Chirky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

image © Matthew Whatley, used with permission

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

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

But I did, unashamed.

(The entire set is available on Flickr.)

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

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

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

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

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

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In January of 1996, during my senior year of high school, I participated in Presidential Classroom. It’s kind of a nerdy thing to do for high schoolers who are into politics – which is kind of ironic since we couldn’t even vote yet, but whatever – but like blogging, it’s only nerdy if you’re not the one doing it. For me, it was the culmination of my involvement with student council, my staunch political views and determination to actually be a politician one day.

I should go on record right now to say that I doubt that will ever happen, unless I’m President of the PTA. My concern for the world dominated by Democrats and Republicans has fallen by the wayside, in fact, it’s fallen so far that I generally have no clue what is going on in the election arena unless it’s a presidential election year (and then, hoo-boy, I love watching the debates on television). Still, I’m only mildly aware of the candidates and all their campaigning. I mean, they’re just mud-slinging and making promises they can’t always keep and saying the same thing over and over and over again, and honestly, it’s not even the President that’s in control, it’s the Congress that’s in control over most decisions that affect our day-to-day lives. So, huh, I guess I should be participating in those smaller elections after all.

Anyway, Presidential Classroom is a week-long event in Washington, D.C., where juniors and seniors are invited to live in a hotel with like-minded peers from across the nation. I had roommates from Puerto Rico, the Bronx and Connecticut. We participated in mock-caucuses, roundtable discussions, toured the Capitol, met with our hometown congressman and state senators, and were generally educated about how our government works.

That trip is still my favorite memory from high school. I learned so much about myself, about the world, about our government. It was a lesson in history, in business and political savvy, in the importance of my voice. That trip was also the last time I visited Washington, D.C.

However! Next week Roger and I are visiting our nation’s capital for a few days. We’ve been researching and making lists and comparing lists and adding more to our lists, but we haven’t asked anyone else for their input yet. Everyone knows that the best way to get insider information about a destination is to ask someone who’s been there before. Roger has never been, and I haven’t been in 12 years. We're the type of people who like to do and see as much as possible, even given a limited amount of time. Which brings me to the point: if you were going to D.C. for the weekend, what would you do? Where would you eat? Where must we go? What gems can you share with us?

Otherwise, I’m kind of afraid that my 17-year-old self will try to give Roger a tour of our nation’s capital. And you know what that means, right? I’ll end up at the Mall dancing and singing along with a Jamaican band, just like I did 12 years before.

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

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

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

Click HERE for larger image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SATURDAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I've played those games in the car, or sitting around the campfire, or wherever -- and you probably have, too -- that go something like this: "Name your top five _______." The blank is something generic, like "genres of food" or "favorite colors" or "pieces of clothing."

For "places you want to travel," mine went something like this:
1. Bangkok
2. Maldives
3. Istanbul
4. New Zealand
5. Ireland

Of course, each of the places named above would be more than just a trip to that city, and each of the destinations listed above are places I've not yet traveled. Ideally, Bangkok would be part of a six-month stint around Southeast Asia. Other stops would include the Thai islands and Chiang Mai (Thailand), Hoi An, Hanoi and Saigon (Vietnam), Bagan and Mandalay (Burma), and Siem Reap (Cambodia), as well as many little towns that we would pass through while traveling. And then of course there would be Singapore, Hong Kong and Beijing, with stops in Shanghai (to visit friends) and Nanjing (to show Roger around my old stomping grounds).

(Note: For the sake of time, and space, I'll stop naming cities. Unless you really, really want to know. And then I'll happily inform you, but beware: am long winded on the subject of travel.)

I'd love to visit Japan, but I'm getting the feeling that six months for the places I've already listed would barely scratch the surface for this type of trip. Japan will need to be another trip, maybe mixed with South Korea. The most time I've ever spent in South Korea was eight hours in an airport, six of which I was sleeping in the hotel that was actually INSIDE the international wing. Also during that trip, I paid seven dollars for a can of Sprite.

The Maldives would include visits to India, both the north and the south, as well as Bangladesh and Sri Lanka.

Istanbul would include Greece, Romania, Turkey, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary and Austria.

New Zealand would require Australia, as well as a Great Barrier Reef dive, because of all that time in seventh grade that I spent daydreaming about being a marine biologist. I'd probably also hop north to visit Indonesia and Malaysia while touring the Great Outback.

And then, the dramatic cliffs of Ireland. London and Scotland would be involved, as would Iceland. For a very, very long time I've wanted to visit the baths of Iceland.

So, you see, by naming five cities to visit, I really get to tie in more than 30 other cities and/or countries, as well. That works for me.

It seems as though the New York Times is doing something similar. In December, the publication complied an article highlighting 53 places to visit in 2008.

I'm happy to report that very few of the places I want to visit are on this list. That's a good thing, since that means when I travel to those places, there will be that many fewer people to congest the streets and beaches and various attractions. I'm kind of selfish that way, though I have to admit that the New York Times article made me curious about a few places I've never considered before, like Mauritius and Essaouira, among others.

Since the New York Times peaked my curiosity about these different places, it got me thinking: Perhaps you know of or have visited some cities/countries that I'm overlooking.

If you've stayed with me this long, tell me: What are YOUR top five?

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It's been a couple years since I've made a New Year's Resolution (more on that later), mainly because I find myself making resolutions throughout the year - why save them up for one day? Plus, that's kind of overwhelming. I'd rather amortize them throughout the 365 days.

This year, however, is different. This year, I'm making a resolution.

You see, I get frustrated living in Dallas because I'm not the typical Dallasite.

1. I rarely hit the mall on the weekends (hate the crowds)
2. I don't dress in the trendiest fashions (I prefer classic styles, styles that -- while super-cute right now -- won't cause me to cringe when I flip through photos several years from now)
3. I don't visit the latest and greatest "hot spot" bars in the city (which is probably also the reason I don't ever know what to order at a bar. I can count on my fingers the number of drinks I know by name, and prefer to order a drink that goes something like this: "I'd like something pink, sweet and fruity, and I don't want to be able to taste the alcohol." And then I bat my eyelashes and smile sweetly. It often works, but every once in a while a disgruntled bartender flares his nostrils and rolls his eyes at me)

I do, however, love to explore. And I'm beginning to think that the reason I dislike Dallas (in favor of San Francisco, for example) so much is because I don't know what all the city has to offer -- even though I've lived here for twenty years. I haven't taken the time to explore its nooks and crannies, the way I explore cities when I'm on vacation.

Over the last year, I've taken my four-year-old nephew to a few attractions around town - we've gone to the Neiman Marcus Children's Parade, visited the 20-foot interactive snowglobe at Willow Bend, examined dinosaur remains at Fair Park and explored the train display at North Park. I still want to take him for a ride on the Tarantula Train (a train that runs between Grapevine and Fort Worth Stockyards).

And so this year, I'm resolving to Get Out There.

For example, I've only visited the shopping district at Lovers and the Tollway once - ONCE - and that was only to eat at a burrito bar. I'd like to poke my head in the shops and see what that area has to offer.

When I was researching the Tarantula Train, I learned that Grapevine has a pretty cool little downtown area and some of the best wineries in our area (which should seem obvious, given the town's name).

It's been years since I've visited either the Stockyards OR Sundance Square during the day. (Often, it's at night before dinner or a performance at the Bass.)

And I've never been to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas.

I'm making a list, checking it twice. I want to discover Dallas the way a tourist might discover Dallas - after all, it is the city I live in. I should know what the city has to offer.

With that in mind, what do you know about Dallas? Where should I visit? What MUST I do? What have you done and loved? Where are your favorite dives?

I'm begging you to flood me with your ideas, because right now my list is awfully sparse.

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

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

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

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

Caddo Lake

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

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

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

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The 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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I've been mulling over for a while what to say about BlogHer. I kind of feel obligated to talk about it, obligated because you know I went, obligated because it was the second time I've attended, obligated because I can't ignore the fact that I was there and choose to simply talk about the real reason I stayed a few extra days in Chicago: Garrett's popcorn.

BlogHer was … big. I met lots of bloggers I don't already read, as well as many bloggers that I already do. I have oodles of business cards stuffed in my laptop bag, and a sincere hankering for another piña colada. I already miss spending time with women who get me, who understand why I write online before I even have to attempt to explain it, who don't think twice about lining up on the floor of our hotel hallway to have a race doing The Worm. Those are my type of women.

Photo by Heather

The sessions I attended were not what I had expected them to be, and that was disappointing. Some were funny. Some were tense. Some were dry. I didn't walk away with as much practical know-how as I had hoped for from one session. In another I felt annoyed as I sat through an hour and a half of fluff to get five-minutes-worth of solid information. And still, another session had me laughing so hard that I'm heading out tonight to buy a book written by one of the panelists.

The golden egg of BlogHer, in my opinion, is the way it has created community among bloggers. BlogHer has become the conduit through which women (okay, fine, and some men, too) who might not otherwise connect have an opportunity to hole up together for a weekend, squeeeeeee! with excitement over meeting each other and then hug their new friends goodbye when the weekend is over. And somewhere in the middle, they might harvest several nuggets of wisdom from the expert panelists that BlogHer recruits for the event.

Sure, there's tons of swag. Sponsors swung in with copious amounts of free alcohol, a tote bag with a rather cute, asymmetrical design (but I wasn't fond of the two giant logos, so I didn't bring it home) that was filled with all sorts of goodies.

Items that made their way into my tiny little carry-on:

-- a chocolate brown, faux alligator (Wait - was that alligator? Does anyone know? Do I have my reptiles confused?) storage box filled with a spa kit (though I'll admit that the W Hotel in Chicago stocks the fabulous bliss line, and I might have borrowed a few extra samples from the housekeeping cart)

-- a journal from Wiley (I'm always on the lookout for journals, and free is totally in my budget)

-- the casauri tote from AOL Body ($85 retail, perfectly padded for my laptop, with enough pockets for all my carryables, and something that even my husband might like, plus it was hand-delivered to my room)

-- a mini box of cereal from Curves (which is kind of weird considering they're in the fitness business. Does this mean I'm soon going to find a box labeled 24 Hour Fitness in the cracker aisle of my grocery store, or Gold's Gym yogurt in the dairy section? In any case, I brought it on the plane in case I needed a snack, which I did since my flight was diverted from Dallas and stuck on a tarmac for two hours in Oklahoma City, but which I also forgot about when I needed it most. Now it's in my desk drawer at work, just in case.)

-- several CDs (I've not listened to them yet, but I brought them home anyway. I have high hopes.)

-- a purse organizer from the good folks at Real Simple (who sewed their brand name to the tag inside the organizer, rather than painting it onto the outside. That action alone made the purse worth keeping. Bonus points: it fits in my other purses, so I just move it from purse to purse whenever I switch handbags, which is like every day, and also? Pockets. Like, gazillions of them, perfectly sized for my cards and phone and wallet and most importantly, LIP GLOSSES. Yes, plural. Why do you ask?)

Items that made their way into the nearest trash receptacle:

-- a sweat towel (for the gym, I suppose, but the "get sweaty" logo was enormous and scratchy, and since I glow rather than sweat, it was left in the hotel room)

-- a plastic martini glass (I later learned that it glows in the dark, and now I wish I had it just so I could have a glowing cup for at least one drink, though I won't comment on how well it would work out for me to drink in the dark)

-- a Butterball oven mitt (it looked sturdy enough, and like my fingers might not get too hot if I held a heated platter for too long, but again with the giant logos!)

All in all, I would call the trip a success, though that's probably because I've got a gallon of Garrett's Caramel Crisp popcorn waiting for me at home.

Technorati: blogher, blogher07, women, conference, blogging, bloghercon, blogs, weblogs,

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I’m not sure why I’m obsessed with celebrities. I’ve never had an upclose encounter – I mean, I’ve certainly never squeezed Gavin Rossdale’s bum – unless you count that quazi-brush with Imelda Marcos last year in Manila. If you would even call it that.

Still, I have an obsession and I think it’s high-time that I admit it. Roger and I are in Chicago right now, home of Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey. When we were wandering around the Hancock Tower observation deck, in fact, I couldn’t stop thinking OH MY GOSH, I’M STANDING ON TOP OF JERRY SPRINGER’S CONDO RIGHT NOW. Which: Why? I don’t even like Jerry Springer. And then I would look out the South window, and there! There is Oprah’s penthouse! All the blinds were shut, but I was convinced that if I stared long enough, she would peek out and I would see her and…then what? Maybe she’d invite me over for coffee and dessert?

That’s why, when we walked past the Park Hyatt and saw the Maybach and Lamborghini parked directly in front of the hotel, we knew that Something Important was about to happen. We stood around, inspecting the lines of the Lambo and the drooling over the buttery leather interior, waiting to see what happened. And then they walked out. No one we recognized, unfortunately, but they were all dressed in white – head to toe in white hats and white shirts and white pants and white shoes – and I was wondering if they ALWAYS dressed like that, because how inconvenient would that be if it was after Labor Day? And did they coordinate, or was it coincidence that they all showed up wearing white?

And then he was there, among them, his corn rows weaved tight and his bling, well, blinging. He was wearing a black leather shirt and jeans, and I didn’t know that he was anyone important until I caught a glimpse of his watch, because no one I’ve ever seen has worn a watch like this one. The diamonds were so bright and so glittery that it alone could have funded quadruple my expected retirement. The wristband was probably two inches wide, and the face of the watch was as big around as my thigh, all diamonds. I grabbed Roger by the arm and excitedly said, “Watch – just watch – I bet he’ll get in the Lamborghini. Who do think he is? Snoop Dog?” It was the corn rows, I swear. I actually don’t even know what Snoop Dog looks like.

Turns out, it was R. Kelly and a group of all-white-wearing friends, who were having dinner at NoMI. Which leaves me to hypothesize: Do you think R. Kelly has some sort of rule that forces his friends to wear white when they spend time with him? I don't think that would work for me. I look much better in ivory.

Technorati: diamond, jewelry, bling

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For the past couple days I've been trying to figure out how to sum up our trip to San Francisco. In a word: Fabulous. It was more than everything we thought it would be, if that is possible, since we had high expectations. And if you told us that we had to return tomorrow or never again, I think we might both head straight home, pack up everything we could possibly fit in our collective suitcases, and go.

I can't possibly renumerate to you the number of times my thoughts drift back toward our few days there, how often I send silent pleas to God in hopes that Roger will be offered a position soon, how frequently I've found myself on Craigslist looking at apartments, or how many times I've redesigned in my mind's eye what our moving announcements might look like. I am already planning weekend trips to Muir Woods and picnics to nearby beaches and the places we'll take our family when they come to visit. The problem is that we don't even live in California. Yet.

And that's why I want to give you a little piece of advice, Internet: If you've never visited San Francisco, don't. She'll seduce you like a kid in a candy store. She'll overload your senses with the sights and sounds and smells of her city. She'll give you just enough to leave you full and satisfied, but you'll still find yourself wanting a little more. And just when you're starting to get the hang of things – maybe you're finally pronouncing Haight correctly (note to Non-San Franciscans: it rhymes with "late," not "kite") or perhaps you've finally figured out which bus line to take without first asking every driver whether you're getting on the correct vehicle – she'll turn you out to make room for more visitors. As you walk away from her, your shoulders hung low, you'll discover that you're already trying to figure out how quickly you can return.

And perhaps that is the best way I can sum up our trip to San Francisco. We're stuck in limbo, asking ourselves how quickly we'll be able to return.

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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'm fascinated by odd news stories, which is why I sometimes post links to reports from around the world, like the Chinese woman who was pregnant with at least five children or the Sudanese man forced to marry a goat.

What about our own little corner of the world? Yesterday, as luck would have it, Benjamin Carpenter's wheelchair got stuck in the grill of an eighteen wheeler while Benjamin was crossing a street.

Once the stoplight turned green, the semi truck began barreling down the highway, unknowingly pushing the 21-year-old along for about four miles at 50 mph before Benjamin was rescued. The police sergeant at the scene commented, saying, "The man spilled his soda pop, but he wasn't upset."

It's obvious where the officer's priorities lay: Someone get Benjamin a Dr Pepper, stat!

Photo Source: AP

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You know how they say men think about food and sex – and nothing else? I’d say that I’m the same. Almost.

Any given day, I’m either thinking about food or travel. I subscribe to a variety of food magazines and blogs, but my favorites are the travel sites and publications. They’re the first I check in my feed reader, even before I check my email. (And for those of you who know my addiction to email, that’s saying something.)

Food has always been a symbol of community for me: growing up, it was where my family spent time together each evening. Food was a foundation for me as I bonded with my mom and my grandmothers while they taught me how to cook. I love being in the kitchen -- after all, the way to my husband's heart is through his stomach, right? -- crafting recipes and trying new finds on eager (and hungry) friends.

I'm fascinated by the way people interact with each other and with food when they are in public. There's little better than visiting a gourmet restaurant and observing those around me while filling my belly with lime-infused pozole, or grilled mimosa shrimp, or fresh tomatoes drizzled with pesto and topped with grilled provolone.

Lately I've found myself making snap judgments when I watch a group of people walk into a four-star restaurant wearing t-shirts and dirty jeans. It's like a punch to the gut -- whether the maitre d's or my own, I haven't decided -- and I watch with a furrowed brow and careful eye as the party is seated.

I make snap judgments based on one's style of eating, whether someone loads up on their first go-round at the salad bar or if that person takes a modest amount and returns for seconds (and often thirds) later. I've watched as couples and families sit at a table and scarf their meal, leaving the establishment less than an hour after they were first seated. I've stolen glances at others who linger, enjoying their conversation and savoring each morsel.

When I’m not eating or thinking about food, I’m mentally planning trips around the world, taking note of foods I want to eat while I’m there or places that I simply must visit. I have tons of travel clippings related to my long list of domestic and international "some-day" destinations. I busy myself with imagining everything from the flights and train rides to those places to the ways of life of the locals.

Mental images of busy streets dance in my head, giving way to boutique shops and outdoor food markets with flies buzzing near the raw meat. I don’t even mind those flies, whether real or imagined. They represent new cultures and experiences and the very mores of a society.

My mind invents the beaches and the waves and sailboats and hammocks and lovers wandering hand-in-hand, clutching fruity, tropical drinks as they pick their way through rocks and kelp. With my mind's eye I watch the local children playing in the alleys, sticks and balls strewn about, stopping only to wave at passers-by or to cuddle the kitten that crawled out from beneath the pier and beam footprint of its home.

This weekend, between bouts of gawking and glancing at others, I watched myself. I watched myself gnaw on Cajun-rubbed ribs at a Renaissance Festival while managing to massacre my mouth, cheeks and chin with bits of meat and seasoning. I watched myself satiate my craving for veggies with marinated artichoke hearts, Swiss potato gratin and crisply steamed green beans and carrots from a salad bar. I watched myself celebrate my love for garlic picanha, savoring bite after bite, discussing the recipe for the steak's rub with the server.

And as I headed out the door, I watched myself gaze at a clock and realize that our party, while dressed the part, had eaten three courses, paid and left the restaurant in precisely one hour. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become like a typical American diner, not lingering over the meal with good company, savoring every bite and hanging onto every word.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve become a scarfer.

I've been mulling over this atrocity for the past few days, and now I'm curious: what do you do? How long do you spend preparing a meal versus eating it? By and large, how long do you linger in a restaurant? Are you good for a quickly turned table, or is eating out an affair for you?

Personally, I'll be disappointed if my next meal isn't fueled by great food and great conversation. And only then, perhaps, will I return to my obsession with traveling.

(This will be soon, I hope, because I just read an amazing article about a restaurant in Spain, El Bulli, which has me salivating over my passport. Considering the establishment has been voted several times over as the Best Restaurant in the World, and since the meal is served over six hours and 35 courses, I think I'll have plenty of time for conversation, don't you?)

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I've mentioned in passing that I'll be attending BlogHer '07 this year. What I haven't mentioned is that Roger and I are actually flying together to Chicago a week before the conference. It'll be a mini-vaca, to hang in Chi-town and relish his old stomping grounds.

Chicago River dyed green for St. Patrick's Day
(Click on the photo to enlarge.)

I've never been to the city, but Roger spent four years there during college. He's made lists upon lists of activities for us – so much that we may not actually have time for all of them – and I've started making lists, too. (Have I mentioned how I love making lists?)

Granted, everything on my list was already on his, but I'm becoming a bit concerned: Everything I suggested was centered around eating food.

- Eating Giordano's pizza
- Visiting the penny candy store he frequented during college
- Sampling Garrett's popcorn

With all the eating I have planned, I'm going to need more than just a couple of walking tours and an architectural river cruise to work off the extra calories. (Plus, I need substantial contributions to Roger's lengthy plans for us, contributions that don't entirely involve food.)

This is where I beckon you, Internets. Have you been to Chicago? Or do you love to read about other cities? Where do you suggest we go? What should we do? MUST we eat at a certain restaurant to gain the complete Chicago experience? What has been your favorite part of visiting the Windy City in the past?

Our planning stage is in full swing, and we don't want to leave anything off our list. Tell us what you couldn't leave Chicago without doing, and we'll make sure we fit it into our plans. In the meantime, I'll be researching, too. Afterall: I couldn't give up the opportunity to learn about another city.

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A couple weeks ago Roger and I went camping at Caddo Lake with friends. Every time I go, I am amazed by the simple beauty of this pristine area. It is the only natural lake in Texas, populated with Cyprus trees and covered in Spanish moss.

As soon as we arrived, we rented canoes, piled our gear in the center of each, and paddled to our campsite, which was on an island. And by "we rented, piled and paddled," I mean that the guys rented, piled and paddled.

We spent the weekend circumnavigating the island, dodging trees and roasting (or charring, whichever the case may be) marshmallows. Those fluffy white cubes of sugar are the most important equation of any camping trip, and this was no exception.

Click below for the slideshow, or HERE for the set, but first I should make a note to my mother: Marshmallows are a totally acceptable breakfast.

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Earlier today I wrote Roger the following email:

Hi,

Guess what I just did?

Cancelled Reservations.

Oh, yes. You read that correctly. I had my boarding pass in my hand and everything! And then? They said: "We need you here." And they snatched that boarding pass right out of my hand! (Figuratively, not literally.) So. I'm almost crying. (Not really, but I was so looking forward to going to DC.)

Last night as I double-checked my luggage, I felt my heart thump with excitement about visiting DC. It's been far too long since I've been there –eleven years this month, in fact – and though it's just a business trip, it's long overdue. This morning I dragged my suitcase behind me, thumping my way across the parking lot, purse and briefcase in tow, wondering whether any of my neighbors were looking at me with longing and trying to figure out where I was going. I do that to them, afterall.

Traveling is always exciting: visiting someplace new, the way my stomach drops when the flight first goes wheels up, the contest I run against myself on longer flights to see how long I can hold my bladder before I finally break down and make the dreaded trail of tears to the stainless steel micro-stalls, where I undoubtedly will stand in line for three and one-quarter minutes while waiting for a vacancy sign and wishing all the other passengers weren't trying to guess whether I would be the one to hand them a stink bomb on a silver platter. I feel sorry for the people who sit near the toilets.

I walked into our CFO's office and sat down for a conference call. We waited. And waited. And left voicemails. And waited some more. The other party never called us back. I laid my boarding pass to Dulles on our CFO's desk, along with my pad of paper and pencil, and left to talk to a friend while we waited for the call to begin. The other party called back two hours later.

Half an hour after I left the CFO's office, he walked into my cube, laid the boarding pass on my desk, and then said, "Here's your ticket, even though you won't be needing it anymore."

And then he turned and began to chortle with others standing nearby.

I looked at him, like Wha? Why wouldn't I need the boarding pass? My manager walked up behind him and said, "I think we need you here. Call the travel office and tell them to cancel your flight and hotel."

And so here I am, sitting in my cube instead of enduring that blessed 18" airplane seat; and there my suitcase is, hanging around in my trunk with my lip gloss and lotion meticulously packed in a quart-size Ziploc bag instead of being subjected to an inspection and stored in an overhead compartment; and there my CFO is, on the airplane, flying right now in First Class because he was upgraded, which I'm convinced is the only reason he was in such a hurry to leave the office for his flight, completely relishing in the fact that he is going and I am not, because the truth is that my company was sending me just to ensure that he doesn't screw things up. Closing acquisitions isn't really his forte, if you know what I mean.

And so there he is, sitting in his leather seat, and here I am, still sitting in my cube.

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Why must, once you get on the plane, someone begin eating smelly food? I saw all of you, each and every one of you sitting in the waiting area, bored. Every single one of you. BORED. And not eating.

And then we boarded the plane, and got comfy in our very tiny seats, and once we reached cruising altitude, and before the flight attendant even had begun to prepare her beverage cart, YOU, Mr. iPod and Receding Hairline, produced your smelly food from the deep recesses of your carry-on luggage.

I cannot see what is making such a stench, but it smells like corn-nuts. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.! You should be outlawed!

This is, afterall, only a two-hour flight. And I recognize you from last night, last night when we all sat together grumbling about our cancelled flight, phoning our family and friends and credit card company concierge services to request overnight accommodations. I’m certain that your hotel offered a continental breakfast, one that did not involve corn-nuts, and that the offending snack was really an impulse purchase made in the secured area of the airport by The Receding Hairline.

Those crunchy little wads are a $3.49 snack of horror. They reek. And I think they're ranch-flavored. RANCH-FLAVORED. CORN-NUTS. For breakfast! At 5:37 a.m.!

Editor's Note:
Please forgive. Was written from a very small seat while the scent of ranch-flavored corn-nuts invaded. Also, it was a very early flight. And also, I didn't get much sleep, since I was up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the flight. And also, I was tired. OMG. Delirious.

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I’m spending the next hour on a plane from Dallas, TX to Greensboro, NC, and my: these are tiny seats. I’ve flown the route before, but even with my past experience I don’t recall the plane being the exact size of a .357 Magnum cartridge. Why does it feel so small this time around?

The cabin has a double seat on one side and a single on the other, and I am fortunate enough to have a single. That’s because, in general, I hate strangers and their elbows and armpits and knees that stretch into my space, and in some cases, excrete foul smells.

When I first arrived at my seat, I looked down at it and decided it looked abnormally small, like maybe it had been made for a child. I sat down, and as my hips scraped past the plastic armrests, I thought, “Huh. I better not gain any more weight, or I’ll be like those people who need to pay double for two seats, just to be able to sit on the plane.

Aside: I just looked down at my hands, and the bright glow of the monitor is illuminating the surface of my skin. Combined with the darkness of the cabin, I can see every crevice and wrinkle on my fingers and across my knuckles. Y’all! I’m getting old. Look at all those wrinkles! Get me lotion! I need lotion! Better yet, Botox! Injected into my haaaaannnnnddddsssss!

So anyway, these seats are so miniscule that my knees are protruding into the bald man’s back. The bald man is sitting directly in front of me, and we just learned the hard way that I shouldn’t be crossing my legs during this flight, and that he shouldn’t attempt leaning back. I have the tray down so I can write, but half my computer is engulfed by my belly, and my wrists are fixed permanently to my sides in an effort to comfortably reach the keyboard. Say hello to my organs: they’re leaning against the space bar r i g ht n o w.

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel a little awkward when the flight attendant is motioning through all the You May Die, So Wear Your Seatbeltmotions? I never quite know what to do with myself.

I’ve got the schpill memorized, so much so that sometimes I wonder whether I could be the attendant’s assistant so he doesn’t have to march up and down the aisle wildly waving his arms with sundry apparatus in tow.

Sometimes I try to read my book, but the entire time I’m only reading the same sentence over and over, so aware am I that I’m not paying any attention to the attendant’s speech. I become convinced that he knows that I, specifically, am unsuccessfully trying to ignore him.

Will I get in trouble from some airline-type mafia? Does it offend him that I’m not hanging on his every word? I think if I were a flight attendant, I’d carry a gun that shot Styrofoam pellets, and every time I caught someone paying no heed to me and my Very Important Instructions, I'd pop a pellet against their skull. Right? Because wouldn't that be what patrons deserved for ignoring me?

I looked up and watched the flight attendant for a couple minutes, and then I became self-conscious because what if everyone else on the plane is watching me watch him and they think it is my first flight, and that, in fact, I don’t know how to buckle my seat belt? And then, again: Why do I care?

I looked around to see what others were doing, so that maybe I could copy them, and when I whipped around, some of them shifted their eyes to me. Which meant that I couldn't tell what they were doing. Why am I acting like I've never flown before? Traveling is my most favorite thing to do, like, ever.

No, seriously: I love to travel. That's why I am baffled by my recent paranoia concerning flights. Every time I board an airplane, I have a secret fear of Death by Suction. You see, I’m certain that there is someone – nay, something – with a chainsaw just below me. A quiet chainsaw, so that I can’t hear its roaring engine, and I imagine that the chainsaw is cutting a circle out just below my seat. But only my seat. Not Roger’s, or anyone else's, just mine.

I'm certain that in a few moments I’ll drop through the hole, still safely buckled into my seat, and I’ll fall through the sky, and the pressure of the air at 36,000 feet causing my brain to explode into a million little pieces. By the time I hit the ground, I’ll have already spewed cranial tissue over the roofs of the houses below me. And my body will be so badly disfigured from the fall that I’ll be unidentifiable, except for the millions of needle marks on my hands.

(Botox injections, remember?)

I don't know why I have this sudden and irrational fear. But I can't stop myself from thinking it. Even as the plane goes wheels up, I remind myself not to think about it, and the fact that I'm reminding myself makes me more aware that I'm trying to NOT think about it.

It's a vicious cycle.

Written December 22, 2006, from 36,000 feet.

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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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When Roger and I were trying to decide how to spend our two-and-a-half-day fact-finding mission in Seattle, we immediately agreed with each other that we wouldn't visit the Space Needle. It somehow seemed too touristy. Too ... expected.

A delightful girl, whom I only know as "Tele Girl," emailed me with a list of must-do's for Seattle.

(I don't know why she calls herself "Tele Girl." Does she work in telecommunications? Or is she a huge astronomy buff with a collection of telescopes on her porch? Tele Girl, won't you respond and let us know?)

When we finally arrived in The Emerald City, we navigated our way directly to Pike's Market – but not without a little exasperation on Roger's part and defiant, ridiculous, over-defensiveness on my part, during which I might or might not have thrown the map on his lap and exhaustively sighed that he'd just have to navigate and drive all by himself, which he refused to do, so we sat in silence, stomachs grumbling, until I reclaimed my duty as navigator if only because I was so hungry and desperate to go somewhere, anywhere, even McDonald’s – by way of the piers, where we stopped for "lunch" (Note: not at McDonald’s). And by "lunch," I mean our bodies thought it was 4:00 p.m. and we had yet to eat a meal that day.

We were off to a great start for a delightful weekend together, don't you think?

Continue reading "Seattle" »

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I tend to think of myself as a responsible traveler. I check the TSA website. I pack my liquids and gels in my checked luggage. I try not to overstuff my carry on, if only because I want to avoid the exhausted sighs and eye-rolling from other passengers as I break a sweat jamming my luggage into the overhead bin.

But this weekend? I looked like a novice. I broke down and cried. In front of the TSA agents. And then I recorded my account of our departure from Dallas for the Internet:

Saturday, October 21, 2006
4:45 a.m.: Alarm blaring. Too early to wake up.

5:06 a.m.: Finally manage to pull myself out of bed. Fumble around in the shower.

6:28 a.m.: Roger and I are still at home. We live 45 minutes from the airport. Our flight begins boarding in 25 minutes. I am hyperventilating.

6:30 a.m.: Speed down highway. Pray we don't get pulled over.

7:08 a.m.: We had one bag to check, which missed the cut off time. Bag is checked onto a flight that arrives two hours after us.

7:12 a.m.: Contemplate whether we should join our bag or pick it up at the airport later in the day. Curse ourselves for checking luggage in the first place.

7:14 a.m.: After only a tiny bit of deliberation, decide to switch flights so we can arrive with our bag.

7:14:06 a.m.: Am disappointed to arrive after noon instead of in the early-ish morning.

7:25 a.m.: Our original flight is departing right now.

7:26 a.m.: Leave airport. Buy lotion and granola bars at CVS drugstore.

8:05 a.m.: Park, ride shuttle to airport. Airport worker stops us. He is grumpy because his job sucks. Hear him yelling something about the lotion we purchased.

8:05:43 a.m.: Realize I already checked all my liquids and Ziploc bags. He continues searching my belongings and discovers lip gloss.

8:13 a.m.: Protest. Refuse to surrender MAC lip gloss.

8:17 a.m.: Grumble about lack of ziplocs for sale. Shouldn't they be in a vending machine or something? Am forced to check my carry on luggage with lotion and MAC lip gloss.

8:26 a.m.: Security check is peppered with TSA agents yelling, "All liquids and gels need to be in a Ziploc bag! If it makes you look good, smell good, feel good, it needs to go in a Ziploc bag!" [I snicker.] "All creams, lotions, and gels – in a Ziploc bag!"

8:27 a.m. Stress-induced crying begins. TSA agents hate me and my lip gloss. The world is maybe coming to an end.

9:42 a.m. And? I'm menstrual.

It turns out that a lipgloss I had packed and forgotten about made it through security with no issues, so my lips were able to stay gloriously succulent and shiny instead of dry and cracked. Also? I learned that TSA agents are relying more on your subconscious than their ability to properly inspect your bags for liquids and gels.

That said, I'm totally setting up a base camp outside the airport, where I'm going to sell individual quart-sized Ziploc bags for a dollar to all the yuppies whose subconscious gives them the ultimatum to either relinquish their toothpaste or throw it away. And judging by the number of people in Dallas who forgot theirs, I'm going to make millions.

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This weekend Roger and I are visiting Seattle, Washington. If you have any last-minute pieces of advice for us, like maybe what to do or where to go, let us know - we'll be checking email and comments all weekend long. If you don't have any last-minute assertions, I totally think you're lying because who in the world doesn't have opinions? Especially about travel? And places to go? EVEN IF YOU'VE NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE?

I personally try to give my opinion as often as possible. And if I've never been there before? I make something up. Or repeat something I've heard someone else say. But I rephrase it to make it sound a little different. And I also pretend I didn't just hear that other person say it. But mostly, I research. I looovvveee to research new places.

I've been agonizing for the past week over what to wear. Will it be too cold for my precious skin? Because when I was packing, I discovered that somehow 75% of my sweaters have mysteriously ended up in the dryer since last winter. Which means they're much, much too small for me now.

And I refuse to admit that I had anything to do with it. (See: clothes dryer.) (Also see: my inability to properly follow laundering instructions that are sewn into my clothes for that very reason.) (Also see: me rolling my eyes.)

So. Suggestions? Ideas? Seattle, anyone?

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For the past week Roger and I have been gung-ho about moving. We're actually both discussing it, rather than one of us either (a) randomly talking about it or (b) wistfully longing for the day it might occur.

But now! We've begun planning for the move and setting goals for the end of the year, after which we plan to head OUT.

Roger and I each have our individual methods of approaching the topic:

He is (quite responsibly) updating his portfolio for interviews.

I'm playing on craigslist.org, looking at houses and (sometimes) jobs.

Last night we were discussing our options of places to live – Seattle! New York City! San Diego! San Francisco! – and it occurred to me: why not ask the Internet for help? (Note to the Internet: From now on, I'm depending on you to help me run my life.)

These are our requests:

1. Four seasons (No more of this hot mess in Texas. It should not be 85 degrees in December.) (Also: the climate, not the hotel. Unless the Internet knows how I can just LIVE at the Four Seasons, and then I'll jump at the chance.) (I do not know if Roger will jump with me.) (Though I bet I could persuade him.)


2. Near the water (Preferably, near the water AND the mountains, but we both prefer the ocean. Or perhaps a really big lake.)


3. Affordable (Um, I don't want to spend $350,000 buying a double-wide. If I'm going to buy a double-wide, I'd much rather buy one in Dallas for $25,000 and drive it across the country.) (I'm thrifty like that.) (Also, when comparing the cost of living in Dallas to San Francisco last night, we discovered that San Francisco is 81% more expensive.) (It is also on a fault line.) (I am scared of fault lines. Incidentally, I'm also scared of that 81%.)


4. Artsy community (I don't mean inner-city graffiti. We'd love to move somewhere that has a great cultural and arts district.)

So! Where should we move? (And, if you're feeling particularly loquacious, WHY should we move there?)

(I distinctly remember learning the word "loquacious" in 5th grade while watching an episode of Pee Wee Herman.) (I think.)

Update: We've now visited (and loved) Seattle and Houston (not loved). Suggestions are still welcome!

Technorati: Seattle, mountains, moving, home, home buying, travel, relocate, relocating

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This weekend I…

…and determined (yet again) that GAH: I need to move out of Dallas. The rest of the world is just too beautiful.

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In just 10 minutes I'm leaving for Colorado Springs, where I'll be behaving myself for a weekend with the in-laws. The GIRL in-laws (Mom-in-law, Sister-in-law). Don't fear for me, though. They're delightful. Really.

In the meantime, I'm hustling at work to get things done (and by "hustling" I mean I am sitting in front of my computer, blogging). I guess I'll leave the hustling for thirty minutes before I need to leave.

Hello. My name is Jes. Today I am procrastinating.

Beep.

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I am haunted by purchasing feminine care products to such a degree that merely saying the word gives me the creeps: Tampons.

I'm the woman who can't just buy a box at the grocery store - I have to buy other unrelated items, like a pound of asparagus and six apples and 93% lean ground beef and a loaf of freshly-baked sourdough bread and maybe some finely shredded cheddar cheese and a few bottles of contact solution just to make it seem as though I haphazardly found myself on the feminine care aisle and casually threw a box of them into my cart, without so much as checking the price or the brand or the size(s). Gross.

I feel like vomiting now, just admitting that.

Continue reading "Dispensers: dispensable" »

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Attending the BlogHer workshops confirmed to me that what I’m doing at work, while I enjoy it, is not my passion. My passion is writing and connecting with others – building a community where people can meet and share their lives. I’ve always known that my talents center around hospitality. I think blog communities are a great way for me to exercise that talent.

I have several ideas storming for new community websites, but am overwhelmed by my own ambition.

Several of you have asked me who I met at BlogHer. My answer? Everyone. Almost. There is no way I could ever give a recap of my thoughts on the people I did meet (but Miss Zoot did an excellent job of doing just that) - there were too many to name.

I met women whom I admire. I met women who made me laugh. I met women who are brilliant. I met women that I wished I had taken longer to talk with.

I learned a lot from the different sessions that were held on Day One and Day Two. But more than anything, I learned so much about myself. And perhaps that is the best thing that I could have taken from the conference.

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

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

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

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

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

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Oh, man. It's 10:25 a.,. and I was supposed to leave the house at 10. The airport - it is beckoning me.

My bags are half-packed, but my hair looks good. My legs are shaved. I'm clothed. But that's about it.

I haven't eaten a thing, but in my rush to get ready I managed to make banana bread for Roger to munch on while I'm gone.

But then I forgot that I needed something & ran to SuperT to get it, and when I got home realized: Oops! I forgot about the food in the oven. So now the banana bread is a little crispy around the edges.

Okay, fine. It's flat-out charcoaled around the edges.

I'm about to head out the door to BlogHer, as soon as I zip my bags and run through my checklist and pack my car and clean the kitchen and put away all my crap in the living room.

I think I'm going to be late.

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I just listened to a message that I recorded for myself earlier today. I’ve been irritated recently when I sit down to write because exactly this comes to mind:         .

I start to write, and then stop and erase everything, and then repeat the same again. It's this constant battle I have, this battle with words, and it's not limited to paper. Sometimes it's in conversation, too. The thing is when I'm alone I'm always thinking, always talking. I’m very likable, you see. My incessant babbling and talking to myself in my car is endearing. I talk to myself so often that sometimes I pick up my phone and start talking to it with no one on the other end so that all the people surrounding me in traffic, all those people who are not looking at me, won’t think I am crazy.

Today while talking to myself, I stumbled upon a subject that I thought would be just perfect for this website. I talked myself all the way through it, laughing with myself at the parts that were funny, and then decided that I should record it on my cell phone so that I would remember what I had said. I pressed “record” and this was what came to mind:        .

I actually got nervous talking to myself, saying such things as, “Heh. Hi. It’s, um, me. And I’m recording a message for myself because I uhhh, I uhhhh, wanted to remember what I was, uhhhh, saying. So, I was ummm, talking to (long pause while I shifted gears to Not Going Anywhere) myself about ummm…Ohhh. Mmyyy. Gggooooossssshhhhh. WHY DO I BOTHER?” Beeeeep.

While listening to my message, I realized that I sound like a valley girl. Why has no one ever told me this before? There were so many uhhhhhs and ummmmms and whatevers and likes in my message. I began to crinkle my nose and furrow my brows as I heard more and more of myself.

(Sidenote: my voice! It is so crisp and clear. I could totally do voiceovers. I need to be discovered. Somebody! Discover me!)

After listening to myself stumble over words while I was talking to no one, no one at all, I decided I should make a list of Things To Do before I leave for BlogHer (squeeeeeeeeee!!!!) on Thursday. Have I told you I like making lists? Love might be a more appropriate term. I loooovvveeee making lists.

OhmygoshIleaveforBlogHeronThursdayandIhavesomuchtodo.

1. Learn to have intelligent conversations. Having conversations at BlogHer that go like this: “Hi, Jes – it’s nice to meet you” “Pffallarrgggiiibgghhhh” are not going to get me discovered.


2. Pack. I have to pack, y’all. Clothes. To wear. In public. Where I know cameras will be in abundance. Hey - do I look fat in this?

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The last few days have been weepy and awkward. I’ve felt the highs of joy, excitement and contentedness, and I have felt the lows of restlessness, sadness, numbness. And I have no tangible reason for my emotions.

And, no, I'm not pregnant.

My family members are healthy. I have a nice (albeit sometimes boring) job. My husband is the most amazing guy I know – I’ve never felt so secure or so loved by another person.

Today, I am 28 years old. I do not know what the day has in store. I do know that, so far, my life has not been the culmination of prettiness and perfection that I once imagined as a fur-coat-wearing child. And yes, that was real fur, rabbit fur, because my grandmother knew what every four-year-old girl truly wants: pearls and rabbit fur and to prance around in her mama's stilettos and lipstick.

I’ve never been the girl who began planning her wedding before she completed Kindergarten. I was too busy trying to flash the “I love you” symbol with my fingers to all the boys, except I always held up the wrong three fingers: I chose to use the fingers that say, “I’ll have three cookies, please” or “I only want three of those magic mushrooms, thankyouverymuch.” That should have been my first clue that I would be a late bloomer.

Although I didn’t know whether I wanted tulips or orchids (and it’s a good thing a married such an opinionated designer, lest I still be standing with my florist, trying to “envision” the look of the event), I did know that I wanted to be a mom.

I’ve always loved to write, but never knew whether it could be a career. Beyond anything else, my heart’s desire was to be for my child what my mom was for me: the mom who played with me until I was old enough to go to school, who greeted me at the door when I came home from school, who drove me to all of my extra-curricular activities, who went on bike rides with me to pick blueberries.

I imagined that I would marry by the time I turned 26, which I did, but just barely. I imagined that I would have my first child by the time I was 28, which I … haven’t. Things just don't always turn out how we think they will. Roger and I are still probably several years from having children.

So here I am, contemplative and melancholy and perhaps a bit misty-eyed, maybe with a stomach too full of Mexican food and maybe I keep burping tortilla chips that are acidic and sting a little, and I’m wondering how the rest of my life will unfold. Will we get 100% out of debt? Will we have children? Will we buy a house and live the Great American Dream: The Mortgage? Will we have an opportunity to move overseas? Will Roger and I travel the world, visiting quaint villages and the purest beaches? Will our kids be at least manageable? Will we regret having children? Does anyone (who wants children) regret it later?

When I was young, I didn’t factor in the trivial things in life, like debt. And financial security. And my own selfishness. And now I’m a little confused about my pretty and perfect plan, because most days I wouldn’t want my life to be any different than it is (other than living in Dallas - I could take it or leave it).

It's a melancholy day. A day full of uncertainty. But a good day, at that.

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Each time I stretch my arms, or scratch my back, or move my bra strap back into place, my sunburn rears its ugly head. I am constantly under the assumption that the fact that I don't have fair skin means I am invincible to the sun. Every summer I am proven wrong by the pounding rays and ridiculous triple-degree heat in Texas. I am surprised I don't have cantaloupe-sized tumors growing off of my cheek bones or clavicles.

This weekend Roger and I went fishing at the lake, and for several hours the biggest thing we caught was my Dad, who had leapt into the water after his rod and reel fell off the side of the boat. Dad was giddy when he retrieved his prize, and had I paid the price of Manolo Blahniks for my fishing pole, I would have been giddy, too.

The thing about fishing is that it's a very fickle sport. You can't generally control whether a fish will bite your lure, and if it does, you don't always catch it. For me, at least, it generally gets away, and as the day wears the size of the fish on my pole generally grows larger and larger. I suspect that's true about most fisherman. Which is why, when I actually caught a fish (I caught a fish!), it was necessary for me to document the event.

That fish? Totally bigger than it looks on camera. In fact, by the time I got back to Dallas it was 30 inches long. Or so I told my family.

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If you haven't already read Part One and Part Two, please do so.

I love the way my conditioner makes my hair feel, especially when I first massage it into my scalp. It's soft and silky and free of tangles, and I can run my fingers through it effortlessly, feeling every curve of my scalp and every bump that - wait. What? A bump? On my scalp? Odd - I've never noticed it before.

I ran my fingers back to the bump. It's small. I can move it, like a skin tag. Note to self: research skin tags, and why such tag would be on my scalp. Not normal.

And then, I suddenly remembered that I had just gotten home from camping.

Continue reading "Now, More Like A Wet Dog Than Ever (Part Three)" »

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If you haven't already read Part One, please do so.

With a copperhead snake slithering nearby, neither Roger nor I slept much that first night of our celebratory anniversary weekend. As such, the second day would prove to be too much for my already-frazzled emotions to handle.

As soon as light hit our tent, my eyes popped open and I was too restless to stay there any longer. I grabbed the camera and headed outside, feeling proud of myself for being so woodsy and adventurous. I timidly walked back to where we saw the snake the night before, just to ensure it wasn't still lurking, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

A few minutes later it occurred to me that I could be doing something useful with myself. Like pumping water! I grabbed the equipment and headed to the stream, and after I had the pump assembled I picked up the water platypus that I had just carried, in my hand, to the stream. And then I noticed something black. And bumpy. And a web that wasn't on the platypus the night before. The nightmare continued.

Continue reading "There Are One Hundred Twenty Eight Bug Bites Covering My Body, And I Look Like A Leper (Part Two)" »

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When Roger and I do things, we do them big. Texas big. We may not love living here, but we're totally willing to abide by the cocky rules of the land.

So Memorial Day weekend, when we were [unaware that we were] speeding through the tiny town of Krebs, Oklahoma, it is only fitting that we would be pulled over. And be given a speeding ticket. By the chief of police. If that incident was to serve as any indication of what was ahead for us, perhaps we should have turned around and driven back to Dallas. Slowly.

Continue reading "On Second Thought, Maybe Camping Wasn't The Best Way To Spend Our Anniversary (Part One)" »

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On Monday, Roger and I celebrated our two year anniversary. We couldn't think of any better way to celebrate (actually, we could, but we recently blew our wad in Manila, Corregidor, Baguio, and, mostly, Boracay) than to lug 45-pound backpacks up and down hills masquerading as mountains in the hot May sun of Arkansas.

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Three months ago, Roger and I were in Boracay. Also, yesterday was Roger's birthday, and tell me, Internet, what could be a better birthday toast than remembering that you're sitting in your hard chair in your cold office slaving away when only three months ago you were exploring a beach without a care in the world? Welcome back to the States, Roger!

In the days of yore, we spent our time: lazing around in 1200 thread count sheets, island-hopping on our private sailboat, eating fish with its head still attached, soaking up the sun on talcum-powder sand, sipping kalamansi juice, picking up puka shells to bring home to the states. As obvious a souvenier as it may seem, Roger and I have a tradition of bringing home seashells from our travels. Maybe it's because our favorite destinations always have a beach nearby.

Continue reading "Unofficial Islander" »

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Six years ago I spent a summer in Asia. One of my favorite memories from the time I spent there is of a conversation I had with a Chinese national, Pixie (my nickname for her). Pixie and I met after she bought a beancurd icecream. I was staring at her as she ate it, simply because I had never witnessed anyone eating frozen bean ice cream before, and she came up to me and asked, "Do you want to be my friend?" I marveled at her vulnerability and was flattered by her sincerity. I was so curious about her that I agreed, "Yeah! I'd love that!" And soon, I found myself meeting new nationals and asking them if they wanted to be my friend.

Summers were hot - really, really hot, and I don't think a day went by that I didn't wish I could strip and jump into the nearest water fountain, or lake, or puddle on the street - whichever was closest. And although I probably lost ten pounds by sweating alone, I still exercised. Many mornings my "exercise" consisted of meeting at the campus basketball court and humiliating myself among the locals who congregated to practice Tai Chi.

One afternoon Pixie and I were walking around our university's jogging track, discussing movies and watching men in three-piece suits running laps. She told me about a movie she watched with a girlfriend a few nights before, and asked if I had ever heard of it: The Quiet Sheep. She said it was a popular American movie, and I was surprised that I had never seen it or even heard of it. She went on to tell me how frightening the movie was, and as she continued chatting I realized she was talking about the movie The Silence of the Lambs. I started laughing and explained to her the inaccurate translation of the movie's title.

Asian countries have become well known for their funny translations of English phrases. I am convinced that translators do it on purpose. For example, when I was there I found a green mug with the Starbucks logo, except the "b" was replaced with an "f." In retrospect, I have NO IDEA why I didn't buy it on the spot. Many food packages, clothing, and way-finding signs boast flawed translations and have given birth to websites dedicated to finding such products. When I returned to Denton, TX from my study abroad, I found a website that quickly became a favorite during those frequent bouts of insomnia.

I recently received an email from my cousin, who works for an oil company in Houston. Part of her job involves reviewing documents that were originally written in Italian and then translated to English. Because she knows my love-hate relationship with grammar, she sent me this sentence from a recent document she was reading:

"The aim is to supply to the Procurement and Technical Dept. a tool providing in an easily and synthetically way the evaluation of performances of the Vendors and, at the same time, identify and keep under control Vendors with negative performances."

The editor in my wants to whip out my red pen and scribble all over that horrible sentence. But another part of me is in love with it, with the translation, with the person who thought that sentence was acceptable. And I think that part of me - that loving part - is why I so desperately want to move overseas again.

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At museums, Roger and I are those people.

We gaze and dawdle and read every word written on the descriptive plaques, and then sometimes we'll call each other over and read it again to each other, out loud, just because we think it's particularly interesting that George Vanderbilt had a bowling alley in his basement. A bowling alley! I didn't even know they had those back then!

We rent the optional headsets, even though we know other people have worn them and that it's possible they are infected with germs and have earwax smeared across the protective foam covering. And then, Internet, we listen to EVERY. SINGLE. AUDIO CLIP. We even press that little green button for the nerds who want to know more. On walking tours, we have to split the tour in half, spending two days (or more!) on a one-day tour, because we are THAT obsessive about knowing every minute detail.

So, can you imagine what it was like for us to wander around a museum that was the size of a small island? Wait, no - IT WAS THE ISLAND.

Continue reading "Philippines: Corregidor Island" »

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It has taken me much too long to tell you about our time in the Philippines, and for that I must apologize, though I am sure you can guess that it was rosy and beautiful and filled with laughter and hand-holding and crossing dangerous three-lane roads that had become five-lanes and praying for our lives each time we climbed inside a taxi. We dodged cute little 3-year-old girls who were begging for money on the street, because after the first time we gave them coins they latched onto us Americanos and followed us for three blocks before finally turning around. And by 'following us' I mean they were attached to our legs and were chanting something that I can only guess was Tagalog for "Will you buy some flowers?" or something, with little bits of English and "need food" and "money for school" mixed in.

Whew.

So, in Manila we stayed at the Mandarin Oriental, now known by us as That Overpriced Hotel and That Hotel That Exploited Foreigners. Because they wanted to charge us $14 per hour to use the Internet, not to mention what we shelled out for the room itself. Internet, do you KNOW how much money I spent on you while I was in Manila? They wanted to charge us $4 to wash ONE pair of underwear - and believe me, I had more than one pair to wash. Plus, the food from the hotel restaurant wasn't that great. And if you know me by now, you know that I believe that food can make or break a vacation.

That's why we shouted with glee when we discovered a) a full-service laundromat across the street that would wash ALL our clothes for $5 and b) an internet cafe that charged only $1 per hour.

Just like my mom, I'm such the bargain hunter. Locale makes no difference.

Continue reading "Philippines: Manila." »

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After an uneventful 16 hour flight from Korea (unless you count the turbulence that caused me to nearly vomit, or that time that I put a death grip on Roger's thigh that forced him to peel each finger off of his leg fifteen minutes AFTER we were flying smoothly again, and unless you count those in-flight meals that resulted in a five-pound weight loss, but as a snack I did get sticky rice with a beef jerky-like center wrapped in crunchy, salty seaweed, which I loved, A LOT, so there's that, and unless you count the half-hour descent toward Dallas that made me yawn one hundred forty eight times in an effort to adjust the pressure in my ears, but the little baby two rows behind us hadn't yet figured out the yawning-thing, or the pinching of his nose and blowing-thing, and so he cried for twenty five of those thirty minutes, and vomited for the last five, which scent then resulted in my gagging and near-vomiting again before I covered my face with the Korean Air-issued blanket, through which I was very carefully breathing), we arrived at DFW alive. What was I saying, again? Uneventful? Yes, mostly. Until we got to Customs, that is.

Continue reading "Uneventful" »

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I was going to post a picture of me on the beach, in which I have a gorgeous deep tan and no sunburn whatsoever (what? you don't know!), but instead I'm in an internet cafe (taking time away from my precious tan), fiddling with a computer. The CPU has no USB in the front. I'm determined though, so just for you I squatted down and crawled UNDER THE DESK, where I scraped my back, and plugged the cord into the backside of the CPU.

I turned on my camera, I thought it shocked me. So I touched it again. And it did it again.

I put my finger on my straw hat, a darling, floppy straw hat that makes my heart swoon, and then on the dirty keyboard that I'm certain has never been swiped with anti-bacterial cloths, and neither of those items shocked me, though one might have passed me a disease.

I thought that either a) the current going through the cord is WAY too strong, or b) i have spent WAY too much time in the sun today.

So I touched the camera again, just to make sure. In that short period of time before I touched it, the surge grew exponentially and now my hair has loosened from my ponytail and is sticking straight out from my scalp, like I walked straight out of an '80s music video, what with all the teasing and hairspray they used back then.

So, no picture of my deep, dark tan. Instead, I sat in this dirty stall with its infected keyboard and electrifying USB and I drew you a picture. But now I really need to get back to that sun, and that kalamansi juice, and that perfect, crystal clear water that makes my heart break when I think about leaving it.

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Katie and I were roommates, twice, during college. We did the things college students do, like swiping extra salt and pepper packets from fast food chains because we didn't want to spend the extra money to buy our own. (Okay, fine, that was me. But had Katie thought of it first, she totally would have, too.)

One Saturday night we went through the drivethru of a fastfood restaurant, perhaps McDonalds or Jack in the Box, and Katie ordered a happy meal. The toy that came with that meal was a stuffed animal. An ugly stuffed animal. A country bear. I guess. We still haven't figured out what it is, exactly.

"Katie, that is the UGLIEST doll I have ever seen."

"Here, you can have it." She threw it in my lap.

"Um, NO, I don't want it." (This was punctuated with me throwing the bear across the car at her while she was driving.)

I don't recall who began the "tradition," but from that point forward Katie and I took great delight in hiding the bear for each other. She hid it in my closet, I hid it in her bathroom, peaking out from behind her deodorant. She gave it to me before my wedding, as part of a gift for my lingerie shower. I had a little girl do a drive-by bear-shooting into the window of her car. Most recently, Katie gave it to me again as a gift for my birthday.

Each time we passed it, we would add some new article of clothing: pearl undergarments (Katie), jean-dress and party hat (Jes), curly red hair and green fringe (Katie). It was our cross-dressing country bear, our symbol of hope and freedom and friendship. And delerium.

When Roger and I decided to visit the Philippines, it was only natural for me to tote the cross-dressing country bear halfway around the world. The CDCB has been all over Manila, visited Taal volcano, a lake within a volcano that is a lake within a volcano. Except I MUST point out that the CDCB did not have to actually CLIMB the gruesome trail up to the volcano ridge. He was carried. By Roger. Because I am a wimp, and out of shape, and couldn't even carry a stuffed animal during the hike. Personally, I think it must have made Roger feel very manly to know he was doing a little extra work.

Anyway, so while driving from Manila to Baguio we stopped to take a few pictures. Actually, we stopped about every 30 yards to take a picture of something, but I doubt you're interested in that. What you're interested in, Internet, is the contest I've cooked up for you. Go ahead, read on.

Continue reading "When In The Philippines, Do As The Filipinos Do" »

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A few months ago I told you about my trip to Boston. I told you that just being in the city made us feel smarter, and that when we visited Harvard we each bought a book from the Harvard Bookstore. Mine was a scientific book of inventions, and I promised to share random excerpts from it with you, Internet. Therefore, from time to time you will find some of my favorite Chindogu inventions highlighted on here. Enjoy!

Excerpt taken from The Big Bento Box of Unuseless Japanese Inventions by Kenji Kawakami.
Baby Mops

Make your children work for their keep. After the birth of a child there's always the temptation to say "Yes, it's cute, but what can it do?" Until recently the answer was simply "lie there and cry," but now babies can be put on the payroll, so to speak, almost as soon as they're born. Just dress your young one in Baby Mops and set him or her down on any hard wood or tile floor that needs cleaning.

You may at first need to get things started by calling to the infant from across the room, but pretty soon they'll be doing it all by themselves.There's no child exploitation involved. The kid is doing what he does best anyway: crawling. But with Baby Mops he's also learning responsibility and a healthy work ethic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't hold your breath.

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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10. Street sweepers! They were golf-cart sized vehicles, with a ten-foot long, 12-inch diameter vacuum hose dangling off to the side. One drove past us on the street, and when we saw it, we stopped and stared, having never seen a riding vacuum cleaner before. We watched as the driver maneuvered the hose to pick up random pieces of trash on the street and the sidewalk, so dumbfounded by its presence that we forgot to take a picture. Believe me though, it was awesome.

(Stock photography)

9. The women have fun colored coats. I actually made it a game with Roger to point out every interesting color and pattern that we saw: fuschia, turquoise, lime green, lime green and cream hounds tooth, pale yellow, cyan, hot pink...and they didn't look like coats that some people buy in off-colors just because they were cheaper. They were actually stylish AND cute! If I ever move to a colder climate, I'm going to need a separate budget category for such coats. As it is right now, I think I own two: one black and one brown. There's not much of a market for wool in Texas.

8. The city was rich in culture, the arts and history. (Particularly compared to Dallas, which is the equivalent of a flat slab of concrete.) The colonial architecture was absolutely beautiful!

(This isn't like the buildings in Dallas that they build new to look old. It really was built a century ago. Or more. Come to think of it, I really don't know when it was built. I just thought it was pretty.)

7. Fresh fruit sold on the street! And flowers! I felt SO European. Except I've never been to Europe, so perhaps I felt SO other country-ish.

6. Public transportation: cheap, safe, and entertaining. Not only did I have a legitimate excuse to take part in one of my favorite pastimes, staring at people, but I read great advertising while waiting for the red line:

5. The homeless people were so friendly. And clean. And I wasn't scared of them, like I am in Dallas, mostly because they didn't lurch toward me and gnarl their teeth.

4. Fire escapes! I have never seen a fire escape in person before, and I was so thrilled to see my first one that I took a picture of it:

(Me, upon seeing the first one: "Look, Roger, look! A fire escape! Like in the movies!" Subsequently, I also pointed out every other fire escape I saw, just because it was a fire escape. We don't have these in Dallas. We just let people burn.)

3. I felt my intelligence increase by at least 10 degrees just because I was in the city. When Roger and I walked around Harvard, I felt maybe 20 degrees more intelligent. Roger and I both bought books from the Harvard Book Store. I chose a science-esque book, and finished reading it within three days of coming home. You can expect me to start sharing random excerpts soon.

2. All the women have thin legs. I believe this is directly related to reason number one.

1. I was able to walk nearly everywhere I went! (This is good, since I don't like to drive.)

(Roger on the Freedom Trail: Notice the stylish headphone guides we wore, which screamed, "I AM A TOURIST! MUG ME!" Fortunately, we weren't mugged.)

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A few days ago, I asked what you thought the following image commemorated:

I mentioned that we discovered this structure outside of Paul Revere's home. However, it has nothing to do with anything you guessed, like Paul Revere. Or the Boston Tea Party. Or Plymouth Rock. Or pebbles in your shoes. Or hangnails. Or demon-monkeys. Or anything unholy.

When Roger and I first saw it, we stared at it, pondering what it could be. There was no sign to read, no plaque commemorating its place in American history. When we ran out of ideas of what it could be, we asked a local tourist shop owner, whose business happened to be just across the way from it. When he told us what it was, I started laughing uncontrollably, and decided to take a picture of it, because that's the kind of photographer that I am: one with no sense of purpose, or lighting, or whatever it is that photographers look for.

The stone structure, which is circular in shape, commemorates nothing. A snow plow hit it and knocked it over. If you look in the background, you'll see several black poles holding a thick chain fence. This was just another one of those poles.

What?!? You expected me to take pictures of actual landmarks? That was Roger's job.

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Can you guess what this image commemorates? The picture was taken in Boston (Charlestown), MA.

(If you are from the Boston area, don't give it away. All shall be revealed in its due course.)

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No need to call the state troopers. Keep the national guard abroad, where they are needed. Don't tell the FBI where I am - they've been hot on my tail since that Girls Night Out chicken liver incident.

As for the Chipmunks, the Globetrotters, the Rockettes, the Rocketeer...bring 'em on. I'd love to see cartoon animals and ginormous basketball players running around with high-kicking, scantily clad women.

As for my absence - for those of you insistent on an explanation - I was in Raleigh yesterday on business. And I earned lots of miles. Just doing my part to support the airline industry. Afterall, AA knows why I fly.

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