Chirky

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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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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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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Today my abs hurt. As well as my hamstrings. And somehow, my elbow does, too. Had I known the other night’s yoga class would affect me this much, I might not have taken it.

I’ve never really practiced yoga before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I didn’t even bother showing up with a mat – I just assumed fanatics had them because they were a cool accessory, not because they were necessary – and so I used the for-public mat and tried not to focus on all the germs that were undoubtedly teeming across the rubber surface. Besides, I had other things to focus on, like not falling over. For the fourth time.

When I entered the studio, I felt confident about my flexibility and ability to balance – after all, I’ve taken either dance or gymnastics since I was four years old. When I left the studio, I only felt confident about my ability to do Downward Facing Dog. But even then it was simply because I knew I had to hold the pose for only a few seconds before flattening my body against the floor, which I masqueraded as an actual yoga pose. I didn't fool anyone, though I certainly tried.

Week two of Operation: Exercise is going swimmingly. And by that I mean I may be drowning. Between yoga, belly dancing, Latin dancing and hip-hop, it is kind of upsetting to me to discover how uncoordinated and weak I have become in the last ten years. My freshman year of college I was in the gym so often that I could leg press more than 700 pounds – no, I'm being totally serious, y'all – and now I can barely stand to support my upper body weight while holding a squat for sixty seconds.

It has occurred to me that I'm living a little in the past and that trying to attain what I had so many years ago may be impossible, but that hasn't stopped me yet. It feels great to know that I'm at least making an effort, at least trying. And I'm having fun in the process. It hasn't stopped me from dancing at clubs yet either, and I suppose that's the important part. Though I'll admit that my confidence is increased by 600% simply because everyone there is already drunk and can barely remember their dates' names, much less how I'm dancing.

I figure that if I can keep up with my current schedule, I may be able to do more than The Corpse by the end of six weeks' time. And I'll look good doing it, too.

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This weekend I hopped on the scale for the first time in several weeks. Three weeks, to be exact. Three grueling weeks of eating less food on a daily basis than I've consumed in maybe the past twenty years of my life. And what I found wasn't all that surprising.

The scale displayed a three pound weight loss. That's only one pound a week, though somehow I was expecting an average of five pounds a week – that's how little food I feel like I've been eating – regardless of how absurd that expectation might be.

I suppose a pound a week is not horrible, because my track record could have been a pound a month. Which, let's just say, wouldn't get me to my goal until the year 2011, and by then I'd probably have already given up and started wearing muumuus.

Of course, that tiny little drop in weight was expected, considering that my clothes are still fitting just about the same, and considering I really haven't exercised all that much. Unless you consider the five flights of stairs I take to work each morning, which takes less than two minutes. I guess. I haven't actually timed it, but if you see a girl heaving in the stairwell tomorrow morning and staring at her watch?

Say "Hello." It'll be nice to meet you.

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Turkey Meatloaf Recipe
Image taken from a delightful site called WhatWereEating.com

I have a confession to make: I've never liked meatloaf.

(Whew. There. I said it. Now doesn't that feel better? My heart can intrepidly race ahead, no longer confined by the knowledge that I have a secret, and the Internet doesn't know what it is.)

Though I love cooking, and would consider myself a foodie in a heartbeat, I only cook about three or four nights a week. I haven't figured out yet how we subsist the rest of the time, but my thighs are telling me that we're not in danger of starving.

If I had an intern to follow behind me, someone who didn't mind wiping my spills and washing my dishes, I'm convinced that I'd cook and experiment in the kitchen more often. But my laziness supersedes my passion for food, for lo: I am an unintentionally messy cook.

Once a year my employer holds a vendor fair to raise money for United Way. And every year there are fake-designer purses being sold, homemade jewelry crafters lining the walls of our Great Room (see: break room), Pampered Chef consultants and Sprint field reps (and more!) who set up disheveled booths and long banquet tables, all from which they sell us their goods.

Two years ago, I met a nice lady who sold products made by Homemade Gourmet. I thought, "How useful! Prepackaged seasonings that I add to food!" (?) I still have every one of those mixes in a basket in my pantry, patiently awaiting the day I need a mix to help me make baked beans or minty chocolate cheesecake or Grandmother's Sunday Roast. (I'm not sure whose Grandmother she is, but mine didn't have a special Sunday-only recipe.)

The Homemade Gourmet consultant also sold me a mix for Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf, which I only bought because Roger had been asking me to make meatloaf. Frankly, I think meatloaf is a little scary. It is a brown-ish hunk of loaf, afterall. Made entirely of meat. With ketchup all over it. Is it just me, or do you break out into hives when you imagine the loaf of meat? I'm nearly dry heaving even now.

I finally broke down one night and made the meatloaf from the seasoning packet that I had purchased, and good gracious! It was actually good! I enjoyed it. I wanted more!

I emailed the Homemade Gourmet consultant and told her so. Two months went by before I realized: Hey. I haven't heard back from her yet. So I tried calling a couple different consultants in the Dallas area, and they didn't call me back.

I'm sorry, but aren't they consultants? Aren't they supposed to sell this stuff to me? I'm practically flinging myself at their doorstep, hurling my money at them, and they're just casually having a look-see at me through their peephole.

And now two years have gone by, and no one wants to sell me the Italian Mozzarella Meatloaf mix. And I'm feeling a tad bit scorned. And also like maybe some people shouldn't be in the sales business.

So: do you know a Homemade Gourmet consultant? I mean, the kind who actually like to make money? Because I'm waving my money around in the air right now, and no one is lurching forward to take it.

Or better yet, let's have a contest**! You post your favorite meatloaf recipe. I will make each loaf of meat, and submit it to my panel of judges. Prizes* (for the best loaves) will abound.

*Please do not remind me that I still have not mailed the prizes from my previous contests. I know that. But I promise I'll get around to it. Eventually.

**The deadline for this contest is February 18, 2007. Please email me the meatloaf recipe or post the recipe in the comments section of this entry.

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"Why are you wearing those exercise leggings?"

"Because I was thinking about exercising, so I put them on."

"And pulling them on wore you out, so you spent the rest of the evening on the couch watching TV?"

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"I think those pants are a little tight on your stomach - you should have gotten the bigger size."

"I think they fit just fine."

"You have a muffin top."

"Sweetie, if I am a muffin top, what are you?"

::pause::

"I'm a popover!"

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This is the thing: I love to cook. But just because I love to cook does not necessarily mean that I read labels or know much about the nutritional value of food beyond: grilled is good, fried is bad.

Internets, I need your help.

You see, I just ate a cup of cooked pasta, which does not seem like a lot of pasta to me. But when I logged it in to SparkPeople, it counted that portion of my meal as 636 calories. Internets! That does not even count the diced tomatoes or artichoke hearts or mushrooms or garlic or grilled chicken or olive oil!

When I read that number of calories, I had a heart attack and then promptly DIED.

Okay, maybe I didn't die. BUT I WANTED TO. Naturally, I started looking for loopholes.

And this is my question, which I totally expect you Internets to answer, because you know more things than I do, and also because I refuse to believe I just inhaled a lunch worth 845 calories.

When I calculate how much I'm eating, is it supposed to be in terms of dry pasta, or cooked pasta? Because, obviously, 1 cup of dry pasta equals 4 cups of cooked pasta. We all know that. And I can much more easily believe that 4 cups of cooked pasta equals 636 calories than the one, teensy-eensy measily cup of it that I just ate.

PLEASE SEND HELP.

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As part of Project: Lose Weight, I took the advice of one of my readers, Laura, and signed up for SparkPeople.com. Please stop telling me to sign up for these delicious goodies, because you know that I will, I cannot possibly stop, for the brilliance of the Internet consumes me.

I have approximately twelve different email addresses, many of which I do not use, and three of which I check every few weeks just to see what's there. And do you know what lurks in those old accounts? Junk mail. And every time I begin to wonder why I keep checking any of the accounts, I come across an email from an old friend who doesn't know my new(est) email address, and so I'm compelled to keep checking my old accounts because you just never know what you'll find there. And it's a bother, really.

SparkPeople.com is my favorite new toy for this reason alone: I can track things. You must know by now that I love to make lists simply because I can cross things off of those lists, and it always makes me feel so accomplished. Usually my weekend list looks something like this:

Wake up
Eat breakfast
Laundry
Grocery shop

And, see? Already, when I wake up, I can cross something off my list. And even if I don't do anything for the rest of the day, I'm satisfied because something got crossed off the list. And that feels good, doesn't it?

On SparkPeople I can track how many calories I consume, and how many I burn, and lots of other things. I can even track whether I'm getting enough folic acid. I can create meal plans and grocery lists, and best of all, I can track the amount of water I'm drinking.

And y'all? I have a problem drinking water. But not just water. All liquids. I'm convinced that I'm permanently dehydrated, as noted by my ashy skin and constant thirst. I think it boils down to a pure, slothful laziness because if I want a Styrofoam cup (my employer is classy) of water I have to stand up, walk halfway across the building to get it, and by the time I get back to my desk the water is already gone. See my predicament? This is why I just try to ignore my thirst. Because otherwise, I might get the teensiest bit of exercise, several times each day, on the way over to the water dispenser, and we just can't have that.

Back at Project: Lose Weight, I was trying to figure out how to, well, you know…lose weight. Yesterday I managed to drink three entire cups of water, which may be a personal record of sorts. I might have also dropped fourteen ounces from my body due to all that walking around the building in search of water. My new goal is to drink eight cups of water each day, and I swear, I’m getting to my point.

The water consumption tracking device on SparkPeople taunts me. It dances around, practically advertising that I’ve only had three cups of water to drink, laughing at me and sometimes even calling me names.

Last night, to silence it, I decided: enough already! I’ll just drink the remaining five cups and be done with it!

So I drank two cups of water, back to back, before dinner. And you know what? I was full afterward. Miserably full. I didn’t even have any room for dinner because all that water was swishing around my belly, taking up all the space in my stomach that is generally reserved for food.

And now I’ve finally figured out how to lose weight quickly: I can’t consume a pan full of brownies – oops, did I forget to tell you that I made brownies while on my diet? – when my stomach is full of water.

All that to say, maybe dieticians know what they’re talking about, afterall.

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My slacks should not be fitting like leggings.

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In jest, I posted a comment on Jonniker's website a while back with an image of Manuel Uribe. He's an obese man (weighing in at 1,200+ pounds) in Mexico who, several months ago, made an on-air plea regarding his weight loss.

I'm not really sure how that went, since I never heard the plea, but how can he make a plea regarding his own weight loss? Isn't he the only one who is like, you know, responsible for it? I mean, what can his audience do about it?

Since then, he has apparently lost 200 pounds following a strict high-protein diet. Is that the same thing as the Atkins Diet? Because I'm a professional dieter and all, but not eating bread (and biscuits and rolls and crepes and English muffins and bagels and such) sounds like pure hell to me.

You might as well eliminate dessert, too. And then life is no fun and you can't sit around on a cold wintry day roasting marshmallows on the fire. And what are fires for, if not to roast marshmallows? That's what I want to know.

When I glanc at that picture of Manuel, I can't tear my eyes away from his thighs. Those aren't thighs! They are TREE TRUNKS. (And what mine might look like soon if I don't stop eating marshmallows.) What about his feet? Does he have his shoes custom-made? Or, maybe he doesn't even wear shoes. That's possible.

I realize my comments may seem harsh, but I feel qualified to talk about Manuel Uribe's obesity only because I used to date a guy who was extremely obese - probably more than 500 pounds - before I knew him. I couldn't believe it because when we dated, he was a body builder. He won competitions that were based entirely on his physical fitness, and seeing pictures of him when he was so extremely heavy was a juxtaposition of reality.

He told me that he just woke up one day, upset about his weight and tired of the disgusted looks he would get in public. He started dieting on his own, reading fitness magazines and exercising. And he did it. On his own, naturally, without stimulants or steroids. And THAT's why he competed, because he was so proud of what he had accomplished.

And also because girls would hit on him, and he would love it, and then he would get frisky with them, which totally led to us breaking up, but that's another story for another day.

So that is why I don't get Manuel Uribe's plea for help. Shouldn't he help himself?

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You know when someone tries to serve you beans for dinner? And you look at them, and the first thing that pops into your mind is ALL THAT GAS?

And so you ask your mom if it's going to make you fart (oh, how I hate that word!), and she says that it won't, and you make the mistake of believing her?

And so you call her on the phone to tell her she was wrong, and her response is that it's only because you don't eat beans often enough, if you ate beans more often, your body wouldn't react that way? And so you continue to eat them?

And holding the gas in is PAINFUL? And to combat it, you park extra-far away in the parking garage so you can putter your way into the office without anyone noticing? And you make extra trips up and down the stairwell for the same reason? And you go home during lunch in hopes of a toilet-sitting marathon that produces something other than gas?

No? Just me, then?

But answer me this: You know how when it's cold outside and you exhale through your mouth, you can see your breath on the air? Does the same thing happen when it comes out the other end?

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"A bunch of us are going to try the Beyonce Master Cleanse diet starting today and we're going to do it for the entire week. Want to join us?"

"Hmmm. Well, I've kind of already done that one."

"Oh." [Looks at me.] "So...the diet doesn't work?"

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Tomorrow morning, for the third year in a row, I am cooking the turkey for Thanksgiving. Doing this each year reinforces the fact that I Am An Adult Now, an adult who should not try to take a nap while my mom washes the dishes. She tries to help reinforce that fact wherever she can, sometimes in the form of pots banging together above my head.

Anyone want to come over for Thanksgiving? I dare you to take a nap.

My mom is practically a goddess in the kitchen. I grew up not with a few favorite dishes, but with an arsenal of cuisines and meals my mom had created over the years. I am so thankful that she introduced me to so many different types of foods, because it helped me become the woman I am today: one who eagerly eats chicken feet (with talons!). That said, I am not a picky eater. I maintain that I will always try anything once, including pig intestines, particularly if I don't know what I am eating before it goes into my mouth.

The first year I made the Thanksgiving turkey, I was somewhat nervous. My mom had only requested that I bake a small turkey, about 8 pounds. Meanwhile, she made an enormous honey-baked ham to use as back-up in case my turkey tasted like an overcooked piece of tar. You know the meat I'm talking about: the kind that you chew and immediately wish you hadn't put in your mouth? The kind that you regret putting on your plate because how will you get it off without eating it and without your host noticing that you couldn't swallow one more foul (fowl? Ha!) mouthful?

When I arrived at my mother's home that morning, she was delightfully surprised that the turkey was golden brown rather than charred black. It smelled perfectly edible, and when she cut into it juices ran down the back of the small bird's body. By the end of the day, guests were picking the meat off the bones and commenting on how delicious it was, how perfectly moist it was, how in their 76 years of life they had not eaten a turkey as good as that one.

I shot my mom a smug look and a raised eyebrow, the look that I've trademarked over the years, and she beamed with pride. Her daughter could cook. And when I told her the recipe came from a local radio DJ, she didn't believe me.

The next year I used the same recipe to roast a 17 pound turkey, and the turkey turned out equally well. This year, I am making a 22 pound turkey. TWENTY TWO POUNDS. That's, like, the weight of my nephew.

I'm all about minimal work, fool-proof recipes, and impressing people. And this recipe for our annual Thanksgiving turkey (courtesy of the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning radio show) has it all. Whether you're looking to showcase your mad cooking skillz while entertaining a house full of guests or you just want your mother-in-law to adore you, read on for the recipe. But chef beware: keep a large supply of pillows on-hand. That tryptophan will seduce turkey eaters into slumber every time.

Continue reading "Thanksgiving Turkey" »

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Every year for Thanksgiving, my employer hosts a luncheon for the legal department and caters turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and corn. Our group supplies the rest: side dishes (carrots, green beans, yams, salads, etc.), desserts (chocolate, pecan pie, cheesecake, pumpkin pie, apple pie, etc.), drinks (soda, tea, etc.), bread (dinner rolls, cornbread, specialty breads, etc.).

The first year I signed up for it, I arrived a little late on the scene and all the normal vegetable side dishes were already taken, but there was still one remaining slot for a vegetable. The dessert openings had already been snatched up, and I was unwilling to bring something like a single tub of Cool Whip, mainly because the males in our group should be responsible for bringing that since they don't cook.

I am also an attention whore and love showcasing my ability to cook. When you've got the talent, it's important to flaunt it appropriately. In my case, "appropriately" is defined as: every opportunity. (Thus, the new cooking website, yet to launched.)

After staring at the list of vegetable dishes, I came up with a mental list of veggies not represented: zucchini, mushrooms, bok choy. Not great choices for Thanksgiving, save the mushrooms – but what could I do with those?

I made stuffed mushrooms, which were a hit with the crowd and have since been a tradition at work. Plus, they're pretty. And easy. And I'm all about no-fuss food.

Want to make them for your next party? Keep reading.

Continue reading "Stuffed" »

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Julianna, the author of one of the blogs I read, recently wrote a raw and beautiful entry about her struggle with anorexia. While the feelings are something she will likely battle the rest of her life (the same feelings with which many of us still struggle), she is at a point in her life in which she can say that she's no longer at war with the physical (food) side of anorexia.

I'm so proud of her accomplishment, and for her courage to speak out about an eating disorder that has ravaged the lives of so many women.

Julianna is an American bioarcheologist, who is currently separated (by the government) from her Jordanian husband, who is also a bioarchelogogist. She's in the process of telling the story (on her site) of how they met and began their relationship at an excavation site in Jordan.

It's good for the romantic in me.

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I feel like there is something that I was supposed to do today – what was it?

Oh, yes. That's it. I'm choosing a winner for the cooking tip contest. There were so many great entries – I almost feel that it would be an injustice to pick just one. Whoever made up the rules for this game, anyway?

Continue reading "Good for those who haven't figured out how to elegantly dice tomatoes yet" »

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I think Roger has begun eating grapenuts cereal just to spite me. He went to the store, found the healthiest cereal possible, and eats a bowl whenever I eat ice cream.

I thought a good solution to the problem would be just to sprinkle a few grapenuts on my slow-churned chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce.

The grapenuts were so crunchy they nearly chipped a tooth, but weren't alltogether horrible when paired with my dessert.

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I am a gourmand.

There. I said it. I love food. I love cooking. I love chocolate and chicken and chives, though perhaps not mixed together.

I often find myself daydreaming of hosting my own daytime television show on the FoodTV network, of driving with Rachel Ray in a Chrysler convertible on our way to find the next best place to film $40 a Day, of sampling foods and discussing what spices have been added to produce such a unique flavor.

Simply put, I love to cook.

With the holidays quickly approaching I thought it might be appropriate to unveil a new section of this site for the food lover in each of us. Each week I'll be highlighting my favorite recipes and foods from around the world and in my kitchen. You can use the "Search" feature in the side bar or check out the Gourmand category (also: a Gourmand section coming to a Side Bar near you soon!).

I recently found a list of Unusual Kitchen Tips. The list was so intriguing to me that I feel obligated to share it. I'm also curious whether you are holding a well-kept kitchen secret, and if so, the Internets must know what your secret is. (* * * CONTEST ALERT * * *)

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

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I've taken up the habit of eating pistachios. I love cracking them open and popping them in my mouth.

Except, GAH. They don't just "crack open" like one would expect, particularly considering they're already pre-cracked for my convenience.

Recently I've found myself sitting at my desk, straining to get the nuts out, attempting to pry the shell open with my metal mail opener. The pistachio inevitably flies across my cubicle, which means seconds later I'm scouring the carpet looking for where it might have landed. AND WHEN I FIND IT, I STILL EAT IT.

How ghetto is that?

Dude. After all that hard work, I'm eating it just on principle. I worked for that sucker.

I just crawled out from under my desk (where my last pistachio landed) in time to see a coworker (male) walk into my cubicle, glance at the open shell on my desk and then say, "Everything okay with your nuts? I noticed you were struggling with them a bit."

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IF a betting pool had been started; and

IF my readers laid down bets related to how long I could last on The Master Cleanse; and

IF one reader had bet that I would last all of seven hours on Friday before self-imploding into a monstrous, crazed being devouring everything in sight, including more than one entire medium regular-crust ham and pineapple pizza; and

IF that same reader had also bet that I would be laden with guilt afterward, feeling remorse to such depth that I would put myself back on The Master Cleanse because I just ate 10 slices of pizza, and holy cow, I thought my limit was three; and

IF that same reader bet that I would stay on The Master Cleanse all day Saturday, only for me to wake up Sunday morning and realize: I CAN'T DO THIS; and

IF that same reader knew that I wouldn't be able to continue The Master Cleanse on Sunday because:

1. I felt like I was grounded;
2. I love solid food;
3. I hate waking up at 6 a.m. to my stomach cramping and the subsequent six (six!) episodes of diarrhea before I even bothered drinking the salt water, mind you;
4. And so I didn't drink the salt water, thankyouverymuch;
5. I have food that may go bad in the refrigerator and I want to cook it;
6. I have never so badly wanted to cook food in my life;
7. The Food Network is my favorite TV Channel;
8. I would rather wake up early every morning and exercise than force my body to go without solid food;
9. I made Chicken Capri with artichoke hearts, mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes for dinner Sunday night;
10. And lo, it was good.

THEN that same reader would have totally hit the betting pool jackpot; and

THEN that same reader is now my enemy, because: Why Didn't You Warn Me Of The Misery To Come?

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Several months ago I talked to my friend JCol about The Master Cleanse, a diet of lemons and water and maple syrup and cayenne, that not only, ahem, clean you out but also encourage weight loss.

This morning I spoke with my coworker about it, and after finding out that Beyonce lost 25 pounds in two weeks on The Master Cleanse for a movie she was shooting – which, by the way, is totally hearsay. I don't remember reading that in any of the gossip magazines – I decided that it would work equally well with me!

I would post pictures of me in a bikini from a year ago, but, hmm. No. If you saw those I would have to kill you. And let's just say I'm not the murderous type. Especially not the mass-murderous type who goes crazy on her readers for looking at pictures that she was responsible for posting in the first place. I just don't think I could build a good defense around that.

So. The Master Cleanse. I'm going during lunch today to get the ingredients. I better not have to run to the restroom at work today. I don't do well with public pooping.

I'll keep a running dialog on this site. We'll see how long I can last before I break down and maul the person in the kitchen who is reheating last night's dinner, which from my desk, smells exactly like something gourmet and garlic-y and Italian. Or, maybe I'm just hungry.

12:03 p.m.: Leave work, drive to Central Market

12:19 p.m.: Find organic lemons

12:19:15 p.m.: Choose and pick up five lemons

12:19:30 p.m.: Mutter "oh, crap! no! no!" as the lemons begin to cascade atop each other

12:19:32 p.m.: Fling my body against the produce display to keep lemons from spilling onto the ground

12:23 p.m.: After carefully rearranging lemon display and standing silently in front of it, ready to lurch if they begin falling again, head toward honey aisle

12:24 p.m.: Find the only container of Certified Organic Grade B Maple Syrup

12:26 p.m.: Drool over milky chocolates and black licorice beckoning me

12:32 p.m.: Arrive home with my purchases, find citrus juicer that I bought two years ago and have never used

12: 45 p.m.: Still squeezing these lemons. Isn't there an easier way to do this? Does anyone sell fresh-squeezed organic lemon juice?

12:54 p.m.: Seriously? Had no clue that squeezing lemons would take so long. Almost to 8 ounces.

12:56 p.m.: Measure maple syrup and lemon juice together into two containers

12: 57 p.m.: Should be pulling into my parking garage right about now. Instead, I am standing in my kitchen sucking the lemon juice off my pinky finger, which has two papercuts, and which is stinging with a white-hot rage of … stingyness.

12:57:23 p.m.: Measure water into bottles with lemon juice/maple syrup mixture. Realize I added twice as much water as I was supposed to. Resign myself to drinking really watered-down lemonade.

1:03 p.m.: Driving to work. Get cut off by two people. Follow one of the two people into my parking garage.

1:07 p.m.: Fill cup with ice, shake Master Cleanse mixture, pour over ice

1:07:46 p.m.: Realize I forgot to mix in cayenne pepper. It's only 1/10 of a teaspoon, anyway. It can't matter THAT much.

1:10 p.m.: Stare at my styrofoam cup, wonder whether what the mixture tastes like, decide I can't just not eat for the next ten days.

1:11 p.m.: Remember that I am not a very disciplined person. Will I last longer than a day?

1:37 p.m.: Taking my first sip with you, Internet.

Hold, please. I'm sipping.

1:37:23 p.m.: Hold, please. I'm not sipping. Roger called me to ask me questions that actually involve me using my brain.

1:40 p.m.: Okay. I'm sipping again. Or, not again, because I never did it the first time.

Sipping now.

1:40:11 p.m.: That made my jaw tingle. And nose crinkle. The aftertaste isn't so bad, because it tastes like maple syrup. Has anyone else ever noticed how similar cotton candy and maple syrup taste?

1:41 p.m.: Sipping again.

1:42 p.m.: I don't think I can do this for ten days.

1:45 p.m.: I know it hasn't had time to go through my intestines yet, but I just felt a slight twinge of pain. Am I a hypochondriac?

1:55 p.m.: Chewing ice makes me feel like I am actually eating real-live-food (except, maybe not "live" as in "alive" because - gross). Perhaps I should have eased myself into this, instead of going cold-turkey.

2:02 p.m.: I'm wondering if, after this is all over, I'll ever be able to drink lemonade again.

2:17 p.m.: I've already consumed one entire glass of Master Cleanse. No bathroom emergencies. For which I'm thankful. Gah. I'd rather drive all the way home for taking care of THAT kind of business.

2:25 p.m.:: JCol just left a comment to tell me that this Master Cleanse doesn't actually clean me out. It's the Smooth Move (the name: blech) tea that does that. Except before I started this Master Cleanse, I had already convinced myself I wouldn't drink the tea or the salt water.

2:27 p.m.: If only I knew what Beyonce did.

2:45 p.m.: I love bendy straws.

3:01 p.m.: A conversation I had ealier today with Roger:

"Do you want to do The Master Cleanse with me?"


"Um, no. I'm going to see how well you do with it first."


"So, I'm you're guinea pig?"


"That about sums it up."

3:19 p.m.: I forgot to weigh myself before I started this. Don't you think I probably still weigh the same as I did three hours ago? That makes sense, right? And that two hours from now, I'll probably still weigh the same? So, I can just go home and weigh myself?

3:20 p.m.: Except I don't have a scale at home. On to Plan B.

3:20:33 p.m. There is no Plan B. Anyone want to have me over tonight so I can weigh myself?

4:04 p.m.: Just learned that my tongue will be white and fuzzy, like a Q-tip, by the time this is all over. It means that I'm detoxing. That's gross to me. Can't I brush my tongue when I brush my teeth and make it go away? Can I chew gum? Will this affect my breath?

5:14 p.m.: I dreaming of going home and eating a hot, steamy pizza.

6:06 p.m.: It took less than one hour for me to give in to my cravings. I am a weakling. I also realized that with my new niece, my nephew's third birthday party, a friend's baby shower, and an extended trip away, doing this diet will not be easy right now. It was easy for me to rationalize. Have I mentioned I'm not disciplined?

7:15 p.m.: That was perhaps the best pizza I have ever eaten. And I scarfed it. I ate an entire medium-sized pizza all by myself. I didn't know that much food would even fit in my body!

8:36 p.m.: I fell asleep on the couch. This pizza in my stomach makes me want to vomit. I feel gross.

9:00 p.m.: Why am I such a glutton? Now I'm really disapointed in myself and feel like a failure. I didn't last for SEVEN hours. I think I have a food addiction.

9:11 p.m.: Researching "food addiction" on Google.

11:29 p.m.: Feel miserable. An entire pizza lodged in belly. Took an ex-lax before I went to bed. I've got to get this thing out of me.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

9:25 a.m.: Woke up still feeling miserable about myself. Am I unduly harsh on myself? Should this not be that big of a deal? Seriously. I feel like I've committed an unforgiveable sin or something. AND THE INTERNET WAS MY WITNESS!

9:27 a.m.: Heading to Central Market, again. I'm determined to ride this thing out. Going to purchase 50 lemons, several more bottles of maple syrup, and ... ug. Smooth Move tea. That name makes me want to vomit.

9:28 a.m.: Confirmation: I am STUBBORN.

10:35 a.m.: I have a wedding to go to today. I am hoping I do not regret this decision, because it would suck to spend the entire ceremony in the restroom. With pantyhose on.

12:41 p.m.: The cayenne? Hurts. Also, I strongly recommend not trying the Master Cleanse when you have several social engagements planned. Pains in the intestinal tract do not mix well with large groups.

7:16 p.m.: The intestines behaved at the wedding. So far I really don't even feel hungry. Don't they say that you have to do something for 21 days to break a habit? That probably means that 10 days won't break my food habit. But - it's a start.

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I've spent a good portion of the last couple of weeks as hungry as a famished pigmy shrew stalking its next prey. In public I have to force myself to stop eating, instead holding one hand in the other and squeeeeeeezing, hoping the pain will take the focus off of my growling stomach.

I don't understand why I suddenly have such a voracious appetite, but I've decided to start blaming it on a tapeworm. As such, I've created a list of many things I can blame on my tapeworm, because I'm always looking for something else to blame rather than my own lack of discipline.

Continue reading "Thinking: How to Determine (with very little accuracy) Whether A Tapeworm Has Taken Residence In Your Body" »

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I haven’t barhopped since my freshman year of college, when I was underage and only had access to the wine coolers and beer at fraternity parties, so I am fairly ignorant about mixed drinks. Throw in a limited bar that doesn’t carry my standard Midori or Amaretto (Sour), and this is what you might hear me order:

”Um, can you just make me a drink that is maybe a little sweet?” “But I don’t want it to taste at all like alcohol.” “Oh - and can it be pink?”

And then I smile sweetly and flutter my eyelashes for good measure. I usually just get a blank stare or furrowed brow in return, but the bartender at BlogHer on Friday night must have felt pity for me because he grabbed a glass, poured a suicide of liquid into it, presented it to me sans the cute paper umbrella and named it a Pink Nympho.

I think it's fair to say that this proves my theory that men are thinking about sex 70% of the time.

Continue reading "BlogHer '06: A Drunken Orgy of Estrogen" »

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Do you ever start entries, and then save them as drafts to "come back to later"? And then later never comes around, and by the time you realize you have a draft you can't remember where in the world your thought process was going?

No? Just me? Hmph.

I started this entry several months ago and never finished it. Care to finish it for me?

I often brag to Roger that I have The Largest Bladder In The World, as evidenced by my ability to go an entire workday without peeing. I'm also able to sit through a movie without leaving for the bathroom, which I find particularly helpful because: you, who just got up? The entire direction of the movie will be altered in the one scene you miss while you're gone. Next time, maybe you should consider bringing along a catheter if you can't hold your pee for a mere two hours. I'm totally looking down upon you from my lofty position atop my Very Large Bladder.

Today, I realized that the reason I never have to use the restroom is because I often forget to drink water. Each day I have a bottle of water sitting atop my desk, begging me to stop dehydrating my organs, and I just ignore it. Sometimes I wish I had a popup reminder to drink water every thirty seconds, but then I think about how I'd spend all that time just dismissing the reminders, and I think about all the reminders I'd have to close that popup while I'm away from work, and the mere thought of it wears me out.

Please, go forth, and finish my entries for me. (It's sort of like Choose Your Own Adventure, don't you think?)

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In the past three hours I have chewed fourteen sticks of gum in an effort to curb my appetite. It is out of control: my stomach has demanded to be fed no less than every six minutes, hastily reminding me with a slow grrrruuuullllggghhphhb that it is still waiting.

I've fed it already, but it won't stop. The hole in the lining of my stomach is dropping all my food down both legs, I'm only now realizing why my thighs are so chunky.

I'm trying to combat the urge to take a walk to the vending machine, not because I'm THAT lazy: I'll walk just about anywhere for some chocolate, but because I know that anything I buy will end up shoved down my throat and swallowed in less than eight seconds, and I'll still be hungry afterward, so what's the point in wasting my 60 cents?

If I want to satisfy this urge, I might as well go to Costco and buy a concession-stand size box of Snickers for $5.99. At least then the chocolate would last a minute and eight seconds.

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I've suddenly come to the realization that I'll never lose weight if I don't actually exercise. And since I'm planning on doing a triathlon sometime in the next few months, it seems that exercise would be a key part of my monthly weekly daily life.

So I'm sitting at work, wiggling my legs back-and-forth. How many calories do you think I'll burn?

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Part of my lunch today included eating a small amount of cottage cheese. It started to taste weird when I realized that there's just something wrong with chewing my milk.

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As it turns out, perhaps I should rename this site Chez Chirky, because I've been cooking lately and: Baby? I'm good*.

* This is also the reason that Roger and I are consistently gaining weight. But lo! I bought new workout clothes at SuperTarget this weekend, which will certainly motivate me to exercise, don't you think?

Often when I grocery shop, I find and buy things that I "want to make someday," which is why for the past few months, I've had the makings of a great Japanese-themed party taking shelter in my pantry: rice and seaweed.

Continue reading "Sous(hi) Chef" »

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Last weekend I plucked juicy peaches off of my sister's backyard peach tree. It could have only been more picturesque if I had been wearing a white sundress and apron, carrying a wicker basket lined with a gingham cloth, while reaching for the peaches atop a hill, sunset in the background. Doesn't that sound perfect?

Instead, I was smacked in the face with drooping branches, trying to free them from the weight of the fruit, all the while attempting to disregard the stench of the rotten peaches on the ground. Children's storybooks don't tell you about that stench.

Saturday I decided to make a peach cobbler, and after washing the peaches I began to peel, slice and dice them. About halfway through the bunch, I discovered that the pit of one peach was a bit discolored, and a tad fuzzy looking. I cut deeper and noticed something small. And white. And moving. I stared at it, watched the worm squirm around, and then calmly deposited the entire peach in the trash can.

Afterward, I turned back around, looked at the other peaches, and then vomited on the kitchen floor. My only thought was, "Thank God that didn't happen over the cobbler."

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My knees sound like chicken bones snapping in half between the jaws of a rabid, mighty-toothed dog. It is impossible for me to get out of bed in the mornings without the entire neighborhood jolting awake to the dreadful crackling sound, despite my attempts to stretch and bend them before I begin my morning routine.

I slowly roll over, drape one leg over the bed, and look at Roger to see if I've woken him yet. Then I throw the other leg over the edge of the bed (while staring at Roger through bleary eyes), and I heave my body upward until I am standing. So far, so good.

And then I move, and cringe while I listen as my knees sputter to life.

Continue reading "Not a light matter" »

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Wasabi peas are hot. And addictive. And burning my scalp.

Note to Self: When eating wasabi peas, do not close mouth. Closing the mouth only increases the heat searing the tongue. However, flaring the nostrils and deeply inhaling does lessen the electrical shock I feel in the nerves attached to each hair follicle on my head.

Curious: Wasabi paste served with sushi is typically green. This version is white. [Touch tongue to white part. Then green part. Then white part, again. Yes, the wasabi is the white part. It is very hot.]

Note to Self: When nose is running from such fiery wasabi, try to remember to not have face peering into wasabi container. Droplets of snot will be very difficult to find in such container.

Curious: How many wasabi peas can I suck on, with my mouth closed and my nosrils not flared? At what point will my head detonate, and will the ceiling catch fire from the lightening bolts exploding from my skull?

Note to Self: Do not try that again.

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Ahhh, infomercials. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1. You tell me about Elvis' colon.
2. You tell me about John Wayne's colon: he had forty pounds of feces in his!
3. You tell me that the average colon has 10-15 pounds of feces in it. AT ALL TIMES.

Did you know I've been wanting to lose 10-15 pounds? How convenient.

Continue reading "On Tap: TMI Wednesday - When Elvis Presley died, his autopsy records revealed sixty pounds of feces in his colon" »

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While in Boston a few weeks ago, I developed and documented a new theory of mine: WOMEN IN BOSTON HAVE THIN LEGS. All of them. It's true!

Hypothesis: they walk everywhere they go. I am obsessed with this theory, because I have somewhat-muscular, stocky legs. I inherited them from my dad.

On Mother's Day this year, I took one look at my mom and announced that she, too, had Boston legs. Then, I called her "Bird Legs," her nickname in high school, just for old times sake. And because I was jealous.

My freshman year of college, the year that I flunked out of school because all I did was party and exercise, I was unhealthily healthy. I dated a body builder, which meant that I, too, worked out in the gym for three hours a day, each day. My body fat fluctuated between 10-15%, which is way lower than any woman should be.

I prided myself on my ability to do 150-pound leg curls, and I could press more than 700 pounds with my legs, too. It has been TOO LONG (read = eight years) since I have continuously and seriously exercised with weights, and now I am doing well if I curl 40-pounds and press 150.

I can't believe I just admitted that to the Internet. Next, I'll be telling you how much I weigh.

Don't hold your breath.

Back to my theory: my subjects did not know that I was snapping pictures of their legs - I went into deep cover for the mission. End result? An abnormal amount of women's legs taking up space on my flash card. Check it out for yourself:

***

This was my first subject. I saw her from afar, and began urgently whispering to Roger, "Skinny legs. Skinny legs. Skinny legs." I ran down the street after her, and caught up just in time for her to duck into a pastry shop. A pastry shop? With those legs? She MUST walk everywhere she goes. Roger was using the camera to take a picture when she came back out, and I grabbed the camera, waited til she passed me, and started running after her. Then I squatted, zoomed in, and snapped away. AND SHE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT!!! BWAAHHHAHAHAHAA!!!

***

This woman was entering a restaurant where Roger and I ate. Roger and I took turns running around in front of the restaurant taking pictures of thin-legged women while we were waiting for our food.

***

Roger took this picture. I think it was because of her pink pants. Notice that she's striking a pose for our camera. Of course, she didn't know she was striking a pose, but I knew it all along.

***

These girls walked by, holding a pint of strawberries and eating them straight from the plastic container. I thought to myself: "Whoa! Eating healthy AND walking. That's such a GREAT combination. I should, like, try it sometime."

***

I took this picture while standing in the middle of the street. This girl was with her brother and father, and she was watching while her brother put coins in the meter. Her father, however, was watching me. He gave me a strange look when he saw me standing in the middle of the street, zoomed in on his daughter, taking a picture. It just wasn't possible to hide what I was doing, because there was nothing behind her to take a picture of. Afterward, I just smiled and walked away.

***

Thin legs AND she has a baby? Must be from pushing that stroller around all day.

***

I cropper her out of the picture, but in the original you can see this girl's mom giving me "the look." I think that the baggy pants just accentuate the thin legs.

***

This was the hostess of the restaurant where we ate. When I saw her, I knew I had a winner.

***

These girls were sitting at a table across from Roger and me. When I saw them get up, I gave Roger an excited look that said, "Thin legs. Give me the camera." He did, and I ran outside after them to take their picture.

I even interviewed one Bostonian once I returned to Dallas. She confirmed my suspicious and gave me a statement regarding the sheer strength of her legs: "I've been told I could kill a man with my bare legs."

Of course, I don't know why her legs would have to be bare. Maybe she meant that she could kill a man just using her legs. That said, I think it's safe to say that I should move to Boston or San Francisco or somewhere that forced me to walk more often. That, or start exercising again.

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Some of you, namely Bianca, are aware of my recent obsession with On the Border's strawberry margaritas. Bianca is aware of it only because when we go out to eat I finagle my way to a strip of restaurants and suddenly realize: "Oh, my! There's an On the Border! Let's eat there!"

Bianca, of course, rolls her eyes and scoffs at me, because she knows EXACTLY WHY I WANT TO GO THERE. I realize this makes me sound like an alcoholic, but I'm not. I rarely drink. Except when I go to OTB.

Other strawberry margaritas, for example those at Humperdinks, don't compare. They taste too much like tequila, or whatever liquor is used in a margarita. See? I don't even know what liquor is used in a margarita! This proves that I am not an alcoholic. Or, at least that I have never bartended.

I don't like margaritas for these reasons:

1. tequila
2. salt-rimmed glasses
3. tequila

All I know about tequila is that there is a worm in the bottle. I think that people who drink liquid that is fermenting a worm are nasty. Likewise, I also think that Humperdinks margaritas are nasty, because they taste like worm-infested liquor and minimal strawberry syrup. And people, I need MAXIMUM strawberry syrup.

I don't like salt-rimmed glasses because WHO WANTS TO TASTE SALT WHEN THEY ARE TRYING TO TASTE THE DELICIOUS, SWEET STRAWBERRIES? Plus, my dad has always called me "sugar lips" because I love nearly anything sweet. Some people prefer salty things, like potato chips or french fries. I prefer sweet things, like sugar and fruit and candy and more sugar.

OTB, The Master of All Things Margarita-Related, is therefore my downfall. I cannot taste the worm-infested tequila, because OTB uses SO MANY strawberries! Or at least, so much strawberry syrup. Also, they RIM THEIR GLASSES IN SUGAR. Who can resist licking it off? I purposefully drink from a different place on the glass, working my way around the rim, SO I CAN EAT ALL THE SUGAR.

This is why I suggested to Melissa and Diana (friends and former co-workers) that we eat at On The Border tomorrow. Because it's all about me. And the margaritas.

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Today a sound occurred that you never want to hear when you are squatting under your desk, ready to rush off to lunch. My entire body went into shock, and I remained motionless for a full six seconds before I settled back into my chair, where I sat very still for four more seconds, all the while thinking, "Oh, God. What was that? Don't let it
be true. Sometimes it is easier to play stupid and pretend that you don't know, even when you do because you heard it AND you felt it. It was The Feeling. I even prayed that I was mistaken.

But God doesn't bargain, and perhaps He would like me to exercise rather than sit like a sloth in front of the TV for eight hours at a time while I watch 24 until 11:30 pm just to be forced out of bed in the morning by an alarm clock that WON'T. SHUT. UP.

I was supposed to meet a friend for lunch, so I quickly stood up, swiped my hind parts, and ducked into the ladies room to view the area affected by The Feeling. I stood staring at myself in the mirror, at all different angles, for a full two minutes, and then went into the stall to assess the damage.

Thankfully, that ripping noise I heard was the lining of my pants and not my slacks. Little flaps of ripped lining folded over and caused odd-shaped lines and wrinkles in my hind parts, which I happily accepted considering what COULD have happened.

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It's 9:38 a.m., and I am eating FUDGE. Heavenly fudge. The kind your grandma makes at Christmas, and that you sneak little pieces of when she's not looking. Not because you're trying to be sneaky, but because it's SO GOOD you just can't keep your little fingers out of it. I'm obsessed!

There's a woman in my office, the grandmotherly type, and I just walked past her desk on my way from the copier. And then I quickly retraced my steps, heading back to her desk again. Because on the top of her desk, as I walked by, I saw an enormous plate of fudge squares. And I took one.

Now I'm not sure how I will have enough self control not to go back to that plate again. I just want to trade desks with that woman for the day and sit there, fat and happy and eating all that fudge. Heavenly, HEAVENLY FUDGE.

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Last night I went grocery shopping. I have to go again tonight, because last night AFTER I got home I realized that I didn't have as much of one or two ingredients on hand as I had originally thought. But that's not the point.

Last night I went grocery shopping. My last stop in the store was on the tea aisle. I love tea. And I like to have something warm to drink at work, especially I am usually cold. I don't like coffee because it tastes gross and I have to add at least an equal amount of milk to the coffee, plus sugar, and even then it's not all that great, so why waste the calories? Then again, it is warm, which is sometimes the only thing that counts. But that's not the point.

Last night I went grocery shopping. My last stop in the store was on the tea aisle. I probably looked at teas for five minutes -- there were so many options! Should I get fruity or minty or chai or green tea? If I get one box of one kind, will I get bored with it? Should I get a variety pack? I still hadn't made up my mind when another woman joined me.

NOTE: This sounds like we looked at tea together for another couple minutes and then split ways. Not so. A simple conversation about tea turned into her life story for the next THIRTY minutes in the grocery store. I know that at times I tend to exaggerate. None needed here. I left work at 5:30, went straight to Tom Thumb, and didn't get home until 7:00. Seriously, y'all. She told all about random people -- George, Karen, Bernice -- and what they said to her and when. Then entire time I was thinking "Is this really happening? Am I really stuck in the tea aisle with my cart full of groceries and my fat free cool whip melting and my milk curdling and this woman is talking to me about the latest software that she is using at work? Am I on candid camera?" But it was true, and that's still not my point.

So, last night I went grocery shopping. The woman in the tea aisle at least did one thing for which I am deeply thankful. She recommended a tea to me. Good Earth Original. Needs no sweeteners, just add water. www.goodearth.com

It is Oh. So. Good.

Editor's Note: (Good Earth's green tea is good, too!)

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