Chirky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

* * *

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

Continue reading "Labor of Love" »

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Continue reading "The Name Event" »

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

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

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

Continue reading "On Expectations" »

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

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

Where we'll probably do a lot of this:

Continue reading "Sand and Sea" »

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

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

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

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

Continue reading "Envelope, Please!" »

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miraculously, she did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEACEFUL (When signing the paperwork.)

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

RELIEVED (When realizing the search was FINALLY OVER!)

EXCITED (When shopping for supplies at Home Depot.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are.

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

And acutely aware that our apartment lease has already expired.

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

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

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

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

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(Click for larger image)

Roger gave me this card at midnight the morning of Valentine's Day, because he couldn't stand the thought of having something for me and not sharing it. We're kind of like that, generally unable to hold back surprises, because we're just so excited to give them to each other.

I love 3D cards, and I love glitter, and with all the elements of this particular card, it's absolutely perfect.

I'm not so much of a bath-taker, except when I'm relaxing. I can spend hours in the tub, bubbles and all, reading a book or flipping through magazines.

I've even been known to fall asleep soaking in the bath. It's because I'm hardcore like that.

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

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

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

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

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

Chirky votes for:

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

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

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I may keep a blog about Britney Spears -- in fact, some people have even commented here before that I kind of look like her -- but that’s always where I drew the line. Until recently.

This past Friday night, Roger and I went to the Dallas Museum of Art. Every third Friday the museum offers $10 admittance, free Starbucks, live entertainment, karaoke and scavenger hunts. People pour downtown in droves for this monthly event, and the museum is alive with the young, the old, the goth, the well-to-dos. It's the closest Dallas comes to competing with the energy of other more hip, urban cities, which, naturally, is a draw for me.

But it wasn’t just any ol' Late Night at the DMA – it was its 105th anniversary. And maybe that anniversary wouldn't be that big of a deal if you didn't know anything about the beginnings of my relationship with Roger. You see, our first date took place five years ago, during the DMA's 100th anniversary. In celebration, the museum opened its doors for 100 hours straight. And so, just because we could, our date began at 10 p.m. and ended at 2 or 3 a.m. I mean, when else could we wander around a museum at 1 a.m.? We had to take advantage of it.

So I was getting ready to go out on Friday night, and I was thinking about what to wear. I was staring in my closet as I am wont to do, trying to draw inspiration, when it occurred to me: I should try to re-create the outfit that I wore five years ago. I mean, how fun would that be, right? Except the more I thought about it, the sooner I realized -- in utter horror -- what I had worn for our first date. Picture this (seriously, you're going to want to click that image link for the full effect):

A white waffle-weave thermal undershirt. Under a cornflower-blue, short-sleeve graphic tee. With a pair of cotton, charcoal grey, drawstring tracksuit pants. Like sweatpants, without the elastic. And, to top it off -- and this is the perhaps the worst part -- I paired this outfit with black, high-heeled leather boots. Like these.

As if that weren't bad enough -- and I kind of didn't want to admit this to you, because this is more evidence of the epitome of my (lack of) fashion sense -- I thought it would be appropriate to wear my black, mid-thigh-length lambskin leather coat. (Is it redundant to say "lambskin leather"?) It was cold outside, I'll have you know. Somehow, it just made sense to me.

Why are you staring at me so blankly, Internet?

You'll be glad to know that I didn't try to re-create that outfit on Friday, not even in the slightest, and that instead I wore a tasteful turtleneck sweater with jeans and cute brown shoes, plus golden, dangly earrings.

The amusing thing is that I *did* re-create that outfit on Saturday afternoon, and then I wore it to a friend's house on Saturday night. Except without the boots. Or the coat. Instead, I wore sneakers. Which kind of makes it acceptable, doesn't it? Say yes, Internet, because I need to be affirmed here. I'm beginning to question whether I really am more like Britney Spears after all, what with my apparent inability to dress myself properly, despite my access to an entire wardrobe of lovely clothes.

At least with time, my taste has improved. I can't say that much for Britney.

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The problem with buying gifts for a white elephant gift exchange at work is that I always end up picking out something that I want, and then I spend hours scheming on how to either (a) wrap it so that no one will pick it or (b) steal it the third-time-round so no one can steal it away from me.

And then I wonder: why go to all that trouble? Why not just buy one for myself? It’s only $10, afterall.

The problem with that, you see, is that then I’ll look like a copycat. I can’t buy something for someone else and buy one for myself also, and then give one away because then I’ll either look like I’m copying them or I’ll look like I think my little cubicle decorations are so awesome that everyone needs to have the same type of decorations that I have.

Even though the ONE cubicle decoration I have IS awesome. It’s also the gift that I had originally planned to give away in the white elephant gift exchange, before I sequestered it for myself. I just couldn’t bear to let it go.

Meet Harry. That’s not his given name, of course. He’s an Ugly Doll, and his original name is Target. I can’t call him Target without wanting to take a trip down the street to SuperT, so I renamed him Harry. This is why:

A one-eyed, snaggle-toothed doll with a hairy chest! Am I alone in thinking that is unbearably cute? Perhaps a face (and, er, a chest) that only a mother could love?

I’ll tell you what I’m NOT alone in, though: keeping gifts for myself that I’ve bought for someone else. And I know I’m not alone in this because Roger also has a white elephant gift exchange at work. And Roger loved his gift so much that he decided to keep it for himself, too. (Wow, all this gift-buying and gift-keeping makes us sound incredibly selfish. We’re not actually selfish at all, we just happened to find two things in a store that we were each destined to have, even though we didn’t know it at the time. Well, okay, maybe we DID know it, but wouldn’t keeping it for ourselves just make us responsible members of society, since we could recognize that we wanted it, keep it, and vow to buy another gift? That seems very responsible to me.)

Roger’s gift: a tape dispenser (in red). Get it? Tape? Ha!

Anyway, so now we both need to go shopping for gifts again, and neither of us know what to get. Roger is thinking something along the lines of a gift card, but I can’t tell you where because some of his co-workers read this site. (I’m looking at you, Lulabelle.) I can tell you this, though: it’s a good store. I would totally steal that card.

But what should I get? Internet, I need your help. And since I know how opinionated you are, I figure you’re just the ones to help me. What have been some of YOUR favorite gifts to give (or receive) at a white elephant gift exchange?

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My family got our first computer in the early 1980s. It had a hideous quad-panel Windows system and came with a programming book that taught us how to code in DOS to create swirls across the monitor. And though it was low-tech compared to today's standards, it was the most amazing thing we'd ever seen. (Technologically speaking, I mean.)

Soon we graduated to playing family Quest games - namely, King's Quest, Space Quest and Police Quest. (And guess what?!? Roger knew how much I loved those games and got them for me last Christmas! The games have been reprogrammed to work on Windows XP. Long live 1985!) Then there were the educational programs, like Macon Beavis Typing. (Or was it Beavis Macon? Whatever.)

Ever since then, I've been (a) obsessed with inserting two spaces between every sentence I type and (b) traumatized by having to push the Shift key opposite the letter I'm attempting to capitalize. Does anyone actually use the Shift key on the right? Because I can't be the only one who feels this way.

In my new job I'm being re-programmed to use only one space between sentences, and it's almost killing me. How do I conquer this? For now I have turned on that little paragraph-icon key so that I every time I hit the space bar it inserts a mark. And then I painstakingly look for double marks and delete one of them. By the end of the day my nostrils are flaring and I can begin to see permanent creases across my forehead.

So I'm taking a survey: Do you insert one or two spaces between sentences?

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Did you go shopping on Black Friday?

Roger and I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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There is something about me – something deep within me that believes all things and hopes all things that are for the greater good. There’s something about me that faces reality, cocks my head to the side, and then examines that truth from a different perspective. A perspective of hope. Of trusting beyond hope for what seems insurmountable. I dream of big things, of the unlikely, of miracles, even. I do believe in miracles, because my life is full of them. I’m a walking testimony of everything that is good in this world, despite the evil that lurks…waiting. And tonight I was reminded of that good.

When I saw my brother’s name on my caller ID, I didn’t think anything of it. It’s not common for us to call each other and chat, aside from the occasional question about plans to get together. With Thanksgiving approaching, I figured he was calling about our plans for the holiday. Which is why I was surprised when he put someone else on the phone, without much of an introduction at all.

In fact, when I first started talking to the child, I didn’t even know who it was. And I do mean “it” – I wasn’t even sure if I was talking to a boy or a girl. At first I thought my brother was at my sister’s house and had decided to put my nephew on the phone. And then the little girl told me her name was Lexi. The name plundered through the accordion files of my mind – I had heard that name on several occasions before. I even recalled repeating it to myself, long ago. Was that his next door neighbor’s daughter? Why was I talking to her?

And then she started telling me things she knew about my childhood. Stories that had been written in hot Texas summers and cemented in the minds of my cousins, my brother and myself. It occurred to me who Lexi was: the daughter of my oldest cousin, Rachel. Rachel was more like a sister to me than a cousin. I had always looked up to her. She was someone I had shared my room with for several months while she was in high school and I was in middle school. Rachel. My heart fluttered. Could it be? I hadn’t spoken to her in nearly thirteen years.

Thirteen years since her father, my uncle, had died.

Thirteen years since our families had a falling-out over something that my teenage mind couldn’t understand. I still don’t.

Thirteen years of life, of memories, of time lost.

I had written her letters that went unanswered, never knowing why. I still don’t.

My brother, while traveling near her home on business, spent his evenings searching for her.

He found her.

Thirteen years later, and her voice sounds just the same. I can picture her freckled face, her straight button nose, her high cheekbones, her arched eyebrows. My ears get hot, a lump forms in my throat, my face flushes. Before I can prevent it from happening, my forehead wrinkles and lips purse. My bottom lip juts out, tears spill from wells in my eyes. Something in my heart feels broken.

I’ve wanted to talk to her for so long. I’ve wanted to reconnect for more months than I care to count. I wondered if I, too, was being written off with the rest of my family, punished for an argument from so long ago, an argument that I wasn’t even a part of.

If marriage to my husband has taught me one thing, it is that it’s okay – healthy, even – to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. And so I did.

I told Rachel that I missed her. Hot tears fell. My voice cracked. She missed me, too. Her voice cracked. She asked if my hair was still long. Long, and curly, I replied. I told her I married three and a half years ago. Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks. I wished that she had been there for that.

We talked for forty one minutes. The phone beeped, then disconnected. I stared at it, willing her to call me back. Call me back. Call me back. Call me back.

She did.

The battery had depleted and she had to run outside, climb in my brother’s rental car and plug the phone in to continue the conversation. We talked for another forty nine minutes. I cried the entire time.

I mourned the loss of our relationship. I sobbed because she was found again. I can’t stop crying, off and on, off and on, and now I’m not even sure why. I have high hopes for redeveloping our friendship. I dream of the day our families are reunited. But for now, I’m content just knowing that she’s still out there, thinking of my brother and me, telling her children about the fun we used to have together.

Miracles happen every day. Even if they don’t occur to me, or to you, they still happen.

Tonight was mine.

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

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

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

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

Caddo Lake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The thing about reading magazine beauty articles is that they give you just enough information to make you dangerous, and the next thing you know, you’re spouting that information out in public, in school, no less, as if you’re an expert on ingrown nails. A seventh-grade expert with frizzy hair and tightly rolled jean cuffs.

It’s true, and my seventh-grade crush was the beneficiary of my vast podiatric knowledge. I recognized his cry for help – he was begging for my expertise, mind you, it’s not like I just vomited it on him – when he mentioned within earshot of me that he thought he might have an ingrown toenail. For the record, I did consider for a moment that perhaps I shouldn’t say anything, that perhaps I shouldn’t tell him my theories on ingrown toenails, but then I realized that it wasn’t so much my theory as it was Seventeen magazine’s theory, and if it was written in Seventeen, it was practically the gospel. So I told him, and as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I probably should have just kept it to myself. It kind of sealed the fate of our future, or the lack thereof, and he kind of hated me for the next five years. We graduated high school and never spoke again, and I’m quite sure he’s never forgotten what I said since I have never forgotten:

“You know, people get ingrown toenails when they wear
dirty socks.”

I wasn’t trying to imply that his socks were dirty. That would be blasphemous. After all, he was the best dressed guy in our grade, with soft, curly hair and cute little dimples that melted into his face when he spoke. I only meant that it’s the reason some people got ingrown toenails. His reasons were altogether different, I’m sure, I just never had the chance to find out how. Until recently.

Three weeks ago, I decided to get a pedicure. I’m kind of obsessed with having short toenails – those long ones capable of opening beer cans sort of freak me out – so before I went, I clipped my overdue toenails to an appropriate length. Granted, my overdue toenails are probably the equivalent of the general population’s preferred length, but I think there’s something to be said for meticulous, careful grooming.

I arrived at the salon, cozied myself into the pleather chair and hung my feet in the warm, soapy water. I watched as Jenny, my technician, organized her supplies and draped a towel across the edge of the foot spa. She gently lifted my right foot from the bath, inspected it for a few seconds and then looked up at me: “Did you cut these yourself?”

Proudly, I admitted that I did. I didn’t feel ashamed – not one bit – until she admonished me: “Don’t ever do that again. Never. Never this short.” She tried to file them, but there really wasn’t that much to file. I offered a nervous giggle and agreed to never cut them that short again, but the damage was done. I figured they would be freakishly (for me) long again in just a few weeks, and then I’d hand over the pedi-reigns to Jenny for the rest of the summer. That was my plan, anyway.

And then it started to hurt when I walked for long periods of time, like something was constantly poking my toe. I told Roger, and he helpfully suggested that I shove cotton under what was left of my toenails. I agreed, and spent a week with little bits of cotton trying to escape for a breath of fresh air every time I took off my heels.

When the pain didn’t subside the following week, I figured that I just needed more cotton. So I kept changing the little tufts out to prevent the sides of my toenail from digging into my skin. Then, yesterday, I looked at my toe. I mean, I didn’t just look at it. I inspected it.

It wasn’t possible that I had an ingrown toenail, I reasoned, because I don’t wear dirty socks. I rarely ever wear socks, unless I’m going to exercise, and even then I only wear them for two or three hours max. So an ingrown toenail, according to my wealth of knowledge on the subject, was out of the question.

But my toe really hurt and it was swelling and turning an odd shade of purply-red. I tried pressing on the red part (it could just be a bruise!), but every time it hurt. I should go ahead and apologize for posting a nasty picture of my toe, most of all to myself, considering my obsession with pretty feet. I’m sorry, okay? But you need to see what I’m seeing, so that we can properly diagnose this abomination.

Where there is diagnosing to be had, there is Google Images to accommodate, and now I’m certain that I do have an ingrown toenail, even though I DON’T WEAR DIRTY SOCKS (I'm looking at you, Seventeen magazine).

I'm convinced it's going to require surgery and am waiting to hear back from my doctor. In the meantime, I'm looking on the bright side: it could always be worse. (How's THAT for meticulous grooming?)

It turns out that cutting your nails too short is the number one cause of an ingrown nail, and now I'm wondering: Has Seventeen heard the news?

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This decision would be so much easier to make if we hated the city. The problem, though, is that we fell in love with it the moment we stepped foot off the transit system escalator. Laden with our suitcases, we hiked a nearby hill to our hotel. It was the dead of the night, and considering how vibrant the city was at that hour, we couldn’t wait to see what awaited us the next morning.

We sat in bed talking about the job, and the longer we talked, the more obvious it became to us that we needed to get ourselves to the city where the position was located. We powered up the laptop, made flight arrangements and reserved a room at a hotel. We wanted to show potential employers that we were serious about making the move and while we were there we needed to line up as many interviews as possible. In a week’s time, I had six interviews lined up – all of them backup positions to the one I had been pining over.

When I discovered that the job that had been the catalyst for this flurry of travel was filled, reality set in, mainly in two forms: concerns about the high cost of living and questions about raising a family in the city. And why were we making plans to move there before we had even visited together?

The morning of our flight, in perhaps one of the more brazen moves I’ve made over the last several years, I canceled all but one interview. That one I kept was with a headhunter. You see, things were just moving too fast. I had already had one phone interview that went exceedingly well, and it seemed likely that I would have secured a position quickly, but it was a backup job – not what I really wanted to be doing – and I couldn’t justify moving to a new city for a job I didn’t want to do. Roger was the deciding factor. If we moved, we decided, it would be because he was hired at a killer design firm. There are a lot of great design firms, so it should have been easy enough, except that he had only five days to make arrangements. It proved to be too little time.

So here we are, me having canceled nearly all my interviews, him dropping off his portfolio with the most prestigious firm in the city (a firm, by the way, that had offered him a design position many years ago, which he turned down in favor of another). My face is slightly sunburned and my belly is full of clam chowder (the bread bowl was delicious, too).

Last night, just as we fell asleep, Roger murmured, “I love it here. I want us to move here.” As I listened to him, I didn’t feel the fear about money and family that I had felt before. I was both excited and content, and I squeezed his hand a little bit tighter.

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I never had allergies until I lived with a roommate who owned two cats. And then another girl moved in, with two more cats, which made the human to cat ratio in our home about four times higher than I could withstand. For the past seven years I've blamed my allergies on those cats, though I counted myself fortunate that my allergies were limited to only one short season. Recently, I learned that I was wrong.

For the past couple of weeks my eyes have itched – a tickly itch I couldn't ignore – right at the hairline of my eyelashes. Initially, I assumed I had developed a sudden mascara allergy, so I threw away my favorite mascara (How could I have been so stupid?) and I switched brands. (Seriously. The stupidity. Sometimes it overwhelms me.)

When the allergy didn't dissipate, I threw away my contact lenses, certain that a new pair would solve my problem. It didn't. That is why this weekend, in a moment of desperation and against my better judgment, I asked my mom for advice.

She told me I wouldn't like her answer, which meant that I already knew what she would say. (Remember the late-night incident of 2006?) It involved one of two ingredients: baking soda or apple cider vinegar. I groaned. Not skipping a beat, she told me to dilute a tiny bit of apple cider vinegar in water, and then use a Q-tip to rub it along each of my eyelids. I looked at her like she was crazy, knowing that the vinegar would sting like the claws of a thousand feral cats dancing across each of my delicate irises. (Like TNT, I Know Drama.)

Weighing my options, I decided that the vinegar blend might be a better route than I had previously taken, especially if my original course had me on the path to throw away the rest of my makeup. That's why two nights ago, when Roger watched me retrieve the vinegar, he began to lament: "Great. That's so sexy. Tell your mom THANKS A LOT for making me lie next to a human-sized dill pickle all night long."

From the bathroom, I rolled my eyes and opened the bottle. The stench hit me like a Mack truck slamming into a brick wall. I considered how much of the vinegar I should dilute, remembered how desperate I was, and decided: None. When I do something, it's never half-hearted. I am the Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor of home therapy. I take my vinegar straight up, full strength, none of this pansy-footing around with diluted liquid. I dipped the cotton swab directly into the bottle and swept the wetted cotton in a circle around my eye.

And then I died: It felt like red-hot coals were searing my cornea.

It's been only two days, and my eyes are back to normal. And now that I've purged my makeup bag of its mascara, it's time for me to visit the Mothership at last (and I'm taking suggestions).

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To my horror, last night I encountered the worst kind of insect: A fat, well-fed cockroach – the kind that might be tagged for an Alfred Hitchcock film – that had obviously survived for the past one bazillion years by hiding in the walls of my apartment complex.

As soon as I saw it, I ran into the living room and yelled for Roger, who was only five feet away from me and talking on the phone. His response was totally manly, which means that he just glanced at me and continued his discourse on the director's cut of Kingdom of Heaven.

Meanwhile, I ran around our home trying to find a flat shoe to use as a weapon in my war against the insect-at-large. I marched into the bathroom in search of the escapee and encountered something I hadn't anticipated: The roach began running toward me, fiercely.

Instead of moving out of its way and swiftly killing it in one deft movement, I jumped, tried to run backward, and screamed when I hit the wall behind me (which still didn't manage to summon Roger).

We all know what this means, don't we?

I'm that girl. The one in the scary movies who, instead of jumping in the car and driving away, runs to hide in an upstairs closet where there is nowhere else to go.

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Roger and I used to like to kiss. We still do, I suppose, but now we're more careful about it.

You see, while I do love him dearly, I have to admit that Roger has traumatized me (though not on purpose, for he has certainly suffered because of it, too).

A couple years ago, before I suffered from this self-imposed impairment, Roger made the mistake of kissing my neck. That itself is not a terrible thing, though the outcome was surprising.

My body, very responsive to Roger's kisses (sorry, Mom – is this difficult for you to read?), sent a surge of blood just below the surface of my skin. You guessed it: I got a hickey. But not just any hickey. I got The Mother Of ALL Hickeys.

This image is drawn to scale.

I hid from my friends and family, materialized only for work (but kept my head down low while I was there), and sent Roger to the mall on a shopping spree. For turtlenecks. In Texas. In the middle of the summer.

Want to guess how that went over? Or how I disguised the three turtlenecks I owned into new outfits each day for twenty one days? Including a liberal and sudden use of scarves?

NOT WELL.

Since then, Roger has tried on numerous occasions to convince me that he needs access to my neck. Every time he has been DENIED like a teen's overspent credit card on Christmas Eve.

Lately he has begun to methodically and premeditatively sneak kisses on my neck: when I'm cooking dinner, when I'm brushing my teeth, when I'm watching TV, when I'm paying the bills.

He claims that he's attempting to desensitize me and lessen my compulsive, shrieking reaction when his lips are anywhere in the vicinity of my neck. And he's hoping that one day I'll give him permission to go there again. Want to guess how that is going over?

NOT WELL.

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If someone asked me today what my mission statement is as a wife, I would tell them it is to wholly love my husband, to support him, to encourage him. I want him to die (not yet) knowing that there was someone who adored him, who treasured him, who wanted nothing more than to see him succeed in his career, in his friendships, as a father, and as a spouse. Especially as a spouse.

I never knew when I was single that I would feel this way.

I never knew that one day when I married, I would leave the door open when I showered, or that it (mostly) wouldn't bother me if my husband walked in while I was peeing.

I’d always heard that you should marry your best friend, but my best friends had always been girls, and I certainly didn’t want to marry them. I never knew that a man could know me so well. So … perfectly.

I'm glad I've found one that can. And does. And will.

(Happy Anniversary, Roger.)

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I'll admit it: I'm a tub girl. I always have been, I probably always will be.

In the normal course of getting ready for the day, I don't bathe in the tub. I reserve the tub only for those special occasions – those days when I'm exhausted and needing desperately to rinse away the stress of the world. For me, a bathtub can do that. It's like an alternate universe.

My baths are very predictable, very orderly:

• I draw the hot water.


• I add half a bottle of bubbles, unless the bottle is small, in which case I add the entire bottle. (I'm serious about my play time.)


• I grab a good book and set it on the edge of the tub or a nearby stand.


• I arrange between 8-15 candles around the bathroom. (I'm serious about my lighting, too.)


• I get a glass of wine, or sometimes ice-cold water, or during the winter, perhaps a mug of hot chocolate (with plenty of marshmallows, naturally).

As soon as I lower myself into the tub, I have only one goal: to make the perfect bubble bikini. I'm not sure at what age I first started doing this, though I'd venture a guess that I was a pre-teen who was obsessed with hiding my developing body, if even from myself. Now I do it just for fun, sometimes wishing for colored bubbles – because wouldn't it be awesome to have a pink and white polka-dotted bubble bikini? – strategically arranging the heaps of suds and then calling for Roger to come admire my handiwork. I'm sure it all looks the same to him – how is this bikini any different than that bikini last month? – but to me, it's a tour de force.

When finished as a bikini designer, I grab my book, try to prop my elbows up on the tub walls, and attempt to read it without allowing the pages to dip into the bubbles, or worse, the water. (Which, if you've tried doing the same, you know is nearly impossible. Especially when you fill the tub that full with water. It's already sloshing over the sides and puddling on the tile below – how is it that I think I can avoid drenching my book in the very same water in which my body is pruning?)

I've laid in the tub imagining how to remedy this situation, whether I should just drive to Home Depot and purchase a board to lay across the tub walls in front of me (however ghetto that might appear), or if I could rig a shampoo caddy to fit my needs.

And y'all know what? A bathtub caddy already exists, and appears to have been made just for me. It has a candle holder and two wine glass holders, as well as a prop for a book, and I think this device is about fourteen levels of perfection, except that now I'm going to have to make up new excuses for summoning Roger.

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My mom is notorious for her shopping skillz. To wit:

1. Several weeks ago, she called me and asked me to go shopping with her for jeans. I jumped at the chance because she never shops for herself and I wanted to witness it. I walked away from the mall with two very large, very full, very heavy bags of clothes. She walked away with one small(ish) bag.

2. A week and a half after that excursion, she called because she was out shopping again. Apparently she had run into quite the sale, and wanted to inform me that she bought me several pairs of underthings, and did I mind that she couldn’t find any nude-colored bras?

3. This weekend she unloaded on me two boxes of Special K cereal and one pair of quite fancy kitchen shears.

I’ve always loved shopping with my mom because she has a nose for bargains – if there is one to be had, she’ll find it. Which is how I ended up with one pair of freakishly large underwear.

Continue reading "The One In Which I Discuss My Underwear In Too Great Of Detail" »

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"I can not carry your phone and wallet and keys in my purse for you. You're just going to have to start carrying your OWN purse."

(This wasn't selfish of me, because I totally had a purse I could have lent to him.)

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At work, we have a large crate in the hallway. I do not know why.

It is on wheels. I do not know why.

Furthermore, it is bright orange. Hunter's orange. I do not know why.

And though I've seen it every day this week, this morning I saw the phrase "RENT-A-CRATE" stenciled on the side. And read it as "PROCREATE."

Something is amiss.
Please send help.

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"When I do this: 'gggguuuggglllrrrrrllllll,' do I sound sexy?"

"No. You sound like you are gargling with mouthwash."

"What about this: 'hhoooggggggllllllllllllll'?"

"Huh-uh. You sound like a cat gagging up a hairball."

"Uuggggggoooooorrrrggggllrrrrruhhlllllll. How 'bout that?"

"Now you sound like you're trying to hock a loogey."

"Roger! I'm trying to purr at you. Are you sure I don't sound sexy?"

"I'm certain."

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As part of Project: Stay Out of Debt, I rarely go shopping for clothes for myself. Or, let me rephrase: I occasionally go shopping for clothes for myself, I rarely actually buy any thing that I find.

Roger and I have "fun money" built into our monthly budget so that we can buy anything we want without having to first ask the other. Within reason, I mean. If Roger spent $5,000 on a new tv without first discussing it with me, that might be an issue. But if he calls me every time he wants to buy a book? Or a CD? Gah.

Sometimes when I go shopping, nothing fits. Other times, I have good shopping days. Nay, great shopping days. Everything fits! Everything is cute! And on those days, I hate telling Roger how much I spent over my fun money budget. Because then I feel like I'm confessing to a priest, and frankly? I feel a little guilty. (And oddly justified because: clothes that FIT me!)

Today was that day.

"Sweetie!!!!!!"

[When I talk to Roger, I usually begin the conversation with a high-pitched greeting, one that typically omits or alters certain consonants so that it ends up sounding like "Seeeeeeddddddddiiiieeeee!!!!!!" and it always has just that many exclamation points. Sometimes more.]

"I went shopping on my lunch break. I bought a skirt. It was $12.99." [This is my way of easing him into the news.]

"That's great, babe."

[Encouraged by his good nature, I continue.] "Ummmm…I also bought a pair of pants."

"Oh, gosh. I can see where this is going. Just give me the bottom line and tell me everything you bought."

[Giggling.] "Okay. I bought a skirt, and two pairs of pants, and a shirt. And a cookie cutter. But they're all neutral colors and will go great with so many things and will totally be great if I get that new job, or even if I stay in this one! I mean, I don't even own a navy skirt, and the pants are that kind of material that…"

"A cookie cutter!? Why do we need that?"

"Because one day we might have kids who want cookies at Easter-time, and it's shaped like a bunny. For Easter."

"Is that all?"

"I also bought two necklaces. They're soooooo cute! I can't wait for you to see them. One is black and has lots and lots of strands and buckles in the back with a little crocheted button. And the other has different shades of turquoise stones and is in three different layered lengths, and I really think it will look soooo cute with a black tank…"

"Well, I'm glad you have some things that you're excited about wearing and that you feel good about."

"Okay. Me too. Talk to you later!"

I think that went well, don't you?

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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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"Will you eat the rest of last night's leftovers?"

"No."

"I could really do without ever eating that again."

"You're not supposed to say that to me. I don't like it when you tell me what I can and can't cook."

"I'm not telling you what to cook. I'm just asking you not to cook that again. And don't you want to know my opinions about things?"

"Not if your opinions aren't in complete adoration of me."

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Filed Under: Irrational fears

For the past two years, nearly every time I sit down on the toilet, I have a sudden and irrational fear of snakes. Snakes, guilefully lurking in the plumbing, waiting until my posterior is exposed, and then lurching upward, striking quickly, and biting me.

And then I'll be dead, with my pants down, and I'll probably have hunched over and fallen to the ground and my husband, Roger, will have to find me like that.

And that's not how I want him to remember me.

Look at these pictures! Also, these articles! How could I not be afraid? THERE HAVE BEEN FATALITIES!

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Two and a half years ago, Roger married me. On that day, he also married my debt. (Hi, honey! Sorry!)

And it's something that I've hated.

I've hated knowing that my irresponsibility in college was preventing us from doing things we wanted to do, like frequently traveling and buying a house and, in some ways, starting a family.

We've been doubling, tripling, quadrupling payments, at times paying more than one hundred fifty times the minimum amount due. Those minimum amounts were really minimum, and ultimately designed to keep us in bondage to our [my] debt.

But this weekend, all those things changed.

Friday night Roger and I sat together in our study, eagerly hovering in front of our desktop computer and together we pressed the one button that held the power to end it all: "Authorize Payment."

Friday night we paid off our last credit card, and we're beside ourselves with excitement. We already know how we're going to celebrate, but I'm still curious: how would YOU do it?

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Roger and I are considering the possibility of buying a home, which is almost comical if you consider how fickle we are – just a few months ago we were yearning for the lush mountains and cold Sound in Seattle, a month after that we were entertaining the idea of moving to New England for graduate school and a couple weeks ago I was trying to persuade Roger that we should simply put all our belongings in storage and join the Peace Corps.

Continue reading "On Buying Our First Home" »

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The past two days I've been consumed with one thought: packing. I'm leaving today to visit family in the Carolinas for Christmas, and I have to do things like take clothes.

This shouldn't be that big of a deal.

Except when you're me, and then everything related to packing becomes a big deal. I had all night Tuesday night to prepare for today. I also had all night last night to prepare for today. And I'll let you guess how I spent that time.

I know, okay? I know. You're right. I'm lame.

Tuesday, after dropping Roger off at the airport, I stayed up until 1:30 a.m. playing on the computer and alternating between episodes of Family Guy and Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Where is my sense of responsibility?

To make up for the time I dwindled away on Tuesday night, I went shopping at SuperTarget on Wednesday after work. And then I went to see a movie at the theater. And then I went home and watched the Weather Channel. My life is so exotic.

I finally crawled into bed sometime after midnight last night, having packed far too many pairs of underwear (I'm vying to be hired as Britney Spears' role model) and certainly not enough pairs of shoes.

Speaking of Britney Spears: you may want to take a look at my newest pet project, BritneySpearsWatch.com. It's packed full of her latest escapades, which are at least a tad bit more interesting than the seventeen pairs of panties I'm bringing to North Carolina.

Unless you're my husband, of course, in which case my panties are more interesting.

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"I have to pee."

"..."

[whines] "But I'm so warm in bed. I don't want to get up because then I'll be cold."

"..."

"Will you sit on the toilet to warm it up for me?"

"NO."

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Both Julianna and CPAMom tagged me to complete a meme called "6 Weird Things About You."

If they really knew me, though, they'd know that there are WAY more than just six things, and that I couldn't narrow it down to that small of a number.

Then again, maybe they do know me, because if I had to choose 60 weird things, I'd give up before I began because all the work involved to list all of those.

They'd also know that the title "6 Weird Things About You," rather than "Six Weird Things About You," would drive me crazy.

Or, come to think of it, maybe that's why they tagged me. Just to drive me crazy.

Still, I'm feeling a bit rebellious today, which is why I'm staunchly refusing to take part in this meme as currently enforced: "Each player of this game starts with the "6 Weird Things about You." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

Naturally, I'm making up my own rules. Since I can't narrow my own weirdness to only six facets of my personality, and because I didn't think it'd be fair to out Roger without roasting myself also, I’m treating you to SIX WEIRD THINGS ABOUT OUR HOME.

Continue reading "Weird Things: A Photoblog" »

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The short story:

I was mistaken for a prostitute this morning. More than twice. And? What's more? I was propositioned as a prostitute this morning. MORE THAN TWICE.

Continue reading "On Harry Hines" »

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I'm terrified of icy roads, terrified, and this morning I laid in bed, wide awake, imagining that the wintry accumulation of ice outdoors was at least two inches thick and only on the parts of the road where I planned to walk or drive because the icy roads are all out to get ME.

I jumped out of bed an hour and a half before I normally do so that I could curl up in front of the TV, wrap myself in a down blanket, and ingest as much information as I could about the weather situation. Why, yes, I am a nerd. Why do you ask? There were vehicles – several of them – that had actually slid off the highway and down the embankment because of the ice. Off the highway! And down the embankment!

Twelve years ago I was involved in an accident on a patch of black ice. My car spun 270° and bounced between the bridge railings like a pinball. No other cars were involved – it was just me, a lonely stretch of road and an old bridge out in the country that crossed a highway.

When my car finally came to a stop, it had broken through a portion of the bridge railing. I was frightened, visibly shaking and had tears streaming down my cheeks. I had argued with my mother – about something foolish, I'm sure – and was too swollen with pride to go back home to seek the comfort she would have undoubtedly provided.

I started my car, slowly backed away from the rail, and drove to school. I didn't stop to look at the damage to my car until it was parked, though from the damage to the railing, it was obvious my car was dented, scraped, and in some places, slightly mangled.

I am still afraid of ice on roads. I am afraid of sliding into cement structures, and vehicles, and trees. I am afraid of the pounding in my heart that doesn't settle until several hours afterward. I am afraid of the cost of cosmetic car repairs. But mostly, I am afraid of State Farm and their hatred toward me.

So this morning I parked myself on the couch to watch the traffic reports. I peeked out windows. I considered taking the mass transit system. I prayed.

And then I saw my husband walk out of the bedroom, fully dressed, ready to drive me to work so that I wouldn't have to do it.

The roads weren't even icy, but that didn't stop my eyes from misting up as we drove on the overpass into downtown Dallas.

Technorati: love thursday

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