes me think about things I'd rather be eating, and before you know it I can feel my mouth start to water as visions of, well you know. Visions of foodstuffs are dancing in my head.

Anyway, this is a real problem because I'm supposed to be sleeping. Side-sleeping, at that. And sorry, but I can't be the only one dealing with that deafening rhythm drumming, drumming, drumming.

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For the past few nights, I've been troubled by something. Something kind of embarrassing, considering that I've been doing it for 30 years now: lying down to sleep. How could I forget how to lie down?

I can only fall asleep if I am flat on my back, head tilted to the side – but not too far, I don't want my neck to be sore – hair covering my out-turned ear (to keep it warm, obviously). There is nothing more comfortable to me than sprawling out flat, staring up at the ceiling, legs and arms flung this way and that. Of course, there's also my husband to consider. And how my legs and arms sometimes find themselves jamming into his ribs and calves. And how he kind of dislikes that.

Sleeping on my stomach is totally out – that's just way too uncomfortable. My bottom sticks out weird, and the only way I can manage to lie on my stomach is to shove a pillow under my abs for support. Call it sway back, call it my ghetto bootie, call it whatever you want. I'm simply incapable of stomach-sleeping.

So lately I've been trying to learn how to sleep on my side. I used to be a side-sleeper exclusively, and perhaps that is why I am so perplexed about my sudden inability to stay still once in position. For one, my spine feels all twisty and weird, so I spend a considerable amount of time trying to straighten myself out. This leads to bending and un-bending and re-bending my legs (I've even tried putting a pillow between my knees, to no avail), adjusting my body's angle, then flopping to my other side and trying again.

Second, and most importantly, what am I supposed to do with my bottom arm? Do I extend it out beyond my head? That works only so long before my wrist starts to go numb. Bend my arm into a V shape to cradle my head? After a while my shoulder falls asleep, but I usually can't stay that way for long before I start bending my legs again. Align my arm under my body? Then I just want to detach it, the way I used to, umm, adjust my Barbies.

I'm really at a loss here. Do you sleep on your side? How do you manage? Can you come to my house and demonstrate? I think I need lessons.

(Or maybe I just need to flop over onto my back again. It's what works, afterall.)

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Just in time for the holidays and those family portraits you'll be taking this weekend, I'm bringing you a helpful list of Things To Do To Sabotage Your Diet. For your convenience, I carefully researched each item on this list. You're welcome!

1. When you're home alone, bake cookies, make rice krispies or buy some ice cream (preferably chocolate-flavored, please). This way you can eat it all yourself. Yes, you will get sick. But at least there will be no evidence.

2. Spend a cumulative two hours throughout the day thinking about exercising, but never actually do it. Lie down and watch a movie instead!

3. Take several pictures of yourself with your new iPhone. Get depressed about how chubby your cheeks look in those pictures. Go ahead, eat that bag of chips. They'll make you feel better. It's the camera's angle, darling, not you.

Continue reading "How to Sabotage Your Diet in Five Simple Steps" »

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Since Roger and I bought our first house last March, we've been hard at work remodeling it. So far, we have:

• peeled up the carpet
• tackled the ceilings (and then smoothed them out)
• tore all the wood paneling off the walls
• dismantled a built-in book shelf and furr down in the living room
• (for that matter, we removed furr downs throughout the entire house)
• installed a new garbage disposal and garage door opener
• replaced both exterior faucets
• removed a divider wall in one bathroom (between the sink and the toilet)
• rewired all electrical outlets and light switches
• installed new pipes for running future cable lines to all rooms (including study, media room and bedrooms)
• re-built a wall in the hallway leading to the master bedroom
• stripped hideous wallpaper from the kitchen, breakfast nook and master bathroom
• removed all baseboards and door trim
• decimated the wet bar
• demolished a closet
• built a new laundry room
• converted the old laundry room into a walk-in pantry
• re-textured all walls in the house, including closets

And, after all this time, we FINALLY get to paint. (Thankfully, Roger's parents are coming into town for Thanksgiving. Guess what they'll be doing while they're here? Hey, I'm not against parental labor. I'm an equal-opportunity kind of gal.) We've narrowed our base paint colors down to the following...

Continue reading "The Color of Change" »

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Three web sites that I've been enjoying lately:

My Super Hopeless Romance: It's kind of like reading teen romance, full of angst and confusion and raging hormones. Except not in a scandalous way. If you decide to read it, start from the beginning. But first, a warning: this story is addictive. It is the first site I check every day, and several times throughout the day, for updates. It's like a good book you can't put down, except that you're forced to put it down because the story isn't finished.

Moshi Monsters: I first heard about Moshi Monsters from iJustine.com (another site worth checking out – Justine is this gorgeous video blogger with a fabulous life, and every time I watch one of her videos, I want to go shopping with her). Moshi Monsters are adoptable pet monsters that you have to feed and keep happy. It is kind of lame, and yet somehow I'm still addicted. Or at least obligated by my deep, constant fear of failure. Must. Keep. Monster. Alive. It's also potentially creepy, because most of the people who have accounts on Moshi Monsters are children and tweens. But really, I'm not creepy. I'm just shopping for my monster at the Gross-ery store.

Ancestry.com: Several weeks ago, perhaps an outcome of pregnancy (before I miscarried), I suddenly decided it was important that I know my ancestry. (Or maybe it was reading that Barack Obama and Brad Pitt are cousins.) Anyway, I signed up for the black hole that is ancestry.com, and thereafter stayed up until two or three in the morning searching for long-lost relatives. I got all the way back to the 1500s on one side of my family, and listen: that site? Is addictive. Especially when you start researching major ports (like Ellis Island!) to see if you can find your ancestor's name among millions of other immigrants. Do not get sucked into the ancestry.com vortex unless you have a lot of time to waste. Seriously.

Edited to add:
Failblog: A chronicle of humanity's stupidity. If you are not reading Failblog, you are missing the best of the Internet. I just started reading it, and already am sucked in. A fine example: Dance Fail. I've watched this video ten times and I'm STILL laughing.

Any sites that you're keen on sharing?

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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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You know when you have surgery, and go under anesthetics, and you start to babble and feel loopy just before you're totally knocked out? On Tuesday, I had an epiphany while talking to my doctor:

Doctor: "How are you feeling, Jes?"

Jes: "Drunk."

Doctor (laughing): "Yeah, think of it as going on a date*." (And then trying to ease my mind) "...and we'll take good care of you!"

Jes (foggy): "Uhhh..." (looking around sterile white surgery room) "...I've never been on a date like this before."

Doctor (laughing): "That's probably a good thing."

Jes (struggling to form sentences): "Omigosh, I just had a brilliant idea."

Doctor (exchanging glances with the anesthesiologist in the room): "What's that?"

Jes (slurring): "You should open an anesthetics bar. You know? Instead of alcohol? Because then you wouldn't have a hangover after drinking, but people could still feel drunk, but then you can sober up practically anytime you want - just remove the IV! Isn't that an awesome idea?"

Doctor (laughing as a cover, but probably wishing he'd thought of that before): "I'll have to talk to Dr. Cooper about us going into business together."

Aaaaand then I was out.

But seriously, isn't that a clever idea? It kind of makes me wonder how many other ingenious things I could come up with while pumped full of anesthetics.

* In all fairness, he said something like this, but I can't remember exactly what it was. I was kind of spinning from the drugs at the time.

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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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So! The upside of not making changes to your website in two-and-a-half years is that everything works when you need it to work, simply because it always has worked, there never was any question about it.

The downside of not making changes to your website in two-and-a-half years is that when you get a wild hair and abruptly decide to start tinkering with it, you realize you've almost forgotten how to code, and suddenly nothing works as it should. And then there are LOTS of questions about it.

If you've been lingering around this site tonight, refreshing your screen maniacally (like me), you probably saw a few hundred iterations of Chirky flashing about, with columns misbehaving and links not working -- they're still not, at least not on the most recent entries, and I'm not quite sure what to do about that because I need to ask for HEEELLLLPPPP. My comments section chose the most inopportune time to lay itself to rest -- and hey! Did you notice my shiny new ads section?

It's kind of hard not to notice right now, and I hate that - ads should blend in, not stick out like, um, well, like that wild hair that abruptly made me start tinkering with everything to begin with -- but my goal is to get them to migrate to the far right, where they'll be a bit less obtrusive. I'm expecting the migration to go a little slowly, though, because all the coding tricks up my sleeve (plus the how-to guides I read online) haven't worked yet. Which, I mean, you think that they would. Just change column a to column c, shift everything else to the left a bit, et voila! My site is broken. I've tried that.

So if you're skilled at coding in Movable Type, and maybe you were perusing the Internet looking for the culprit responsible for breaking the Internet, email me (or leave a comment by clicking here)! I have no idea what I'm doing!

Updated to Add: My links! They are working! But I somehow lost my right sidebar. Hey, you've got to give a little and take a little, right?

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Since I’ve been working from home, I’ve become more and more aware how my daily style and interaction is changing. I work in silence most of the day, aside from conference calls. I chat with friends and co-workers online. And mostly, I like it.

Since we are remodeling our house, the room that will be our office is out of commission. So for the past month, I have been working in my bedroom. Sitting on my bed. Laptop on my lap. Wearing my pajamas. I generally don’t get dressed until noon, when I walk into the kitchen for a sandwich and realize: Wow. I am kind of sloppy. Maybe I should put on real clothes. And sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t. Unless I am going out to get the mail, and then I always put on real clothes. What would the neighbors think if I were in my pajamas? Are my neighbors even home? Or peering out their windows when I happen to be outside? These are my burning questions.

So lately I’ve been thinking that maybe I should get up and get dressed every day at 7am, the same way I did when I worked in an office. Just because I’m working from home doesn’t mean my main clothing choices have to be robes, exercise clothes, or pajamas, right?

And to take it a step further, I’m even considering fixing my hair (a style other than a ponytail would do) and – gasp! – wearing makeup. I mean, if I don’t wear makeup, what exactly will I be washing off my face with my fancy new skin care system?

Do you ever work from home? And if so, do you have this same problem? How do you combat a month-long case of the frumps? Not that you look frumpy, darling.

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Two weekends ago I spent my time re-creating barnyard confections, and this past weekend I spent my weekend crafting an erupting volcano surrounded by steaming lava and primitive species. That's right - my niece and nephew were born a week apart from each other, which makes for me a very busy month. (Note to self: when giving birth to my own children, steer clear of September.)

My nephew, Chase, is at an age where he likes to pick out everything himself (though, honestly, he's been at that age for quite some time). He has his favorite toys, he prefers certain activities, he chooses his own clothes. So it didn't surprise me when he wanted to discuss what type of cake he wanted for his birthday. His FIFTH birthday. We talked about monsters and whales and music, we filtered through snakes and pyramids and treasure chests. And in the end, we settled on a volcano.

A volcano surrounded by an ocean. A volcano surrounded by an ocean inhabited with sharks. A volcano surrounded by ocean inhabited with sharks, and dinosaurs prancing in the volcano's lava. For good measure. And the lava erupting from the mouth of the volcano? Well, that was just for fun.

Click on image to enlarge.

How I did it:

THE OCEAN
The oceanic base is made of an ultra-moist french vanilla cake. I drizzled semi-tinted confection-buttercream on top, for the appearance of a waterfall. It was the easiest part of the cake.

THE VOLCANO
The volcano was created from my go-to chocolate cake, a recipe that requires things like powdered pudding mix AND Ghiradelli chocolate chips, and this cake is divine on its own. It is moist and rich, but not too dense, and it's impossible to eat only one piece. (I know, I've tried. I fail every time.) The volcano is made of three layers: the base (an eight-inch bundt), the middle section (a 5-inch cake) and a cupcake (2.5-inches in diameter). I drizzled a milk-chocolate buttercream over the volcano, careful to cover it fully without pooling it too far into the ocean. And then, after all of that, I added crushed Oreo cookies to give the cake the dimension of dirt.

THE LAVA
I whipped up red- and orange-tinted confection buttercream icing for the lava spilling down the sides of the volcano, which I drizzled in thin ribbons with a knife. The day before, I had melted orange and cherry lifesavers over medium-low heat and spooned them onto foil in haphazard formations. (This can be done up to one week ahead and stored in an airtight container. Note: they break easily, so make a lot of them.) After randomly inserting the hard-candy lava around the crest of the volcano, I sprinkled the volcano center with shimmering, edible red glitter.

Click on image to enlarge.

We placed the sharks and dinosaurs on the cake, et voila! Finished! If we could have done anything differently, I would have waited until we arrived at our destination to insert the hard candy lava. By the time we got to the party, the lava shooting out of the cake had fallen waywardly in some places, and was a bit sunken in others. Still, the kids loved it. (So did the parents, though I refused to admit exactly how much sugar and butter their children were ingesting. I mean, isn't that what birthday parties are for?)

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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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There's something I've got to get off my chest. For the past several months, I’ve been on a quest for the perfect sports bra. I’ve asked friends for their input. And mostly, their answers have been: I have no idea. There are no good ones, it seems. Or, let me edit: there are no good ones for women who wear larger than an A or B cup.

Now, if you wear an A or B cup, you are probably the type of person who can get away with not wearing a bra. Not that you do, but if you wanted to, you could. You’re probably also the type of person who can wear a deep-cut swimsuit without looking like a tramp. And you have no problems with gaping blouses. For that, I’m a little envious.

But the rest of the time, I like having a little more up top. Granted, it can be frustrating to shop for button-down shirts that fit my body AND my bust, but I like my size, and my husband has no complaints, and so I’m willing to work with what I’ve got.

Sports bras, however, have been a constant thorn in my side. The material is too flimsy. They don’t offer great coverage. And worst of all, they don’t support. I mean, maybe they support if all you’re doing is just standing there, but if I was just standing there, I probably wouldn’t be wearing a bra specifically designed for exercise, right? And retailers, in my experience, generally seem to sell sports bras that are meant for A and B cups. (I’m looking at you, Target.)

So I decided to go on a hunt for a sports bra that was functional AND pretty. I tried on every style available, which meant that I spent a half-hour intermittently (a) jogging in the dressing room of my local sports store and (b) wrangling myself into and out of a variety of sizes and styles. I tried on sports bras in materials ranging from cotton to polyester/lycra blends, skimpy to full cuts, by every brand the store carried. Only one bra made the final cut, and this is why: it was customizable to fit every shape, every woman. EVEN ME.

It is the Fiona sports bra by Moving Comfort. Not only is the sports bra customizable, but it is cute. The details: the back has a snap-closure, just like your regular underthings, so you can control how it fits around your ribcage. What I love most about this sports bra, though, are the adjustable Velcro shoulder straps. At first I was a little taken off guard – what if the Velcro doesn’t hold? (It does.) – thinking that there’s no way this bra could be supportive enough. To my surprise, it passed the jogging, the hopskotching and the stretching tests. The shoulder straps are not adjustable from the back; instead, they open and close from the front. And since the strap length can fully extend or shorten, you can control exactly how tight you want to strap yourself in, if you get my drift.

In all, I’d call it a successful shopping trip. Now if only I could motivate myself to go to the gym.

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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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So many of you advised that I take a pregnancy test that I actually started to believe I was pregnant. I mean, I had several classic pregnancy signs: nausea, odor aversions, food cravings, excessive tiredness, dull headaches, elevated temperature. I even started to have weird pains in my side and imagined that I could feel my chocolate-chip-sized baby growing. (In all of this, my overactive imagination has definitely remained intact.)

I obsessively culled through 19 pages (19!) of forums about creative ways to announce to family and friends that you’re pregnant. I was already mentally planning trips to local baby boutiques, questioning how I would tell Roger, wondering at what point my innie would become an outie.

And so, on your recommendation, I went home last night and took a pregnancy test. It was something I purchased for the Great Scare of 2005, back when we just weren’t ready, and it expired in October 2007. But do those things ever REALLY expire? I mean, it’s just pee on a stick. It’s not exactly perishable. (Sidenote: it seems that a lot of people wrap these tests and give them to their spouse/friends/family, and I just don’t understand that. You are giving them a gift that you URINATED on. Something about that is kind of repulsive to me.)

I stared at it and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Remembering all those stories I read online about women discovering they were pregnant long after the 3-minute mark, I set the test aside and decided to look at it later. I waited twenty minutes, just to be sure to give it enough time, and still: nothing.

Just a solitary pink line.

After getting myself so excited about the possibility of being pregnant, it was disappointing news. I stared at the test, hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me. I searched for a very faint line, but there was just the one surrounded by a field of white cotton. I considered getting one of my pink markers and drawing a second line.

But I didn’t. I’m not THAT obsessive.

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Is it possible to possess symptoms of pregnancy without actually being pregnant? To wit:

On Saturday morning I went to the grocery store, ambled past the deli, and almost hurled when the scent of freshly fried chicken wafted toward me.

Last night I had an insatiable craving for Hooters’ Daytona wings. The wings won. So did the fried pickles.

Today I wandered down to the Smelly Deli, an appropriate nickname for the delicatessen on the second floor of my office building, and I had to coax down my gag reflex as soon as I smelled the bacon. Good God, I thought, what is that smell? Is that...is that BACON?

And that’s when I knew that something was wrong with me, the moment that thought entered my mind, because I LOVE BACON. I love the smell of bacon. I love cooking bacon. I especially love EATING bacon. And this sudden aversion to bacon? Well, it’s just not normal.

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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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When I turned 30 last month, a handful of people teased me about my body falling apart, about how it’s all downhill from here. I pathetically laughed along, both fearfully and dismissively, assuming it couldn’t be THAT bad. And then, this past Saturday, I found myself in the ER.

Saturday morning, as I walked into the grocery store, I felt a sharp pain shoot through my chest cavity. It squeezed my upper ribcage, ripped through my breasts and lodged itself just to the side of my heart. Am I having a heart attack? The pain radiated into my throat and ricocheted around to my mid-back. I grabbed the side of the refrigerated cheese display. I’m too young to be having a heart attack. I felt like my entire chest was constricted and at the same time, it felt like it was going to explode.

Ever the optimist, I trudged along in the store, determined to finish my task. Must get milk and eggs. Good thing both were in the same vicinity. I checked out and drove home, nauseated from the pain but still lucid. And just as I pulled up in front of our house, everything began to subside.

What was that? Did I have a heart attack? A stroke? A panic attack? I walked into our house, chest still throbbing and burst into tears when I saw Roger. Finally! A friendly face! Someone who didn't just stare at me clinging to the railing, but who asked me what was wrong. And then we went to the ER.

The emergency staff riddled me with questions about my morning and my pain and exactly where did it hurt? And did you vomit? (No.) And what did you have to eat this morning (Nothing yet.) Was your heart racing? (I'm not sure.) Did you experience any shortness of breath? (I was kind of distracted by ALL THAT PAIN, in case I hadn't mentioned it before.) Do you have a family history of heart failure? (Yes.) Can you show me again where it hurt? Let's do an EKG. I reclined on the table while a nurse hooked electrodes across my torso, plugging them in one by one.

Honey, she said, I teach classes up at the surgery center, and this is one of the most perfect EKGs I've ever seen. You're in perfect health! Confused, I looked at her big hair and bright eyes, her cartoon-themed scrubs swallowing her petite frame. What happened that morning didn't FEEL like perfect health. It felt like I was DYING. She measured my oxygen levels (perfect), did an ultrasound (nothing abnormal) and ran a few more diagnostic tests (perfect).

I didn't get any answers on Saturday, other than establishing that my heart rate, my blood pressure, my EKG, my oxygen levels and everything else about me, is perfect.

(Though, honestly, didn't we already know I'm perfect?)

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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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Visiting a city like Washington, D.C., where so much of our nation’s history has been determined, we figured there would be lots to do. We knew we wouldn’t have enough time to call on even a quarter of the places on our list. We already planned on several more trips, over several more years, so we could take it all in.

But we didn’t know we would be so charmed by the city and each of its micro-burbs, like Georgetown and Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle. We hadn’t planned on adding Washington, D.C. to the ever-growing list of Places We Would Consider Moving To. We didn’t know we’d be so enamored by how clean the subway system was.

I didn’t realize how patriotic I would feel, how my chest would swell with pride knowing that I was examining the very artifacts and statuesque faces that set our country’s freedom into motion.

We spent a morning in the Holocaust Museum. My second visit was just as somber as my first.

We hopped on a Tourmobile and visited the Jefferson and Lincoln monuments, re-enacting the post-Vietnam scene from Forrest Gump (but without wading through the reflecting pool), calling out Jeeennnnaaayyyyyyy!

We stood quietly during the changing of the guard at Arlington Cemetery, and I was struck with respect for these men who have the honor of guarding the Unknown Soldier’s tomb.

We walked along the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, looking for the names of those who served alongside my father.

We strolled the perimeter of the White House, peering through bars and wondering whether the President ever got annoyed by the throngs of people. I mean, I would if thousands of people stood outside my home each day.

We drove along Embassy Row, marveling at the differences between each country’s embassy. We wondered whether each country buys the land and building, or if the United States gives the building to that country’s ambassador. We never found out.

We were stunned by the architecture of the Washington National Cathedral, gleaming white with grotesques and gargoyles standing at attention. The choir practiced as we wandered, making the cathedral even more angelic. We toured the building, and while we were in the sanctuary our guide audibly gasped and in a hushed voice, said Oh my goodness. Everyone look up at the rose window right now.

We obeyed, slowly turning around, uncertain what would greet us. A bright light, brighter than the sun filtering through the stained glass, glinted down. As we moved around the room, the light turned from the brightest white to a royal blue to a deep purple.

The man who made this window loved his wife dearly. She died while he was constructing the design, at exactly 5:25. Distraught, and wanting to memorialize her, he placed this special glass in the window. The glass was situated in the lower right corner, just where the 5:25 index is on a clock. This is only the second time in eight years I have seen it glowing. The sun has to hit it just right, and you have be standing in just the right place at just the right time, to catch a glimpse of it. That moment was one of the most memorable of our trip.

Without question, though, what I reminisce upon most tenaciously were the bikers. The Rolling Thunder motorcycle group came from all over the nation – a local told us they saw license plates from as far away as Alaska – to take part in an annual ride in memory of fallen comrades. What started as a salute to Vietnam soldiers now encompasses other wars, like those in Desert Storm and Iraq.

About 100,000 Harleys infiltrated the streets of Washington, D.C., and on Sunday morning they rode. They rode with American flags trailing behind their motorcycles, they rode with POW and MIA flags fluttering in the wind. They rode with pride, with the memory of their brothers. They circumnavigated the Mall, thousands and thousands and thousands of them, the noise from their pipes bone-rattling loud, and I couldn’t NOT cheer.

image © Matthew Whatley, used with permission

I cheered in memory of my own father, remembering the stories he told me about the unwelcome retaliation he received for being a soldier. How he, as a Navy SEAL, returned home to endure people spitting on him as he walked through the airport in his fatigues. I cheered because these are people who served our country so long ago, who fought so that I, and so that others I do not even know, could have freedom. They fought so that others might not live under oppression. They fought, and they deserve our respect.

I did not know that I would stand in the road, so close that my hair would whip around my face, and shed tears with each passing veteran.

But I did, unashamed.

(The entire set is available on Flickr.)

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Nine months ago, Roger and I attended one of those fancy charity benefit dinners – the kind that required long, dangly earrings and heels – and our first silent auction. We wandered the perimeter tables, totally uninterested in the Waterford crystal bowls and signed Dallas Cowboys jerseys and the artwork hanging on the walls. We bid on (and won) gift certificates to restaurants and theatre tickets, excited to bid on something. We bid on them even though we probably would have gone to those restaurants anyway and we chose to no longer hold season tickets to the theatre center. But there’s a new director there now, we reasoned, maybe it would be worth trying again. We still haven’t used those tickets.

As we continued to stroll throughout the ballroom, checking on our bids and ensuring we were the highest bidder (we’re nothing, if not competitive), we realized we hadn’t been to the center table. The center table. We should have known it would have held the gold, the one thing we love more than anything else - travel. We gazed at the images of different items up for auction: weeks in Taos in a mansion that sleeps 17 or weeks in Colorado in a private lodge that slept 14 (we could invite our family on vacation!), trips to wineries, 500,000 frequent flyer miles on either United or American Airlines, airfare and hotel vouchers to a number of international destinations. We circled the table like hawks searching for prey – certain there was something there for us. Something in our budget, I mean. And then we found it.

Hidden behind a few other auction items was a brochure for a weekend stay at an Omni hotel – any hotel in North America, any weekend we wanted. And no one had bid on it. We fixed our sticker on the page, pushed the item back a little further, then nonchalantly walked away. Nothing to see there. We became obsessive about it. Every few minutes one of us would walk by, checking to see whether someone had outbid us. No one had. By the time the dinner started, we decided to stop inspecting the auction – if someone was going to outbid us, we’d just have to deal with it. We made it fifteen minutes without checking.

Half an hour later, the auctioneer made an announcement that the travel table would be closing in three minutes. Roger and I looked at each other, silently questioning whether we should check it again or not. Two minutes remaining. Roger popped up and began briskly crossing the room. Thirty seconds remaining. Twenty. Ten. And then! Then! Someone put their sticker just below ours, outbidding us. At ten seconds! Roger watched. Waited for the smug man to step away. Edged closer to the auction page. Three. Two. One. He threw our sticker down and the chime rang through the air. The auction was over. Triumph!

That’s how it happened that last weekend Roger and I celebrated our fourth anniversary in Washington, D.C., staying at the Omni Shoreham. It was everything we hoped it would be.

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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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Instead of saying, "I'll keep my ears peeled," shouldn't it be, "I'll keep my ears shucked?"

I mean, right?

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Being an ethical person is sometimes bittersweet. Take today, for example. I randomly checked my bank account from work, something I rarely do. More money was in the account than I expected, so I took a closer look.

I realized what had happened: my employer double-paid me. Initially I thought, “Score! We could totally use that extra cash!” Before my mind completed the thought, I felt my stomach drop as I realized the extra deposit probably wasn’t intentional.

I scoured the past few months to check whether it was a make-up payment. My spirits lifted a little when it occurred to me that perhaps my company hadn’t paid me the last pay cycle, which would make the deposit rightfully mine.

Nothing was amiss.

I carefully crafted a letter to the HR department, informing them of the double-payment and asking whether it was intentional. I mean, hey, there’s still a chance it was! Maybe it’s a six-month bonus they didn’t tell me about! Maybe they decided I deserve that raise I requested after all! Maybe it’s a make-up payment from a long, long time ago! Maybe pigs will fly! (I’m nothing, if not grotesquely optimistic.)

If I kept the money, I’d have a slightly fattened wallet and a seriously guilty spirit. I wouldn’t be the woman I claim to be, and I couldn’t stand for the things I say I stand for. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep the money without clarifying why it was given to me. It wasn’t necessarily difficult to give the money back, since I wasn’t counting on the extra amount and it wasn’t mine to begin with. As a bonus, being honest makes my heart feel a little lighter.

The entire situation made me curious: what would you have done? Would you keep it? Would you give it back? Would you tell anyone? Would you just wait and see whether your employer issued a withdrawal from your account? An inquiring mind wants to know.

(Anonymous comments welcome.)

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Since buying our first home, I’ve become more and more conscientious about changes Roger and I can make to be less wasteful and more eco-friendly. I’ve outlined some modifications we’ve made already (or have plans to make), and thought that I’d share them with you in honor of Earth Day.

What’s more, I would love to hear what green things YOU are doing. I mean, I figure you’re pretty (or handsome, as the case may be), you’re intelligent, you’re bound to be doing things that haven’t even crossed my radar yet. Tell me about what you’re doing! Here’s my list:

1. Our electricity plan is generated by 100% wind power (saving enough carbon emissions to be the equivalent of not driving for two years)
2. We have plans to remodel all three bathrooms, installing low-flow faucets and toilets
3. Our city has a really awesome recycling program to help reduce waste. In fact, if you’re able to increase your recyclables and decrease your refuse, they’ll give you extra recycling trash carts for free and a smaller refuse cart to use, PLUS a discount on your water/sewage/trash bill. Now THAT is motivating!
4. We have canvas grocery bags. Though, admittedly, I’ve yet to use them – I do reuse my plastic grocery bags, so I think that counts a little!
5. Just this week, Roger and I started carpooling (instead of driving separately). We have plans to do this most days of the week (if not all).

Also, here are a few links you may find helpful for living green:

- Green Living - Goods that go easy on the planet
- 10 Green Tips from True Green: 100 Everyday Ways You Can Contribute to a Healthier Planet by Kim McKay and Jenny Bonnin
- MSNBC’s Going Green
- Greenona - Search Green. Go Green.
- TerraPass - Flights dump tons of emissions into the atmosphere - undoing your contribution to global warming is easier than you think.
- Low Impact Living - you can take action
- Buy local produce at a farmer’s market. Find a farmers’ market near you.

So...what ideas do you have?

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We have a tiny aisle from our front door, through our living room and into our bedroom. We also have access to the kitchen, though there's little food to speak of.

The move (well, the packing) is in progress, and I never knew our tiny apartment would hold more than 100 boxes worth of stuff (which is all well-documented on my Very Important Master List).

AND WE'RE NOT EVEN FINISHED PACKING YET. (Perspective: the official move begins at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow.)

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The Great Scrape of 2008 came and went without much fanfare. Our muscles are still sore, we’re still in desperate need of massages, and yet we’ve spent every night this week at the house peeling wallpaper, removing wood paneling, and dragging old, cat-pee-stained carpet out to the driveway for bulk waste collection.

Whoever the previous owners were, their passive-aggressive cat proved its dismay by relieving itself in every corner of the house. I’m not sure which I think is more of an accomplishment: completely ridding our entire home of the distinct scent of animal urine, or eradicating asbestos popcorn from all the ceilings.

We did have help with the popcorn, so we can’t take all the credit – Eddie came over on Saturday, and my dad came over on Sunday – for removing the ceiling.

The living room and dining room each have 12-foot-ceilings, and I sincerely regret not getting a picture of Roger, my dad and me all standing on ladders of varying heights, tackling the dining room. It was the last room we finished. The pride - and relief: it was finally over! - we felt when climbing down the ladder for the last time was unparalleled.

(Unparalleled, that is, until we start our next project. By then, The Great Popcorn Scrape of 2008 will just be a distant memory. We’ll think, “Awwwww, that wasn’t so bad.” But believe me: in the midst of the scraping? The dust? The hot, un-breathable Tyvek suits? The sore muscles? The having to hold my arms over my head for hours at a time? It was brutal.)

To view larger photos and more commentary, visit the Flickr photo set here: The Great Scrape of 2008

[For those interested in technical matters, it took three people to scrape 2100+ square feet of ceiling in two days (6 hours the first day, seven hours the second day). This is mostly because my dad is a machine, and no, you can’t borrow him. We spent three days simply prepping the house – by far and large, that was the more time-consuming project, and considerably easier on our bodies.

We rented an air scrubber to filter the asbestos dust out of the air. The machine did an excellent job, turning the air in each room four times per hour. Considering we let it run for more than 100 hours straight, I’d say the air is pretty dang clean. After we finished the entire house, we simply rolled up the paper/plastic and disposed of it. It was a simple cleanup, followed by vacuuming with a shop vac fitted with a HEPA filter, and after that we mopped both the floors and the walls.]

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Right now, a Super 8 Motel has better amenities than my own bathroom. Well, maybe not better, since I doubt they have Tea Tree Oil-infused organic shampoo or Purity face wash or framed Picasso ink sketches lining the wall. But what Super 8 does have, I’m coveting. And that’s a working hair dryer. Mine broke last week, which means that in one day I went from perfect curls to frizzy strands of, well, frizz. And frizzy ones, at that, in case I wasn’t clear.

Over the past week my hair styles have ranged from a low pony tail to a messy bun. And one day, just to switch it up a bit, I wore a high ponytail (with ribbon!), since pulling all my hair back is the only way to hide my airrant locks. (Har, har!)

I haven’t purchased a new hair dryer in a long time – maybe 10 years? And I’m assuming that in the last 10 years manufacturers have come out with all kinds of new-fangled designs and features. Which is where you come in! This is what I need:

- Must fit a standard diffuser attachment (or come with one)
- Must have a high and low heat setting

I’m pretty low-maintenance. Do you have any suggestions? Do you like a particular brand? Have a hair dryer you swear by? Are there certain functions or features I should be on the lookout for? Or is there just one that you think is really pretty? (All I'm saying is, I won't complain if it’s hot pink, that's all.)

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Four years ago, when Roger and I married, we decided that I would leave my job before the wedding. We thought it would give me time to relax, time away from work, time to rejoice that I wouldn’t be heading back to 50- and 60-hour workweeks. And then three days after we returned from our honeymoon, Roger was laid off. Our eyes wide with concern, we stared at each other that first day he was home. We weren’t quite sure what to make of it, we didn’t know at that point how long it would be before we found new positions.

It was six weeks before Roger’s career took off again, and an additional three months before I was gainfully employed. As newlyweds, we had a tiny amount of savings and wedding money, and Roger was given a small severance when he was laid off. Over two months, we spent every bit of that money just living – every bit down to the last dollar went to rent, utilities, groceries, car payments and gasoline. Roger found his job in just the nick of time – just after we paid the last bill and looked at each other like: “What now?”

It was a stressful time, both for us individually and for us beginning our marriage. It also made us Nazis about paying off our massive amount of debt. (We’ve been credit card debt free for over a year now, hooray!)

Our lives -- just as I’m sure many of yours – are a series of ups and downs, trials and errors, surging amounts of joys and disappointments.

As I’ve shared bits and pieces of my life with you, be it on Chirky.com, in the comments sections of your own blog, or over sporadic email conversations, I’ve been amazed by the way we’ve been able to rally around each other, learn from and encourage one another. Blogging can be every bit of a community as the “real” friends we interact with on a daily basis.

Last week, I caught wind from Emily (of Not That You Asked) about a family that put my own problems into sharp perspective. To put it simply: this couple, who are close friends of Emily’s, were on vacation when their 16-month-old daughter became violently ill.

They took her for medical attention on the Friday of Easter weekend, and learned in that small space of time that she had an aggressive form of cancer -– a tumor the size of a baseball -– lodged in her brain. It had metastasized into her spinal cord.

By Monday, a 12-hour surgery was scheduled to remove a portion of the tumor, and afterward their little girl would need chemotherapy. At a time when most families were hiding Easter eggs and sharing meals together and attending churches, their doctors were suggesting that extended family make the trip to say goodbye. The doctors weren’t sure the toddler could make it through the long surgical procedure.

Miraculously, she did.

But there is more. The mother is a stay-at-home mom, the father is a teacher. He’s had to take an unpaid leave of absence to be with his daughter and wife in Savannah, where they were on vacation. They have a mortgage in Virginia, but have rented an apartment in Savannah so they can stay together as a family. They want to be able to continue to provide their daughter with excellent and consistent medical attention. With no reliable income, it’s hard to foresee the incredible amounts of debt they will incur.

Emily has written about their story in more detail, if you would like more information about this family.

Thinking back to our meager beginnings, I cannot begin to scratch the surface of the level of uncertainty this family is facing, the fears they must feel, the stress this new trial will bring to their marriage and their family, the bewildered prayers that can’t go past: “God, I don’t know why this has happened. What do we do now? Please help!”

I’ve signed on with Emily to spread the word about their story because I strongly believe in the power of community and the power of us reaching past ourselves to help others.

If you want to help in some way, but don't know how, let me suggest a few options:
1. If you want to help meet their needs financially, you can click the Donate button below (a fund that Emily set up through PayPal). Whether we raise $5 or $5,000, every bit helps.

2. If your heart is aching to help spread the word, perhaps consider posting a similar entry on your own site, or send an email to friends and family pointing them to this entry or Emily's entry.

3. If you want to leave a comment, a special thought, a prayer, or any other word of encouragement, you can do so in the comments section here or in the comments section of Emily’s more detailed post. Brian, Katie, and their daughter Emily covet your prayers and comments.

Editor's Note:
At last count, you guys helped raise nearly $25,000 in under a week. I am not surprised, though perhaps a little dumbstruck, by the generosity shown by our collective readers. THANK YOU. If you would like the latest update on Emily, you can find it here. A thank you from the Mandell family is here. If you still want to help, purchase a bracelet here or donate using the link above. If you cannot use (or are uncomfortable using) Paypal, a donation account has been set up at Bank of America for Emily Mandell. And, obviously, please continue to pray for this family, and to send your sweetest thoughts and best wishes their way.

It warms my heart to see a community of people coming together to help one family. I wish it could be thousands of families, or millions of people across our globe. It starts with one. Just one.

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You may know by now that I work as a writer for hotels.com. One of my favorite parts of my job is researching what to do once you get to a city. It may be the obsessive planner in me, since I take great pleasure in researching everything about a city that I'm personally planning to visit. I want to make sure I experience everything, from touristy attractions to destinations only locals know about, and the fact that I get to do this for a job is kind of mind-blowing to me.

When researching local city charms, I sometimes come across very, um, interesting attractions. Most destinations are normal -- expected, even -- such as Washington D.C.'s International Spy Museum (which I plan to visit in May) or New York City's Times Square, which I trekked to for the first time just last month.

But in Dublin, Ohio, they do things differently. Sure, the city hosts a wildly popular Irish Festival each August (the first weekend of the month, in case you'd like to plan on attending). And yes, it's only 10 miles from the Buckeyes' stomping grounds. But I'm positive unsuspecting tourists are surprised to drive past a field of concrete corn. No, really.

Click HERE for larger image

Created from three different molds, each is six feet tall and designed using concrete. After staring at the picture for a while, thinking about what it must be like to wander amongst these larger-than-life vegetables (or are they fruits? Debate ensues.), I have to wonder who shucked them?

And if these were real, would one kernel be enough to fill a grown man's stomach? (If so, I think I might have just cured the world population's hunger problem. At 800 kernels per ear, we could feed an entire village for days on just one ear of corn. Genius!)

(Though don't misunderstand me - if I ever make it to Dublin, Ohio, you can bet you'll find me here. I imagine I'll lay out a blanket, enjoy a picnic among the sculptures and nosh on - you guessed it - a buttery yellow cob.)

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Since closing on our first home this week, my emotions have run a broad spectrum:

PEACEFUL (When signing the paperwork.)

ENTERTAINED (While keeping a tally of how many times we signed our names - 34 each)

RELIEVED (When realizing the search was FINALLY OVER!)

EXCITED (When shopping for supplies at Home Depot.)

ANXIOUS (When our bill was totaled at Home Depot.)

INTRIGUED (When Roger installed our new lock. How do guys inherently know how to do these things?)

DEFEATED (When a ladder collapsed while I was standing on it.)

FRUSTRATED (While trying to figure out how to redesign the kitchen/pantry/laundry room/family room section of the house so it flows better, and then realizing that it's wasn't that my solutions wouldn't work, it was just that I had no solutions to begin with.)

DELIGHTED (Upon finding a 100% wind power electricity plan that boasted a fairly low fixed rate and allows us to earn American Airlines miles.)

GIDDY (When I laid eyes on my key to our new home: It's black, with hot pink hearts and rhinestones. Every time I think about my new key, little butterflies swoon in my chest - I never knew that buying a piece of metal would make me feel like I was falling in love all over again.)

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For at least a year now, Holly has been lauding her favorite lip gloss: CoverGirl LipSlicks in "Daring." She has written blogs about it and, when one sees a picture of her, is frequently asked about what type of gloss she's wearing. And every single time, it's the same lip gloss. It's the perfect shade, she says. And it seems everyone agrees with her.

Which is why I ducked into CVS to buy the gloss this morning on my way to work.

Now, let me say this: when I first saw it on the shelf, I thought it looked too dark. This can't be right, I thought, and then quickly reminded myself of how highly it has been recommended. So I grabbed one. Okay, fine, I grabbed two, but it's only because they are currently on sale BUY ONE GET ONE HALF-OFF. It was on faith, you see, that I bought two even though I was kind of worried that it was too dark for me and that it wouldn't be moisturizing enough.

I tore open the package as soon as I climbed back in my car, tilted the mirror toward myself, and swiped the stick over my lips.

I swear to you, my lips have never looked (or felt) so good. Things I love about CoverGirl LipSlick in "Daring":

1. Perfectly sheer
2. And yet, perfectly tinted
3. Moisturizing, like lip balm!
4. But not in a gloppy or waxy way
5. Only $4
6. But currently on sale, which means I paid only $3

To top it off, someone in the elevator asked me -- not five minutes later! -- what kind of lip gloss I was wearing. (And I think one man might have even winked at me.)

This lip gloss, it has magical powers. Had I only realized that the first time she mentioned it, I might have been Daring enough to buy the LipSlick sooner.

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There is nothing more satisfying than making a big decision – like whether to buy a house – and just knowing that it’s the right decision. It’s something I can gauge with my gut, my trusty woman’s instinct, and the fact that Roger feels it too? That’s called confirmation.

After researching the removal of popcorn ceilings and then meeting with a host of general contractors, asbestos abatement companies, home builders and remodelers, we’ve decided to buy the house.

When I think about it, my stomach flutters and my mind races with a list of changes we want to make so that the house is exactly how we want it to be. I think to myself: I can’t believe we’re this fortunate, that we get to own a home in this particular neighborhood. I would sleep in a cardboard box if it meant I got to live here, I love it so much. And I can’t believe we got it for such a low price – even considering all the updates needed – or that we lucked into locking in an interest rate not long after it dropped, and just minutes before it started rising again.

Yes, there are reasons the purchase price is low: the popcorn ceiling needs to be scraped, the kitchen appliances are the original mustard color from the 1970s. But even with the changes we're planning, we’ll still come out ahead. We’re confident about that.

When meeting with the asbestos abatement companies, several different contractors independently told us we could do the job ourselves. Of course, they’d be happy to do the work and take our $10,000 for scraping 2,000 square feet of ceilings, but if we were on a budget, we could do it ourselves. It was something to consider, they said.

One of the contractors told us, point-blank: “If you were my brother, I’d tell you: This is a great house - buy it! I don't want to minimize the seriousness of removing the popcorn asbestos carefully, and you certainly can hire us to do the job, but the issue of removing the popcorn shouldn't be a deal breaker for you." He explained exactly how to prep the house, how to remove the ceiling, how to protect ourselves from the dust and how to get the same results his company would get for us. Then he told us he'd rent his air scrubber to us for only $200/week. He said, "If you were my brother, I’d even offer to come help…but, you know. You’re not my brother.”

[Note: An air scrubber is a massive fan that churns through the air and literally “scrubs” it clean. The machine is fitted with a triple-HEPA filter (the same HEPA filter masks that we’ll be wearing), which catches microscopic dust particles with 99% accuracy. The machine we are borrowing is capable of cleaning 2,000 square feet of air in one hour, so we figure if we leave it on for seven days straight, it’ll do the job. But we’re not stopping there! After we’re entirely finished with the project, we’re hiring an air quality hygienist to come take samples of the air in and around our home, just as an extra precaution. Obviously, we’re serious about clean air. And pretty ceilings.]

We plan on following the abatement contractor’s instructions explicitly, and I will create a how-to post when we remove the popcorn so that you, too, can benefit from his expertise.

All that is to say that we’re buying the house, and I couldn’t be more thrilled! (Well that, and I’m also already planning our massages. I figure we'll need them once we finish scraping the ceilings until they’re as smooth as a Southern drawl. We are in Texas, after all.)

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Number of months we've been looking for a home: 5

Number of houses we've seen online: 650+

Number of houses we've seen in person: 300+

Number of houses we've bid on: 4

Number of houses we've been under contract on: 2

Number of houses we currently have under contract: 1

Number of inspections we've paid for: 3

Total we've paid for those inspections: $1100

The last time this house was remodeled: 1978

The number of square feet that have popcorn ceilings: 2050

The number of popcorned square feet that we want to scrape: 2050

Typical asbestos findings in popcorn ceilings: 0-3%

Asbestos findings in the house we currently have under contract: 15%

Number of times I've cried over this: 0

Number of times I've thought about crying over this: 8 11 17

Since the house we have under contract has seen nary a hammer since 1978 (hey, to be honest, THAT is why it's in our price range), we plan to do a significant amount of remodeling. Remodeling involves moving walls and installing lighting fixtures and scraping ceilings and well, disturbing the popcorn ceiling - the asbestos popcorn ceiling - in all possible manners of disturbance. (To be fair, this is not the ULTRA dangerous type of asbestos. It's just the MOSTLY dangerous type. But still! Dangerous! Asbestos! Dangerous!)

In case you don't know what asbestos is, let me say this: it is a fibrous product that, once disturbed, becomes dusty (and, therefore, airborne). When someone inhales that dust, it can scar that person's lungs. Kind of like smoking. Except worse. (And if one paired inhaling asbestos with smoking cigarettes? Hello, cancer.)

Asbestos scars lungs deep down, whereas smoking scars the middle-lower section. Down the lung, I mean. Whatever. My point is that we have two options: completely remove the asbestos or NEVER disturb the asbestos and live in a 1970s-styled house.

Option Two is not actually an option, because our list of remodeling plans is quite lengthy, and frankly, 70s decor just scares me. Living in this house and not remodeling is not an option. In case I haven't been clear on that.

Removing the asbestos requires contracting an asbestos abatement company to come remove both the popcorn and the drywall (which likely contains asbestos mudding in the joints). Then we would need to hire another contractor to monitor the air quality and to inspect the work done by the abatement company, to ensure the asbestos is entirely eradicated.

In case you don't know what this looks like, let me paint the picture for you: wrapping the entire house in the industrial equivalent of saran wrap (I'm guessing) so that no asbestos fibers escape the house. And then: HAZMAT suits. I'm totally not even kidding. After everything is removed, they clean the house - walls, floors, everything - so that it's as if the asbestos never existed.

After EVERYTHING we've been through with buying a home, this was the poisonous icing on the cake. So now Roger and I are trying to decide: do we negotiate to rip out the asbestos, live in a home reminiscent of That 70s Show, or walk away from yet another house?

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For the past several months, Roger and I have been house hunting. Is hunting the right word? Because that just makes it seem like we’re looking for any old thing to shoot at and win, when really, it’s more like we’re rifling through every piece of real estate inventory within very our small parameters and coming up empty-handed. We’ve visited more than three hundred homes in person. We’ve looked at more than 500 online. And I know all of this because our Realtor’s handy online system keeps track of all of it for us. Every last bit, every rejected home. We haven’t rejected all of the homes, though. Some of them have rejected us.

The first house reminded us of a Frank Lloyd Wright home, what with its interesting footprint and architectural-grade roof and perfect foundation. But the sellers refused to sell to us! We came up on our price by $13,000 – and they came down $900. We were confused, because aren’t we in a recession? Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of negotiation? Are we such home-buying newbies that we don’t actually know how it works?

And so we moved on, lamenting the roof that could have been ours.

It’s funny, when you’re house hunting you start to have conversations that go like this: “I really love the color of this brick” and “Do you think that hardwood is uneven?” and “The texture of this tile in interesting.” And we’re so enthralled with these conversations about roof lines and loft spaces that we think maybe EVERYONE wants to know about them. I find myself excitedly discussing triple pane windows with my friends and their eyes glaze over. They start getting all shifty and finding excuses out of the conversation, and I can’t really blame them.

We put a bid in on a second house, a house with great bones, but that needed updating. It was a block from a park with biking and walking trails, and every time we visited it (three times) there were children playing in yards. The neighborhood felt very family-oriented, and though the house was the smallest on the block, the neighborhood sold it. After negotiations that increased our bid OVER market value, the sellers wanted us to pay some of their closing costs, too. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Disappointing, considering the potential in that house for having our very own media room, and it was so close to a park. Mentally, I had already started planning parties with the neighbors. We walked away.

The third house we bid on – or, almost bid on, since we shredded the bid before we had a chance to submit it – had a very obvious two-inch declining grade in the living room, plus a foundation warranty that was no longer in effect. But it was in our price range! That was something, right?

We moved farther out of the city, reasoning that a newer house in our price range would be worth the extra drive. Besides, maybe we could carpool, in the HOV lane, and that way there wouldn’t be as much time lost. And more time together! Maybe. We got into (and subsequently won) a bidding war for the foreclosed property. We paid the home inspector. He inspected. Practically everything that COULD be wrong with the house WAS wrong with the house: a leaky roof, faulty foundation, bad plumbing. Neither A/C unit worked (which, considering the Texas heat, was a deal-breaker) and the heater didn’t work. There wasn’t a functioning bathroom in the house. More renovations would be required before we could move in than the house was worth. We terminated our contract, and with it our visions of lofty ceilings and five bedrooms. All that space! Gone.

So this last weekend, we went out once more. We found an even larger foreclosed home. In better condition. And while it didn’t have five bedrooms, it had the kitchen of my dreams. The pantry of my dreams. It was the perfect home for entertaining, the perfect home for raising kids – even with a playroom! – and had a nice neighborhood. (Well, I mean a seemingly nice neighborhood. I was only there for half an hour, after all.) We arranged to put in a bid. Our Realtor called back. The house was no longer on the market. The bank simply hadn’t changed the house’s status yet. Failed. Again.

Sunday night, we were disheartened. We’ve been looking for five long months. We’re exhausted. We just want to buy something and be done with it. Our standards have been lowered, and lowered, and lowered. At first we had a list three columns long of everything we wanted in a home. Now all we want is a solid foundation and roof that hopefully won’t leak.

And then we got a call. The second house we bid on is still on the market. The sellers are frustrated with the on-going, nit-picking negotiations they’ve been through with another buyer. They want to know if we’re still interested.

We are.

Now we have another signed contract, and the home inspector is scheduled for this Friday morning. I’m anxious, and hopeful, and nervous.

And acutely aware that our apartment lease has already expired.

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Roger and I usually don’t make a big fuss about Valentine’s Day. We keep it low-key with dinner at home, something a little nicer than we generally eat, and we just spend time together. I love it so much more than going out to eat or to some sort of performance, or whatever it is that other people do on Valentine’s Day, because in general I think the holiday is just too commercialized. There’s too much pressure on guys to do something special for that one day, which I think is lame. Guys should do something special because they want to, not because they feel obligated by society. And since Roger does special things for me so frequently throughout the year, Valentine’s Day is really just like any other day. Except with more dishes for me to wash.

During lunch on February 14th, I got a wild hair and decided to make chocolate-covered strawberries. Blame that ad I saw in AmericanWay magazine, if you’d like. Here’s how I did it:

I dropped off some of the chocolate-covered berries at Roger’s office for a sweet after-lunch surprise, and took the remaining strawberries to share with my co-workers.

They’re best to eat the day they’re made. This isn’t usually a problem, since the strawberries don’t last long.

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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 climbed in bed Monday night at 2 a.m., after a whirlwind weekend in New York City. This weekend was my first time to visit the city, and it didn’t disappoint. My friend Nicolle and I had one goal: to do as much as we could on a shoestring budget. Better yet, on the fray-of-a-shoestring budget. We had limited time*. The weekend involved a lot of exploring, copious amounts of walking, and several taxis**. Here’s how we did it:

FRIDAY NIGHT
Rockefeller Center
We could see the ice skating rink from our hotel room. I loved the twinkly lights in the trees and watching people glide around the rink. (Well, some people weren't gliding -- they were stumbling -- but it was entertaining all the same.) When planning the trip I thought it might be fun to go ice skating in New York, but once I arrived decided against it, for the sake of time. This ended up being a good decision.

Times Square
Several different people recommended to me that we visit Times Square at night, since the stores and eateries are open late and there’s so many lights there that it’s like daytime anyway. We bought candied almonds for $2 from a Nuts4Nuts street vendor and stood around staring at all the people walking in the streets and all the lights blinking at us from every direction. I mean, even SUBWAY had bright, blinking marquee lights. It was like a carnival down there, minus the clowns. Also, we did not see the Naked Cowboy, which was a bit of a disappointment, but I suppose he probably would have been very cold had he been on the streets.

I loved visiting the shops in Times Square – M&M’s store, Hershey’s store, the Dale and Thomas Popcorn shop - but my favorite was Toys ‘R Us. The toy store has a fully-operating Ferris wheel inside, a life-size Barbie mansion (though it’s just filled with dolls and doll clothes – I didn't see any Barbie chairs or lie in any Barbie beds) and LEGO replicas of the Chrysler Building, Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty, among other things.

Just for the record, Dale and Thomas' Popcorn is a good buy. We got the caramel and the Twice-as-Nice (two half-bags of each, which turned out to actually be full bags, for $6 total). The caramel is not as good as Garrett's popcorn, but the Twice-As-Nice is perhaps the best popcorn I've ever eaten. And that is saying something, since I am such an avid popcorn connoisseur. Twice-As-Nice is fluffy, salted popcorn drizzled with milk chocolate and then accented with swirls of white chocolate. It's perfect in every way, and I can't wait to try to re-create it at home.

SATURDAY

St. Patrick’s Cathedral
One-half block from our hotel was St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is the largest gothic Catholic cathedral in North America. It was just gorgeous inside and out, with its massive arching ceiling and beautiful wooden doors and intricately carved stone. I love the detail of old buildings, particularly gothic architecture, and I wish that we would still erect such statuesque buildings like that today instead of the concrete jungles of corporate America.

Tribeca
From the Cathedral, we took a cab to Tribeca for brunch. TriBeCa (as you'll sometimes see it spelled, means Triangle Below Canal) was one of my favorite areas of NYC. I loved the neighborhood feel and how it wasn't crowded with tourists. It felt livable. We ate brunch and pie at Bubby's Pies (at the corner of Hudson and Moore), and I'm convinced that there isn't a bad dish in the house. We sampled the avocado and spinach omelet, the apple, bacon and cheddar omelet, and the duck hash. Then we chased our brunch with key lime pie (FYI: it's thick and rich, not light and fluffy) and a red velvet cake with cream cheese pecan frosting.

Everything was good, which is all the convincing I needed to buy the Bubby's Pies cookbook. You can expect to eat pie next time you come over for dinner, at least for the next few months.

Irish Memorial to Hunger
It was like an asteroid-sized clump of Ireland had landed in New York City, still fully intact, and was hovering over South Cove. From the top of the Memorial we could see Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty - the islands are not as far away as they appear on Google Maps.

Ground Zero
We walked to Ground Zero from Tribeca. I expected there to be some sort of memorial to September 11, 2001, but there wasn't. Ground Zero is about three stories deep, though I couldn't really tell because it was fenced in and some sort of tarp afforded us a very limited view. There is a small courtyard area where signs are hung showing the timeline of September 11th, as well as displaying the plans for the new plaza. I was intrigued that an Anthropological Forensic Unit is still at the site.

Central Park
After wandering around Ground Zero, we hailed a taxi and drove to Central Park. We walked through the park, and toward the end we ran (a little), just so we could say that we had been running in Central Park. I mean, it's not like anyone is going to ask how far we ran, right?

At dusk we left Central Park in favor of Magnolia's Cupcakes' newest store at Columbus Avenue and 69th Street. (And lo, the cupcakes were good.) For a Saturday night, the store was surprisingly un-crowded. The cupcakes were significantly better than the dry cupcakes at Sprinkles, just as I suspected. Interestingly enough, the same person who started Magnolia's left to start Buttercup a few years later.

What I really need is one Vanilla/Vanilla from Magnolia, and one Vanilla/Vanilla from Buttercup. And then I need to do a taste-test. I wonder if the cupcakes would survive shipping? Does anyone in New York want to help me out with this task? My undying devotion (as well as full reimbursements) will be supplied, in case there is any question.

Empire State Building
By the time we made it to the Empire State Building, it was dark outside. Visibility was limited to two miles, but we still decided to go up to the observation deck ($19 per ticket, and we opted out of buying viewing guides). It was bitterly cold up there - so cold I could hardly stand to hold on to my video camera - so we didn't last up there long.

Were I to go up again, I'd change two things: (a) I'd go during the daytime, so I could see what I was looking at, and (b) I'd buy a map, so I'd know what I was looking at. Also, I'd go when it was less cold outside. The city is beautiful at night, I just didn't know what I was looking at most of the time, aside from the obvious Times Square, Chrysler Building, etc.

Fifth Avenue
We hoofed it 17 blocks up Fifth Avenue, from the Empire State Building to Rockefeller Center. We window-shopped along the way, and made a stop in H&M, where we made purchases. We don't have H&M in Dallas, so I get overly excited about visiting cities with H&M stores. There are H&Ms all over New York City - there was even one on the corner of the block where our hotel was located.

SUNDAY
Katz’s Delicatessen
We took a cab from our hotel to Katz's Deli for breakfast. In itself, the food was not out of the ordinary. The sandwiches are fairly expensive ($12-$15 per sandwich), but could probably make 3-4 meals each, so the price was justified. Each sandwich has about a pound of meat on it. Katz's Deli was made internationally famous by the movie "When Harry Met Sally". Also, Katz's makes its own all-beef sausage, which is delicious. I brought home a two-pound salami, but haven't tried it yet.

I'm hoping that a warm spell will pass through Dallas, because I think it will make a lovely picnic, paired with Swiss cheese, crackers, sweet red grapes and pear Woodchuck. Katz's is particularly difficult for newcomers to navigate, so I actually made a video of how to order. Once I figure out how to edit that video, I'll post it.

Greenwich Village
I heart Greenwich Village. Nicolle and I wandered through the streets, commenting on the funky European feel. We did a little shopping near NYU, and made another video of me buying a purse. Your palms are sweating with anticipation, I can tell. It'll be online soon. In the meantime, I'll tease you with this: there will be bloopers on the reel. Oh, yes way.

Union Square and Gramercy Park
We accidentally stumbled upon Union Square and Gramercy Park while wandering around Greenwich Village. Well, we thought we were wandering around Greenwich Village. Turns out we were wandering out of the district. Lawyerish has mentioned Gramercy Tavern on her blog before, so I made a mental note to go back with Roger when we visit New York City. Now I'll know where it is.

In any case, these were charming areas filled with both boutique shops and chain stores. I fell in love with a Buddha head somewhere along the way, but knew I couldn't make room for it in my single suitcase, so it's still sitting atop the shelf of a funky little store that I can't remember the name of.

Canal Street shopping
By far, Canal Street made our trip to New York feel complete. Originally we decided to nix Canal, thinking we wouldn't have enough time. Plus, I had already bought a purse in Greenwich Village, which is what I set out to do when I came to New York. Then, while I was pining over that Buddha head, Roger called. He told me I shouldn't leave New York without buying a purse from the Canal Street shops, and Nicolle and I set out with our new goal. Little did I know just how easy it would be.

Before we even climbed out of the cab, a tiny Asian woman approached us and said, "Purses? Gucci, Coach, Prada? Follow me." We hurriedly paid the taxi driver and set off behind her and the other little ducklings she had recruited. We followed her for two blocks, that is two blocks away from Canal Street, all the time glancing at each other, wondering where she was taking us. We crossed a street. Another block. More sideways glances. And giggling.

We maneuvered down a dark, metal staircase and through a cast-iron door. We ducked our heads as we passed under a five-foot opening, raised our eyebrows as we passed the water pipes under a building, and exchanged glances when the room suddenly opened up into a dark hallway with four rooms to our right.

Each room was about the size of a Smart Car and filled with row-upon-row of knock-off purses: Gucci, Fendi, Prada, Chanel, Coach, Dooney & Burke. We tried many of them on, looking for the most believable fake we could find. I found mine almost immediately, fell in love with it, bargained for it, and walked away with it hidden inside a plain black plastic bag. I looked like I was carrying garbage, but I was carrying Chanel. Well, fake Chanel.

I'm not sure how much we ended up spending, but I know it wasn't a lot. The majority of our budget was eaten up by taxis**, but we succeeded staying in-budget in every other area. Even our food budget had the restriction of whether we could eat it at home: If we could buy it in Dallas, we wouldn't let ourselves buy it in New York. Not even Starbucks. There were no chain restaurants involved in our weekend, of which I'm immensely proud. I have a thing against most chain restaurants.

* Nicolle was already in NYC. I arrived late Friday night and we left Sunday afternoon. But I was flying standby, which meant the flight I wanted to be on Sunday afternoon was full. And so was the flight after that. I got on the third flight out, but by then the plane had to be de-iced, yada yada, our 6:40 p.m. flight didn't depart until 10:30. And we had already boarded, and were already wedged in next to each other. To make matters worse, the woman next to me was eating tunafish. Tunafish! On a plane! And I had to sit right next to her! Whoever did such a thing? Well, besides her, I mean?

** We either walked or took taxis everywhere we went. I'm not sure what the deal was with the subway system -- since I was so excited to try it out for myself ("ride the subway" was on my list of things to do in New York City) -- but it wasn't working. Maybe. Every time we went to a subway tunnel, it was closed off with large, metal, grated doors. No one could get in. I'd love it if a New Yorker could explain this to me.

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Love the Lone Star State? In January 2009, the Texas license plate will get a makeover, and there's still time for YOU (anyone can vote - not just Texas residents) to vote on the new design.

There are five options to choose from, with images ranging from blue bonnets to the cliffs of Big Bend to a cityscape. (And that cityscape is of Dallas, no less!)

Voting ends at 12 p.m. on Monday, February 11th. CLICK HERE TO HAVE YOUR SAY.

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Would you believe that I'm really not all that into the Oscars? I've never even watched the Oscars. In fact, I don't even know when the Oscars are happening. (Though I suspect it's sometime soon.) And while, in general, I like watching movies, let me go on record here: I've never seen ANY of these nominated films.

That said, I have at least HEARD of all of them. So that's something, right?

[Editor's Note: Actually, I just watched one of these movies ("Atonement") this weekend, but it was totally unintentional and it was after I began writing this entry. My husband and I meant to watch another film, and at the last minute we changed our minds. This was mainly because Roger and I were both interested in seeing different movies, and when I came up with the idea that he see his movie and I see my movie, and then we reconvene afterward, he wasn't having any of it. Apparently, "that's not a date." So my original statement about having never seen any of the nominated films is now only partially true. Roger, on the other hand, has seen almost all of them. Maybe. I actually don't know, so I'm not really a credible source of information about my own husband. Onward!]

As such, I thought I should cast my totally uninformed ballot for the Oscars.

Performance by an actor in a leading role
Choices include:
* George Clooney in “Michael Clayton”
* Daniel Day-Lewis in “There Will Be Blood”
* Johnny Depp in “Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street”
* Tommy Lee Jones in “In the Valley of Elah”
* Viggo Mortensen in “Eastern Promises”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actor in a supporting role
Choices include:
* Casey Affleck in “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”
* Javier Bardem in “No Country for Old Men”
* Philip Seymour Hoffman in “Charlie Wilson’s War”
* Hal Holbrook in “Into the Wild”
* Tom Wilkinson in “Michael Clayton”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actress in a leading role
Choices include:
* Cate Blanchett in “Elizabeth: The Golden Age”
* Julie Christie in “Away from Her”
* Marion Cotillard in “La Vie en Rose”
* Laura Linney in “The Savages”
* Ellen Page in “Juno”

Chirky votes for:

Performance by an actress in a supporting role
Choices include:
* Cate Blanchett in “I’m Not There”
* Ruby Dee in “American Gangster”
* Saoirse Ronan in “Atonement”
* Amy Ryan in “Gone Baby Gone”
* Tilda Swinton in “Michael Clayton”

Chirky votes for:

Best animated feature film of the year
Choices include:
* “Persepolis”
* “Ratatouille”
* “Surf’s Up”

Chirky votes for:

Best motion picture of the year
Choices include:
* “Atonement”
* “Juno”
* “Michael Clayton”
* “No Country for Old Men”
* “There Will Be Blood”

Chirky votes for:

Achievement in directing
Choices include:
* “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” Julian Schnabel
* “Juno” Jason Reitman
* “Michael Clayton” Tony Gilroy
* “No Country for Old Men” Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
* “There Will Be Blood” Paul Thomas Anderson

Chirky votes for:

And that's it. Seven. Seven? Is that all the categories there are? I feel like something's missing.

Anyway, I hope you'll play along, too. Leave a comment telling me if you think I'm right or wrong, and if you're feeling wordy, tell me why. Or give me your own list of who/what film you think will win. Or create your own list on your own blog, and leave a link so we can all compare notes.

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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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The video posted below was totally worth watching over and over again, so many times that I actually lost count, just to see the look on this pastor's face when he realized what he had said.

Continue reading "Slip Of The Tongue" »

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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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Last night Roger and I hosted our Fourth Annual New Year’s Eve Dinner Party. We started at 8:30 p.m., but should have begun so, so, so much earlier. Enough time with good friends is never enough.

We ate. (Menu for the evening: Chicken Saltimbocca, Warm Spinach Salad with Pine Nuts & Prosciutto, and Green Beans with Lemon-Ginger Butter. Dessert: Caramel Toffee Crunch Cheesecake and Chocolate-covered Oreo Truffles. My thighs are only slightly larger than yesterday, but that’s what we have New Year’s Resolutions for, right?)

We drank. (Roger made me a killer Cosmo. I tried to re-create it again for myself, from the same recipe, and it was a disaster. A vodka disaster. So I kept adding cranberry juice, to no avail. And that’s when I started pouring cherry juice into it. It wasn’t bad after the cherry juice -- of course, almost nothing can be bad after adding cherry juice -- but then again I don’t think it was a Cosmo after that, either.)

We were merry. (For Christmas, Roger gave me a digital camcorder. If only I could figure out how to upload and edit videos, you could be merry with us. The laughter, the cigars, the food, the games (a new fave: Loaded Questions). I hope your New Year’s Eve celebration was every bit as lively and fun as ours.)

And to you, a toast to you, Internet (with the cherry-infused Cosmo that I made myself, rimmed in yellow and red sugars):

May this new year bring you closer to those you love; may this new year give you all of the good things and only enough of the rest to remind you how good things really are.

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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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Before you pick up that hotel drinking glass, let me warn you: It may
not be as clean as you assume it is.

After watching this video, I think I'm going to have to ask Santa for
some lightweight travel cups.

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Have you ever had an advent calendar? Because I’ve never had an advent calendar before, and for the past couple of years I’ve actually been longing for one. It may be a fantasy, but I believe there is something magical about opening the little doors and finding a prize inside. It’s as if a secret Santa wrapped 24 gifts for me to open every single day in December and then bundled each of those gifts into one tiny, concise space. And if those prizes are each chocolate – even better, Lindt Lindor chocolate truffles – then life is just that much sweeter.

So this year, on Black Friday, I marched (well, okay, I drove) to World Market and bought myself an advent calendar. I think it may be the best purchase I’ve made all year, even better than our new coffee table. (Well, that might be taking it a little far. I do love our new coffee table.)

Each night, with giddy anticipation, I look forward to opening the tiny paper windows. I carefully push them in (so as not to tear the box), then brace the outer perforated edge while delicately pulling one side of the window open to reveal a truffle waiting inside. I open the second half of the window, lift out the tiny package, and then partially close the windows again so that I can tell they’re open, but not open too wide.

I carry the truffle to the kitchen, twist the edges of the wrapping, and then flatten the foil around the little candy to form a miniature platter before I cut the chocolate in half. Roger and I each take a half, place it in our mouths and let the creamy texture melt. So far we’ve had Extra Dark Chocolate, Peanut Butter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate and Extra Dark Chocolate (again).

I know it’s only the first week of December, but I’m already kind of dreading Christmas Eve – only 20 days from now! – because that will mean that I won’t have any more paper windows to open, and I won’t have any more excuses to eat half a chocolate truffle every single night.

I’m trying to decide if it would be overboard to take the Advent Calendar one step further by purchasing twelve more. That way, instead of counting down the twenty four days before Christmas, I can count down the three hundred sixty four. (Although, hmmm...my math isn't quite right on that. It seems that I would need to buy at least fifteen more boxes.)

I think I could justify that, don’t you?

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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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Did you go shopping on Black Friday?

Roger and I did.

Let me tell you: I never thought I would be so excited to buy a new vacuum cleaner. For the past several months I’ve been more and more frustrated with our old vacuum because it just pushes dirt around the carpet. It smells like a wet dog when we turn it on, and we’ve never owned a dog. It doesn’t even make lines in the carpet because it simply doesn’t work. I still try to vacuum, just for the sake of feeling clean, but it’s kind of depressing when your carpet looks dirtier after you’ve vacuumed it. We’ve changed the bags and the belts and still nothing. It just sucks. (Well, not literally. The problem is that it doesn’t suck at all.)

When Roger assembled the new vacuum, he realized that the bag-less dirt container can double as a machine gun. A transparent machine gun.

We also bought a mini-vacuum – the dust buster kind – for small jobs, like cleaning all the debris in front of the fireplace after bringing in logs.

We purchased a humidifier, which we expected to use immediately but instead had to wait 24 hours while we soaked the filter. It’s got an auto-shutoff function that triggers based on the humidification sensor. So far, the humidifier has been running for 36 hours straight. Apparently our apartment is extremely arid.

We also bought a new ironing board to replace ours, which is so old that it was causing a rust transfer from the board onto our clothes. Through the board cover and pad. Roger outfitted our new ironing board with an inch-deep layer of cushy foam, and I can’t help but press my hand into the board every time I walk past it.

To top it all off, I went to Target and was given a coupon for free Duncan Hines freezer-to-oven brownies! Free. No strings attached. They’re in my freezer now, but I bet they won’t stay there very long.

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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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While washing dishes this morning, something inside the disposal caught my eye. A lemon! I love lemons, especially in my disposal, because when I grind them up the entire kitchen smells citrus-y clean and fresh.

I wasn’t sure where the lemon had come from, since I don’t have any on hand, so I assumed that it must have been in a take-out glass of tea or water. I thought that perhaps someone dumped the leftover ice and lemon down the drain. Without giving it a second thought, I turned on the water and hit the disposal switch.

When the disposal began grinding, an odd smell wafted through the air. A fleeting memory of something that had fallen down the drain the day before flashed through my mind. It wasn’t lemon. It was garlic.

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There is a lesson to be learned from me, and that is: Don’t run three miles - okay fine, two, but it felt like three with all those hills – just a few days after you throw out your back, because chances are it isn’t entirely healed yet, and chances are you’ll be limping around the next day.

You’ll also probably find yourself icing your back every morning and every night and popping muscle relaxers in between. But at least you’ve learned another important lesson, and you’re lying in bed watching TV while you ice your back, instead of lying on the bathroom floor while staring at the ceiling.

You see, there's always an upside to everything, you just have to know where to look to find it.

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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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I can always be bribed with food.

The Latin team brought in authentic tacos – the real kind, not the variety from Taco Bell or Dairy Queen (no, seriously: a friend swears by Dairy Queen tacos) for breakfast this morning. Homemade white corn tortillas. Homemade hot, hot, hot salsa. Limes. Steak. Marinated pork (al pastor).

Have I mentioned that I love my new job?

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I never wanted to be a starving artist. You know: those people who stand in a walkway, pretending to paint a picture and hoping you’ll buy it, or bent over on a crowded side street squeezing out a tune from a gleaming saxophone. Inevitably there’d be a hat turned upward and discarded on the pavement, indirectly begging for any amount of change, though dollar bills were preferred.

Through high school and college, that’s what I equated with writing. It was fools’ gold, something that you could only do if you never expected to have a mortgage or regularly pay your bills. So I earned my degree in Technical Writing and Editing, since I figured that would be the only way to get to do what I loved, writing, and still earn a salary. (Somehow journalism didn’t occur to me, and I’m still not sure how that is possible considering how many hours I spent with my academic advisor, laboring over the decision to apply for an English degree or to choose something more practical, like Business Management.)

For the last several years I’ve worked in mergers and acquisitions. I handled the legal side, drafting contracts and researching the companies whose assets we were purchasing, and for the most part, it was fairly interesting. Then a year ago, on a whim, I started interviewing outside my field. I just thought there had to be something more – something better suited to me – out there somewhere. Turns out there was.

I’ve taken a writing position with a subsidiary of one of the largest travel agencies in the world. That subsidiary’s headquarters is here in Dallas. And today was my first day.

For a long time, Roger and I thought we were moving out of Texas – that maybe we’d settle in Seattle or San Francisco – and that may still happen in the future. But for now, we’ve found our treasure. And it’s every bit as real as we’d hoped it would be.

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"Well, the day has come…" I say as I smile nervously, lingering at the door of my manager's spacious office.

He smiles and jokes back with me: "What day? What has come?" I silently wonder: If I keep everything light, maybe he won't notice the fact that I'm resigning...

In the end, he did notice. And while I'm sad to leave the friends I've made here, I'm ecstatic about making the move.

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A conversation Roger and I had today, while standing on the property of a home our realtor had just shown us:

"It's YOUR job to look before you leap, and it's MY job to be impulsive!"

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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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I strapped on my timing chip and pinned the number 74 on my shirt. It's a little amazing how that chip and number made me feel like a real runner, like maybe I was that girl whose shorts had slits up to her armpits. I strutted outside and joined my prancing group. We were conveniently positioned in the back of the crowd so that the faster runners wouldn't have to bother trying to get around us. The horn sounded and I began to follow hordes of bodies moving down the street.

I ran, and I ran, and I walked, and I ran. I ran a longer distance for a longer period of time than I've ever run in my life. I decided halfway through the race that if I came across the finish line last, I wouldn't be disappointed. I couldn't possibly be disappointed. Because the point was that I finished.

Every time I went around a corner, I secretly hoped it would be the last. Every time my foot pounded the pavement, I wished it was already crossing the finish line. I made little goals for myself: Just make it to that crack in the road; Just pass that red car; Just stay in front of those women walking; Just start running again once you get to the stop sign. And when I made that mark, whatever it was, I would set a new goal for myself. Sometimes I would surprise myself by starting to run again before I met my next goal.

When the finish line was finally in sight, something happened. It was like I hadn't been running at all, like I wasn't completely worn out, as if I had just been out on a short, leisurely walk. The entire race, Roger was beside me cheering me along. I began sprinting, tearing down the road for the last fifty yards. I couldn't help but wonder whether I could have maintained that pace for a longer period of time, or if perhaps I should have begun that tempo earlier in the race.

In the end, I didn't finish last, but almost. I was number 132 out of 141, and I would have been 133 had Roger not hung back a bit so I could step across the finish line first. But the point is: I finished. And I couldn't be more proud.

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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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My in-laws arrive today from South Carolina, which means that for the past several days I've been in a list-making frenzy.

I've made chore lists (clean, clean and clean, because we're turning our study – remember all the boxes? – into a proper bedroom). And I've made grocery lists ($141 later, I think I can feed an army. Albeit a very small one. Maybe just a platoon.).

Caddo Lake

I've made activity lists (including picnicking at and paddling around Caddo Lake). And after planning meals, I'm fairly certain I'll need an elastic waistband after this weekend. I'm most excited about the meals and have appropriately hung the final list on our refrigerator. I'm a little obsessed with good food and excited that their entire stay with us is going to be a culinary delight. To wit:

We're planning on tender, juicy steaks that will melt like butter in our mouths, spicy Tex-Mex, because there's no better place than Texas to get good Mexican food (except maybe Mexico itself), Roger will be barbequing ribs that are robust and tangy and fall off the bone, but still have little crisps around the edges (we got the recipe from my brother-in-law, and believe me: they're well worth the hour-long wait), and then there's my most recent cuisine infatuation, Indian. I've sacrificially sampled three new Indian restaurants in the past couple of weeks, just to be sure of our selection. Granted, there are dozens more to try, but I figure they can wait until next month. (Good news: next month begins in only four days.)

All this to say, we have a very full weekend ahead. One that I hope will not involve the tipping of canoes. (I'm looking at you, Dad.)

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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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Some of my favorite childhood memories involve baking goodies with my mom, or decorating tins upon tins of Christmas cookies with my grandmother. It's no wonder that I've turned out to be the sort of cook that I am: the sort of cook that rarely bothers to measure ingredients, the sort of cook who'd rather wing it and pray for the best. I watched as they whipped up silky batches of mashed potatoes and juicy, fall-off-the-bone roasts and perfectly salted homemade popcorn, the kind made in the iron skillet that burst from under the lid as it grew more and more fluffy, begging to be released into the giant wooden bowl for our consumption.

For the past few years I have been making birthday cakes for my family and friends, a tradition passed down to me by my mom. I've taken it a step further, incorporating candies for texture and dimension and dominating the icing, bending it to my will.

Both my niece and my nephew celebrated birthdays over the past two weekends, and I commemorated their special days with special cakes of their own.

My mom with Annabel

Annabel, my niece, turned one. Her motor skills aren't exactly fine-tuned yet, so I thought cupcakes should be the order of the day. That way she could eat her cake – face first or fingers first, it didn't matter – and we could, too.

Each cake was double the width of a traditional cupcake
(Click to enlarge)

I made butterflies, dragonflies, bumblebees and ladybugs. I used icing for decoration, sour straws for texture, M&Ms candies for the ladybug dots, licorice rope for the antennae, jumbo sprinkles for the eyeballs, edible glitter for a little shimmer and giant sugar crystals just because I could. Who doesn't love giant sugar crystals?

CLICK THUMBNAILS FOR LARGER IMAGES

Bumblebee


Butterfly


Dragonfly


Ladybug

Chase, my nephew, turned four. For the entire month leading up to his birthday, all he could talk about was a shark cake.

Chase, The Birthday Boy

I scoured the Internet and didn't turn up much, so I created the shark myself. Or, I should say Roger helped me create it, since he drew up the blue prints for the shark. Something about being a guy and watching too much of the Discovery channel made our shark a little fearsome.

Snaggly-toothed shark
(Click to enlarge)

For the shark, I decided to make two separate cakes: a white cake for the ocean, a red velvet cake for the shark's body. That way, when you cut into the shark, it would look like blood. And if there's anything a four-year-old boy wants to see, it's blood.

Bloody!
(Click to enlarge)

I made the red velvet cake in a loaf pan, so that we could carve it into the shape of a shark. I used the white tips of candy corns for its teeth, and smoothed icing over its body for a sleek look. Roger cut a licorice wheel into the shape of a fin, which we connected to a toothpick and then covered in icing before attaching to the shark's body.

Leaping out of the water
(Click to enlarge)

All the cakes took a loooong time to make, but it was so worth it to see the reaction of the guests at each party when they stole their first glance at dessert. It was so worth it to watch Annabel grab her dragonfly by the handful and squeal in delight when her fingers pressed through the mushy icing. It was so worth it to see Chase's eyes light up and turn to me in wonder when the first cut was made into the shark's body.

These are new memories in the making, not only for the younger generation of my family, but for me as well.

Comments and questions regarding these cakes and others can be directed to jes(AT)chirky(DOT)com.

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I don't really know that much about makeup. In fact, I know horrifically little. I rarely wear foundation and I wouldn't know how to apply concealer if Ru Paul had a mirror in hand, straddled me on the cold, hard bathroom tile and forced me to take blending lessons. I can't apply eyeliner without smearing it in all the wrong places (one time I even discovered it on my forehead half an hour later) and I just don't understand lip liner.

My makeup routine is made of three simple components: blush, mascara, lip gloss. Sometimes, when I'm feeling fancy, I'll even dab my finger into a little pot of shimmery cream-colored eye shadow-like-stuff that I got at Sephora and I'll rub a little on my eyelids. And on very, very special occasions, I'll wear my coveted foundation. I try not to do it often because, well, for one thing it's expensive. It also makes my makeup take a lot longer because of all the smearing and rubbing that has to occur. I generally only wear it when I'm trying to impress someone with a dewey, youthful complexion and perfectly even skin tone. Like when I know I'll be in front of the camera. Or when I go on an interview.

I'm sure you're much more adept with powders and goopy creams than I am, so maybe this wouldn't be a big deal for you. But for me, it's a recipe for catastrophe.

As you probably suspect by now, I had an interview recently (no cameras involved) (to my knowledge) (though I did have to hike up a little grassy hill wearing heels and I don't know why it hasn't occurred to them to put a sidewalk up the embankment between the parking lot and road). I also tried to wear foundation.

Bear with me for a minute here, because I have to explain my process to you. It's sort of in this little pump bottle, right? So I squeeze one pump's worth onto my finger, and then dab it between my fingers until I have an even amount on each of my index fingers because I'm king of anal about symmetry. And then I put little dabs all over my face so that I won't cover only my cheeks with it and not have any left for my forehead or chin. So anyway, I dabbed some on my cheek, and it kind of gooped and dribbled down my face. I panicked, looked down to be sure that none had landed on my blouse, and then went about smoothing it all over my face.

It's important to note here that any landing on my blouse would be a disaster for one reason alone: it was the only shirt that I could wear. You see, this running class that I've been taking has made me break out in hives, or get a heat rash, or maybe both, all over my chest. I don't know what is happening, but everyday I find tiny new red spots that have developed overnight and it's ruining my wardrobe, I'll tell you that. I only have so many boatneck shirts to my name and wearing a v-neck or scooped line or square-cut blouse would only highlight the blemishes, not hide them. And I definitely wanted to hide them.

I finished with my makeup and did a double-take in the mirror. Right there, right on the most prominent area of my chest, was a nickel-sized dollop of foundation. As I jerked my body to swing my jewelry out of the way, I watched in horror as a streak of foundation trailed behind my necklace and transferred onto my shirt. The only shirt that I could wear.

I frantically grabbed a washcloth, ran it under the faucet, and started furiously rubbing my shirt. I rubbed. And I rubbed. And I rubbed. I got almost all of it out, but by the time I was through my shirt had a gigantic mono-boob water stain across the front. I snatched my hairdryer, thinking that I could dry it quickly and dash out the door, since I was running late. And not to throw any heat at my hairdryer or anything, but that sucker gets hot. Hot enough to bend the fibers in my shirt, in fact, making one little area look kind of wonky and discolored. Hot enough to burn a hole in my shirt. A hole that I ignored. A hole that I simply covered up with my (cleaned) necklace.

I stepped in front of the full-length mirror to give myself a once-over before rushing out the door (I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!), and what did I see? A smudge of deodorant stretching across my blazer.

I'm not positive, but I think the Law of Luck requires that I get the job offer simply because Murphy's Law massacred my wardrobe.

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I suppose it would be unfair to say that, politically, I don't identify myself with any one party. I do. I am a conservative, I always have been, I probably always will be. I don't always agree with Republican platforms. I don't always agree with Democratic platforms. I usually fall into the "Undecided" category, weighing my options based on which issues are more important to me and voting for the candidate whose platform is most harmonious with my own. This year, however, I know nothing about ANY of the candidates, other than:

- Rudy Giuliani has a hard last name to spell
- McCain is kind of pasty-looking
- Hillary Clinton scares me a little

Continue reading "I Heart Huckabee" »

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This weekend I finally worked up the nerve to tell my best friend about two of my recent food finds. I was kind of nervous about it, like confessing them would suddenly mean that grocery stores everywhere would have empty shelves whenever I visited.

I imagined driving from store to store, calling locations in other cities in a lame attempt to get my hands on the products before finally calling the manufacturer and asking if any boxes were left in the warehouse. And when the manufacturer offered a sympathy coupon, I'd take it but never use it, in an odd sort of protest. I feel kind of bad about how possessive I am, and thought that if I present my grocery store food finds on a grander scale, maybe I can cure myself of this sickness. [Though, so help me God: if stores everywhere start running out of these products, I'm blaming you, Internet.]

Sugar Free Popsicles. At 15 calories each, they make the perfect snack. This works well if you're like me and you discover that your snack includes no less than 10 popsicles in one sitting, because even then it's only 150 calories, which equals roughly 10% of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. It's totally justifiable. The grape-orange combo is the best, exactly in that order. I always let the Popsicles thaw a little before inhaling them, which works well when you're eating several in succession. That way one Popsicle can be thawing while the other is being consumed.

Vanilla Scones. Since it's a fact of life that you overspend when you go to Target anyway, do yourself a favor and throw a box of Archer Farms (Target brand) vanilla scone mix in your basket. (Also needed: whipping cream.) Next time you need a fancy-but-easy breakfast, follow the instructions on the side of the box to make the scones. Add extra vanilla (pure Mexican vanilla is best), approximately 2 tablespoons. Just before baking, sprinkle sugar on triangles of dough. [Confession: I almost did it again. I wasn't going to tell you to use the extra-large sugar crystals, because it totally makes the scones gourmet and I wanted to have that title all to myself. Gah. I think I may be incurable after all.] Whip remaining cream (adding sugar to taste) and serve with sliced strawberries. Everyone will think you are a baking god(dess).

This list will likely continue to grow, but I'm curious to know what YOUR favorite grocery store food finds are.

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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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When Roger and I got married, I didn't know that he had been hiding an addiction from me. We hadn't lived together beforehand, so there was no way that I would have known, right? It was easy to hide, especially because he kept this addiction hidden away in the storage closet on his balcony, and I really had no occasion to suspect him of foul play.

He has an addiction to saving boxes. He squirrels them away every chance he gets, mumbling something about the potential for such a strong, sturdy, unmarred box. He doesn't ever use them, mind you, and he doesn't know just what that potential is – but he knows that it must exist. The box must be useful for something. Like taking up space.

Periodically he'll sort the boxes and decide to throw some away, usually at the encouragement of the loving nag he married (hello, self, no one likes a nag). We did this at the beginning of the summer, once we realized we couldn't fit onto our porch any longer, what with all the boxes spilling over onto the chairs. I watched as Roger consolidated the boxes, keeping some and relenting with others. I watched as the trash pile grew larger and larger with each box he threw onto the pile. I watched as his spirit deflated when he headed to the dumpster with them in tow.

Then I watched through the kitchen window, in disbelief, as he took some boxes to the dumpster, threw them in, and took the other boxes to our car and put them in the trunk. He was trying to hide boxes from me to bring back upstairs, and when I called him to the carpet, I think he was a little shocked that that woman he married could see right through him.

For the past several months, Roger and I have lamented that we are outgrowing our little apartment. It felt crowded, like we were practically stepping on top of each other to move around. And we were.

You see, for the past couple of months, we have been collecting boxes. Again, but with reason. We have been preparing to move somewhere, anywhere, we just didn't know where that place might be. The door was wide-open for us to move internationally, or nationally, or even to stay in this city.

Nearly every day one of us would bring home a box or two from work, a beautiful unmarred box, until one day several weeks ago when I visited my employer's mail room. We haven't brought any boxes home since then, because in that mailroom were Boxes Galore. Like, lots of them, all pretty and shiny and sturdy and ripe for the taking. And we did lots of taking, involving dollies and mail room employees helping us carry them. They are the good kind of boxes – and believe me, I'm now well-qualified to be a Judger of Boxes – the kind that reams of paper come in and that have lids and that don't fold down to space-saving containers.

We stuffed them in the trunk and in the back seat and in the passenger seat of our 4Runner, and then Roger drove them home and stacked them up in our hallway and in our living room and in our office, most notably blocking the entrance to both the study and the guest bathroom. Because I've sequestered the guest bathroom for the time-being (it's far easier for two people to get ready in two bathrooms than in one, you know), that presented a problem for me. The boxes reached the ceiling, I kid you not, and there was about a 12-inch gap I had to squeeze past to get into and out of the bathroom every morning.

Over the weekend, while I laid on the couch all sickly and puny-like, Roger set about consolidating boxes, once again, and moved them all into the office, where they're still stacked to the ceiling. He folded all the packing paper and neatly organized it in one of the boxes according to color and texture. And now our hallway is empty. Alarmingly empty.

Every time I've exited the bathroom this week, I've been startled. I almost feel like we've been robbed. I had grown so accustomed to the boxes, like I had my own personal obstacle course to run each morning. It was the only exercise I ever got – the sucking in of the stomach, the flattening of my body against the door frame, the clenching of my cheeks as I shimmied past the tower of boxes, careful not to knock them over (and oh boy, if they fell over? They caught the door on their way down, and with a great swoosh the door would shut, the boxes would pin it closed, and then I would be stuck in the hallway wearing nothing but a towel, literally digging my way to the door) – and absurdly, I kind of miss them now.

If ever a Cardboard Anonymous class starts, I think Roger and I will need to join.

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I should tell you that I’m not dead, that my toe didn’t require surgery, that it didn’t require much at all, actually, and now it’s almost back to normal. I’m also here to inform you that according to my podiatrist, cutting v-shaped notches in your nails and filing the center of your nails down won’t stop an ingrown toenail from forming. “It’s just an old wives’ tale,” he said, knowing full-well that it wouldn’t stop me from doing it, just because I like to cover all my bases.

In other news, I reached a milestone this weekend: I lost five pounds by simply sitting around and doing nothing. It’s true, and if you want to do the same I suggest you knock on my door and let me breathe on you for a couple minutes. That way you, too, can lie about on a couch, alternately sleeping, watching movies (Freedom Writers is an excellent choice for sappy movie watching and might induce tears) and checking your temperature. Mine reached 102°, the highest it has been in nearly 18 years. It was a pretty boring weekend, except for the part where I got to eat Popsicles for no reason at all. And lose weight because of it.

I won’t tell you the other benefits of me breathing on you, but I’ll give you a hint: drinking water from the tap in Mexico – or, worse, lapping up stagnant water from an e-coli infested pond in Mexico – ain’t got nothin’ on me, baby.

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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 been over a year since I've publicly aired any of the feedback I get on this site and, frankly, I don't know why I've waited so long. I often get precious gems from crabby people who take the time to sit down and write me, and it seems like a disservice to my readers that I don't divulge these trinkets more frequently.

I seldom have the opportunity to respond to the feedback because most people don't have the nerve to leave an email address. That is why a particular remark left on this site yesterday was so appealing to me. The comment was in response to an entry I wrote about the Texas Snakeman. I recommend that you read my thoughts on the Snakeman for context, and also to see a really unpleasant image of a man who purposefully dangled ten rattlesnakes from his maw.

From Steven:

I know Mr. Bibby personally and for you to sit here and act all high and mighty is such a load of crap. You act as if he is truely harming the snakes. I guess you have never harmed anything in your life, well I call BS. I bet you have done more harm to any living creature than Mr. Bibby has to any of those snakes. Get off your high horse before you fall and break your neck.

Whoa there, cowboy.

When I saw that Steven left his email address, I found the REPLY button irresistible:

Hi Steven,

I appreciate that you took the time to leave a comment on my site. Please know that I had no intention to offend you or the integrity of Mr. Bibby's pursuits, and that the entry you read was merely my exaggerated opinion (as is often found on my site).

I don't at all think that he was harming the snakes; in fact, I'm quite certain that he was very careful in his handling of them. And you're right about one thing: I am also certain I've done more harm to a living creature than Mr. Bibby did to those snakes. To wit: just last night a mosquito landed on my arm and I killed it! I doubt that Mr. Bibby killed any of the snakes that were hanging from his mouth.

Still, that last sentence completely rattles me (forgive the pun, I couldn't resist), which is obviously why I wrote the entry in the first place.

Dismounting,
Jes

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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