Chirky

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:

1. Barn Owl White, used as a base color in most rooms and bathrooms

2. Nantucket White, for trim and baseboards

3. Architectural Off-White, for ceilings

4. Crab Apple, A little too blue-based, we're trying to stick with yellow hues. Probably won't be used.

5. Expedition Khaki, for the sunny dining room and living room.

Also this weekend, we're laying tile in the laundry room and pulling up the carpet nail strips from around the house.

Here's what we have left to do:

• Install blinds
• Re-finish the edge of the fireplace (jagged from initial build, where built-in bookshelf was)
• Choose and install bamboo floors
• Install remaining tile in kitchen and bathrooms (will not be done until we remodel those rooms)
• Replace sliding glass doors with french doors (living room and master bedroom)
• And then the fun stuff: choosing lighting fixtures, furniture, home accents, etc.

For the past seven months, Roger and I have literally been living in a construction zone - often using construction floodlights to illuminate our paths. And if I were totally honest, I'd tell you that Roger has done 95% of the work. But I'm not going to be honest. Instead, I'm going to take credit for it, too. (By association, you see.)

The one thing I look forward to the most is printing our before-and-after pictures, framing them, and hanging them around the house. And then I plan on hosting an open house, and inviting everyone I know to see what progress we've made. Oh, what progress we've made!

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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:

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

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

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

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

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

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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