Happy Days

I spent the last couple of days rediscovering why I'm too old for things like "spring break" and why I really can't rely on potato chips and brownies as my sole sources of sustenance. That's right, it was the annual ski trip weekend with 30 of my oldest and newest friends, which means we were holed up in a cabin in a construction area in the mountains in Gatlinburg with nothing but board games, junk food and liquor. Good times.

Since most of my weekend has an alcoholic or hangover haze all over it, I can only really remember laughing. At Porkchop whenever he gave clues for Catch Phrase. At Thumper. At Amber 2 and Phil whenever they were wearing those ridiculous glasses and had to get a better look. At Will whenever I passed by him playing Guitar Hero. At Brady whenever I skunked him in my second-ever game of cornhole. At Jana moments before she passed out. At Vic wrestling a Jagered-out-of-his-mind Matt to the ground. At the artwork throughout the cabin.

And since it's been barely 24 hours since my last drink, I'm still in an exhausted stupor, so I'll let the pictures be worth the thousand words.

Will rethinks the whole marriage thing...

Lisa embodies a side effect of too much ski tripping.

Security.

Jon and his standbys... cafe lattes and Woodford!

You should have seen when Amber had them hooked on her shirt collar. Pee my pants funny.

This is what you call "double fisting with a beer bong backup."

Guitar Hero plays his favorite song ever -- "Surrender."

The Shot Train stop, starring Amber 2 in her shot sequence debut!

Team Drunk & Hello, My Name Is Drunk doing math.

JD, Manlissa and Megan 2 Getting Steamy

I'm pretty sure we killed on points. Girls tore it up.

Thanks to all who made it a weekend worth remembering -- to all the game planners, to Griffin for letting me steal his room, to all the girls on Team Amber, to the members of the Shot Train, to all the cooks/shoppers/keg transporters/money figurer outers/event organizers/video makers, and to Lisa for not killing me when I got 4. See you next year!

The Endorsement Series (Part 6 in a Series)

While going to Weight Watchers meetings may not make you lose weight (I weighed in at 148 last week-- a loss of 4.2 pounds in two months -- but that was before pizza night... and chip day... and taco night...), it does keep you abreast of all the latest high-taste/low-point foods on the market. I immediately discredit anyone who says, "The fat free dressings really aren't that bad once you get used to them," since I know the fat free dressings that are intended to be creamy are complete garbage. I'd rather dress my salad in water than let it swim in that sugar syrup with rehydrated chives crap. The people you can really believe are the ones who come in and say, "You can eat 51 Goldfish crackers for only two points. That's 51 cheesy snacks!" Those people know how to stretch food the way it was meant to be stretched. It's flavor value. It takes talent.

When a guy mentioned that he'd tried the latest Fiber One granola bars at my last meeting, I was a little apprehensive. I hadn't heard him contribute any suggestions before that meeting, so it meant he was new and knew nothing or he was quiet and finally found something worth talking about. Turns out, he's a genius.

My co-worker Molly, who is basically California's version of Jennifer, took the Fiber One Challenge first, and immediately showed up to work with a box of Peanut Butter & Oat flavored sticks of heaven for me to try. They were divine. Chewy, smooth, peanut buttery with real live peanut butter chips in them and a zig zag of peanut butter drizzle across the whole slice of goodness. De. lish. us.

Fiber One is known in the WW as the most bang-for-your-buck cereal, meaning that you can lace an entire tube of fiber pellets in a bag of melted semi-sweet chocolate morsels and come out with 16 haystacks of Kit Kat cousins that are only two points apiece. And now, they've mastered the two-point granola bar.

When "diet food" is so good you'd eat it if you could eat anything you ever wanted, it has succeeded. Whether Mack agrees with my new-found, fiber-full friend, well, that's a discussion for another day.

(Fiber One Bars are in the granola bar section of the grocery store. They're $3.99 for a box of five, but I've picked up the chocolate version at Target for $2.49. And, they're so new, I acutally had to take a picture of the box myself since I can't find one on the web to steal. That's how new this endorsement is!)

Our Bodies, Ourselves

Mack told me about this new artist who was preserving bodies and dissecting them in interesting poses forever ago, so when I saw a "Bodies: The Exhibition" ad cruise past on the top of a taxi, it was immediately added to the To Do list. It turns out that this new artist is actually a team of noted dissectors in China, but that didn't detract from the sick desire to see what's really inside all of us.

We paid entirely too much for our tickets and then took a trip through all the systems of the body. At first, it was kind of gross to see people standing there with yellow toenails, eyebrows, smiles and no skin, but it quickly became fascinating.










It was cool to see muscles splayed open like pinwheels to reveal metal rods and artificial joints. It was amazing to see a brain and try to imagine how that traceless mass of playdough controls everything we do. It was strange to see how our bodies look from a cross-section perspective. It was interesting that most of the bodies that were on display were men and looked Asian, as much as a skinless face with lips and eyebrows can look like any particular ethnicity.
Apparently there is a pregnant woman on display at some of the exhibitions, but she wasn't at ours. I can't imagine what that would have been like to see. Or imagine how her family came to the conclusion to donate her body, with fetus still therein, to this project.

My favorite part of the exhibit was the blood vessels. They have some process where they inject the circulatory system with these different colored polymers, and it makes the most stunning, colorful sculptures. They reminded me of coral reefs, little lung coral reefs and heart coral reefs and brain coral reefs -- evidence of beauty way beneath the skin's surface.

I'm a Whale Watcher (to be sung to the tune of the Wheel of Fortune promo song)

The Thomases braved temperatures in the high 50s and light, sprinkling rain to go whale watching yesterday. Tom, Shahin, Mack, Laila and I all boarded a boat that was half as seaworthy as the yacht we were hoping we'd be going on and twice as full. Of kids with that frozen green snot stuck in one nostril. And parents who thought that a slippery, rocking deck meant playground on the sea. And reasons not to follow that life path.

After about a 45-minute drive to Long Beach and a 45-minute cruise toward off-shore oil drilling platforms (in California?!!?), we spotted our first "blow." It was the typical puff of water and air that cartoon characters stand on top of, but much less dramatic and long-lasting. Regardless, it offered promise that we would see a gray whale.

This is what we were looking for.

Gray whales migrate from Alaska to Baja California every year between December and April to breed and give birth. There is another population of grey whales in the Pacific that travels between the Sea of Okhotsk and southern Korea, but it is smaller than the California clan. A third population in the North Atlantic was hunted to extinction 300 years ago.

At 52 feet long and weighing 36 tons, the whales live to be about 50–60 years old. They are one of the oldest species of mammals, having been on Earth for about 30 million years, which is weird because Jesus wasn't even around then. Curious.

As we charged ahead to catch up to this whale, we were told that we were pursuing a mother and her calf, and that if she felt threatened, she could speed up or change direction in an instant. Tail-tell (you can pause an admire the wit right there) signs of her course, however, float to the surface and are called footprints. Whenever the whale moves its tail, it interrupts the surface of the water and leaves it looking a little calmer and more glossy than the rest. By following their footprints, you can start to guess where they'll surface.

Can you spot the footprints?

I was expecting a little bit of pomp and circumstance surrounding the surfacing, but, to be honest, it blows (again, feel free to pause and admire the wit). You see a little water explosion, and then a strange, fleshy, cold mass peeks out through the matching waves for an instant, and then it disappears again, leaving you wondering if that was the whale or just weird light on the wave. I wouldn't be nearly as let down if everything I'd ever seen about marine life wasn't courtesy of Sea World. Once you see killer whales jumping through fiery hoops and dolphins launching their trainers fifty feet in the air, well, a whale poof and a part of its back in nature -- the kind that's in view of an off-shore oil drilling platform -- just doesn't get the heart racing.

Share our experience. Save your $25. Preserve your feelings about the general public. And their kids. And the majesty of whales.

This is what we were expecting...

This is what we got.

And a pretty view of Catalina Island.

And lots of pelican sightings.

And a pretty rainbow.

I Guess I Should Be Flattered

Being married comes with such bonuses as someone to bring in all the groceries, someone to park the car and someone to deliver the rent check. It also keeps you from having to go to the movies alone and makes cooking dinner a little more rewarding. But my favorite part of being married is that arsenal of secrets that gets bigger every day you're together because you just can't hide your true self. For instance...

Sometimes the urge to dance takes control of my body and I end up flailing my arms and gyrating my hips in the middle of the kitchen at totally inappropriate and uninspired times. Fortunately, Mack isn't gifted in the area of dance, so when he laughs, I know he is laughing with me and not at me. Normally he just cocks one eyebrow and does a laugh/sigh/huff combo while trying to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. It's very sweet.

But yesterday, I saw through his masked kindness. My dancing was inspired for once, as I'd just finished watching J. Lo's MTV show Dance Life, and I went to celebrate something, like paying the rent or finally having food, with my mad skillz. Mack, entranced by the World of Warcraft, glanced my way before saying, "You remind me of Domo Kun."

He's said this to me before and explained it, but part of what makes our marriage work is that I forget everything he tells me and that makes his stories seem brand new every time. It was part of the contract. So, I couldn't remember Domo Kun, but I could remember having mixed feelings about it. Here's why...

Domo Kun is potentially adorable, potentially fierce, and potentially a fuzzy turd with an angry mouth. He is sturdy, but square, strong yet shapeless. He has nice, bright teeth. He is either scowling or laughing uncontrollably.

Since the association isn't exactly clear to my delicate id, let's look further.

In social situations, Domo Kun appears to be helpful, although he could also be leading other creatures to dangerous situations or justifying abandoning them altogether. He watches television and either interacts with it as a friend or battles it like a foe. I, for one, tend to smile vacantly at the television, whether I'm watching High Maintenance 90210 or Man Vs. Wild. Mack is the one who yells at the television from across the room, especially if White Rapper is on.

I'm still not entirely convinced that the association is a good thing, but I guess it could be worse. At least he's not saying, "You remind me of a fuzzy square turd who tries to eat kittens and lead others to certain death."

Old Dog, Old Tricks

She did it again. I have no idea where she finds these things. This time she crunched her way through it like a starving beaver, so I got to see just how stale and funky it was on the inside. I guess she didn't like what we were having for dinner.

Supper Time

Because Mack was still at school, the ham was moldy, the leftover green curry wasn't really very good when it was fresh, and I can't eat pasta one more night, I present... the Dinner Challenge.

It wasn't microwave popcorn night. It wasn't green beans night. Just what was Thursday's dinner???

Thank god I don't have kids. I couldn't see them being very forgiving of my lazy culinary habits.

All Work and No Play

Out here in sunny SoCal, I work for a women's website called Capessa. We went live on Dec. 21, through Yahoo. It seems like a pretty small thing, considering it comes out of three cubicals, but I'm starting to absorb just how big it really is.

Today we were featured in an article in the Wall Street Journal. Which is pretty awesome. Especially since the only major paper I've ever been in is the Herald-Leader. A couple times with letters to the editor, a couple times on behalf of Nougat, and once when I was in high school and I hit a grand slam. They actually used the word "fireworks" in that one. I mailed it to relatives.

Even though I'm not actually in the Wall Street Journal article as Amber, I am there as Capessa. And, my blood relative Leiah is actually pictured and named, so my energy is directly featured. Dear Elijah Maples is also pictured. Woo hoo. Check it out.

And then come to Capessa, join the Capessa group and celebrate the collective wisdom of women. Girls rule.

An Apple a Day...

The sweetest doll ever born is in the hospital. Betsy went from watching Real World/Road Rules Duel and eating pickles to being in the midst of an intestinal bloodbath in a matter of four hours. No one knows what happened. No one knows exactly what she had yet. Suffice it to say that this exquisite angel and well-versed hospital patient acutally asked her mom, "Am I going to die?"

The thought of her being that scared and that sick just makes me quiver with agony. In situations like this, it is a curse and a blessing that I am half a country away.

Trying to figure out how she went from fine to literally wasting away is an exercise in futility. The doctors seem to think it was something she ate or accidentally injested. The culprit could be an unwashed apple carrying an invisible but deadly bacteria that grows even faster when it's cold. It could be something hand-selected and hand-delivered as she touched her mouth. It could be something not yet described on the Center for Disease Control website, especially since the closest thing to her symptoms is E Coli. You know, the sickness that comes in bags of spinach and kills all those other people on the news.

My mom and I started doing what controlling Tauruses do... looking for ways to ensure it won't happen again. Get the vegetable wash, since water doesn't really clean them. Microwave everything for at least 30 seconds before eating it. Peel all fruits and vegetables to get the contaminated skins off them. In the end, we had to admit that we were helpless.

No matter what we do, there is a farmer trying to cut costs and maximize production, a corporation trying to get one more dollar by injecting animals with hormones and antibiotics, and a bacteria out there trying just as hard to live and adapt as humans do. No matter what, anytime someone gets that sick, it's going to be completely unexpected. There is going to be no one to blame but nature -- the nature that humans helped create by exploiting it and demanding too much from it.

I love that we have a global economy, that I can get shoes from Spain and Christmas cards from China. With a global economy has come global awareness, global tolerance, global explorations. But when it comes to food, to water, does it really make sense that we're getting apples at unseasonal times of the year from a part of the world as hungry for global participation as the United States? Is it really good business to reject what your own community can produce so that you can have more to choose from? Are we supposed to be comforted by the fact that we can't trace where the food we eat comes from, even if it could kill us?

Betsy should be fine. She seems to be getting better everyday. They're still trying to figure out what she picked up in safe and sound Louisville, Ky., where my mom and dad shop at legendary produce markets and make concerted efforts to buy healthful foods. Betsy's progress is wonderful, promising, most of all relieving news. But what if a pregnant Shannon or nursing Leiah or older grandparent had picked that apple instead of a healthy Betsy? How many other people have to fall victim to their pantries before we change the way we consume?

I don't have any answers, but I think Local Harvest may be onto something.

Ben & His Auntie Am

This is bragging. Although, didn't Dan Bern say it ain't bragging if it's true? Or was that Muhammed Ali? Whatever the case, this is not bragging. This is shoving a cute baby down your throat because I love him!

Little Packages

In addition to blueberry pancakes every morning, rooms so dark you can sleep until two in the afternoon and still think it's only four in the morning, and people that I love more than anything, Home also has a Little.

Little, who I thought should be named Buttercup after the princess in The Princess Bride, is allegedly Betsy's chihuahua, but Little, like all dogs and children before her, intrinsically knows who the real mom is and, therefore, spends most of her time riding on my mom's shoulder, sleeping under her shirt, snuggled under her covers, and biting anyone who dares come too close when she is watching tv with mom. She also can dance on two feet like a ballerina, likes to bring you toys when you come in the door, prefers her food, aka "crunchies," to be laid across the floor in a sweeping motion, and does "the pretty" when she's really interested in pleasing you.

Although she didn't inherit the princess's name, she did come equipped with her tendencies. She likes to get up on the table while we're reading the newspaper. She likes her own bowl of cereal in an appropriately-sized bowl, complete with a splash of milk. She expects a reasonable helping of turkey, especially if it's the kind we have for special occasions, but certainly every couple of days. And whatever you are feeding her, whether it's turkey or chips or crackers or apples, she will turn her nose up at any piece offered to her that is bigger than a thumbnail.


For a six-pound dog, Little has done an admirable job of training us. She is brilliant.

Ghosts of Christmases Past, Present & Future

There's never a dull moment at the Griswald, er, Hensley's house at Christmas, and with the addition of two husbands, one fiance and one infant, the odds of something happening go way up. With laptops adorning every flat surface in the living room, discarded shoes at the top of every flight of stairs, and "boop boop" pads decorating every discreet corner in the house to demostrate how well-potty-trained the little Chihuahua is, tragedy is basically being tempted.

The clutter and lingering disaster is part of the thrill of being at home for the holidays. Just how long can a dozen unique personalities at different stages of life and enlightenment get along, especially when half of their time is spent making meals or doing dishes?

Perhaps the most exciting part of Christmas at our house is the Appendicitis Attack. For the last half decade, my dad has spent either Christmas Eve or Christmas morning at the Urgent Treatment Center or the Emergency Room. It started with Shannon, whose appendicitis morphed into menstral cramps. Then Leiah, one Christmas Eve, got a bout of appendicitis so bad, she ended up with a bladder infection. Even Little, the dog, had an absessed appendix one Christmas that erupted when she jumped from my mom's shoulder and landed on the hallway floor. I've secretly had appendicitis every year for the last five years, but eventually I poop it out. That's when the appendicitis attacks the plumbing, which is another indicator of a successful Christmas.

This year, son-in-law, husband, brother-in-law, uncle, dad-to-be Charles carried on the Hensley family tradition. He bravely started coming down with appendicitis on Christmas Eve, just before our 13th meal of the day. Not wanting to let marinated Alaskan Salmon, made especially for his vegetarian tendencies, go to waste or to miss out on the mystery present inside his holiday cracker (a three-year-old tradition courtesy of the victim himself), he sat through the meal before fully succumbing to the Appendicitis Attack.

I thought for sure we'd dodge the AA bullet this year, since Baby Ben would be filling the house with appendix soothing gurgles and demonstrating how best to have a bowel movement, but when I got to Shannon and Charles' bedroom at 9 o'clock Christmas morning, I was met with a sprawling, vacant bed. The saddest moment of the day. Then I learned that Charles had gone to the doctor. The second saddest moment of the day. Then I realized Christmas would be stalled. The third saddest moment of the day.

Charles ended up having the actual, real appendicitis, the kind where the appendix is inflamed and the pain localizes in the lower right side of the abdomen. The kind my dad actually, really had when I was a little girl which inspired the collective hypochondria that makes us believe that every unfamiliar stomach action is destined to be appendicitis. The kind that requires surgery and vicatin. The kind that delays Christmas a whole day while we wait for Charles to get better so he, his wife and our dad can be a part of our Christmas gift-opening marathon.

The Boy Who Stalled Christmas made it home the next day, and we picked up on our traditions where we left off -- eating, drinking, and being merry, with a thin layer of potential disaster on top to keep things exciting. It was the most wonderful time of the year.

'Tis the Season

At 9 p.m., after making ornaments out of a cut up soda box and some glitter from my forgotten/abandoned craft box, I felt inspired to do Christmas cards. I love to do Christmas cards, and it's not necessarily because I like to get them. I like to spend a couple hours flipping through my address book, prioritizing the 36 people I want to know I'm thinking of them, sending a quickie message into the Christmas mail abyss, never knowing for sure if they're getting the message but feeling good about at least sending it out.

This is the first year I haven't sent them out solo, and I gotta say, adding Mack's name felt a little fake, a little conflicting and made me a little mad. He didn't ask me to include him on the cards, but to omit him seemed to be bragging, like an unspoken, "I am better than you because I am thoughtful and it is the thought that counts." To include him gave him a sidecar of credit that crippled the integrity of my thought. I mean, it's not like he signed his name. To be honest, I don't know if he wanted to sign his name or not, but I assumed he was like every other man I've ever met who masks his laziness by trying to appear flippant about such silliness as Christmas cards. I added him because I wanted to be nice, which is probably the whole desperate reason I spend two hours every December being inventive with the phrase, "Happy Holidays."

Mack does not care in the slightest if I include his name or invite him to sign the Christmas cards or ask his opinion as to which ones are cutest. I have a feeling he is not alone. I can't think of a single Christmas card I've ever received from a single man. I get them from couples, families, single women, but single men, never.

Do they not think? Or is the thought too much to ask? Or are they too cool for cards? Or are they lazy? Or, maybe, do they not do it so that women can feel good about having the thought and passing it on? Do they secretly like getting the Christmas cards when they get them from their women friends and from other couples whose female component takes the initiative? How is it that something I like to do so much can seem so worthless to the other gender? How can we be so different? What would people think if I just left his name off? Why should I care, especially since these are my top 36 people?

I guess it comes down to relationship building, and women are so much better than men at relationship building. If I were to get a Christmas card from one of my dormmates from my freshmen year of college once a year, I would look forward to that once-a-year update and expect nothing else. That would be sufficient relationship maintenance for me. If I send a hopeful hello to a cousin I haven't spoken to in years, I hope it resonates enough to reinvigorate that relationship, but if it doesn't, hey, I tried. The Christmas card relationship round up -- all I can say it's a good thing women keep it going. If we weren't keeping relationships alive, there'd be some very lonely men in the world. And all that thought that's supposed to count so much might be lost in the shuffle toward the PS3.

Old Habits Die Hard

Ever since she was a puppy, Venus has had an affinity for bread. Pizza crusts, bagels, baguettes... any hard, crusty bread turns her into a sneaky hoarder. A few years ago she lost bed privileges, and one of the hardest things that went with that was the "silly dog" smile that swept across my face as I'd stretch my hand under my pillow and come up with a covertly buried pizza crust. She won't eat the bread, she just wants to keep it. And when she buries it, she doesn't like for you to notice what she's doing. The cutest part about the whole deal is when she uses her nose to cover the bread up. She used to stand on her blanket while trying to shove it over the bread and then smoosh it down on top of it. It was a futile exercise, but she thought she was really accomplishing something. One day, just before we moved, I caught her burying a pizza crust outside. Hilarious.

Since we don't have much of a yard here, and since she's already been hauled in once for meandering about unsupervised, she doesn't get the hoarding opportunities she used to get. But somehow she still finds a way to feed her habit. On Friday, as we walked around the block so she could go potty and I could pick up her hot poop (going to the bathroom in front of people is also something she's had to learn how to do), she picked up a hunk of bread somewhere along the way. I have no idea where she picked it up or how long she'd been carrying it, but when we got home, there it was, sticking out the sides of her mouth, while her eyes said, "What? I don't have an enormous hunk of bread in my mouth."
I left the door open while I finished getting ready so she could have some alone time with her special find, but since watching her bury things is one of the highlights of having a weirdo for a dog, I waited until she was around the corner and then I followed her. Sure enough, she was pawing at someone's unkempt flower bed, digging out a spot for a chunk of bread that she will not eat, will not even remember burying, but still cherishes and needs to save it. The cuteness of her at those moments is enough to make me forget just how bad she can smell and enough to remind me just how sad life would be without her quirks warming up each day for me.

I’ve Had Too Much Coffee

Last weekend Mack and I watched Word Play, a cute little documentary about crossword puzzles and the genuine nerds (watch another cute little film called American Splendor to know the right way to say genuine nerds properly) who love them. Because I worship the box others call television, I heard the mandate to start doing crossword puzzles. Because I acknowledge that my worship of the box has seriously compromised my mental capacity, I knew that a grande au lait was a prerequisite to any attempt at word games.

We sat down with the New York Times with good intentions and lubricated brains and thumbed through every page of every section in search of this mental challenge that has developed a cult following. We couldn’t find the crossword puzzle. Mack bought an LA Times, and two hours later, we had done about 75 percent of the puzzle. It was such a good way to spend a Sunday, we’ve sort of adopted it as a weekly ritual -- for two weeks running now.

This week, we sat down to do the puzzle, and because we spent all our money on plane tickets home, we had to come up with our own coffee. One cup of Folger’s cappucino mix just doesn’t do what a grande au lait does, so when Mack asked if I wanted another cup, I accepted the offer.

We drank our second cups and busted the puzzle open. Our brains were focused yet flexible, and we kicked the puzzle’s ass.
Now we’re sitting at the table staring into the other boxes we worship, with fingers that can’t be still and brains that are starting to buzz. My armpits are sweaty, and my legs are shifty, and I swear the table is vibrating. We don’t have another crossword puzzle to do so all this mental racing is manifesting itself physically. How can something so good turn so bad so fast?

A Dance Off

Last year when Mack and I were separated so he could save the South from Katrina (read: rape the government for an exorbitant amount of money since FEMA is the biggest disappointment since Nixon), I got to fall madly in love with Laila. Oh, she's a total demon, cute and smart and with a voice that cuts diamonds and a laugh that crumbles my sense of self, but I still fell for her big time. Well, Mack sent me a challenge (which I'm not allowed to post for fear bad words will fly in my face), and with the help of Laila and Shahin, it was broughten... as well as a white girl in a turtleneck can bring it. Enjoy, and sorry for the delay in sharing.

A Crappy Experience

We, okay I, fell for one of those radio FREE TRIP TO VEGAS scams when we first moved here, and then, after weekly calls from Consolidated Cons, er, I mean, Consolidated Resorts, I caved. We needed a trip out of town, we didn't have a lot of money, we needed to officially get married, and I had to have something to look forward to over Thanksgiving since I wasn't spending it with my lovelies. We secured our three night, four day package in exchange for two hours of being subjected to high pressure sales tactics and headed to Sin City. As we pulled into the Frontier, which is understandably scheduled for demolition because the walls are now exhaling cigarette smoke, Mack actually lit up brighter than the sign at the words, "cold beer dirty girls."

I'm scared to gamble. I used to play blackjack with David at the Indiana riverboats, but only because I knew if I didn't know what to do I could just look at Dave and he'd tell me. Plus, he always seemed to have lost more money than me and that kept me from feeling guilty. Other than that, I had no desire to gamble, and the last time I was in Vegas with Kate, neither one of us placed a single bet.

This trip to Vegas things went a little differently. I plunked $1 into a slots machine and ended up with 200 credits (a whopping $5).
While I sunk into a slots-induced coma, Mack sauntered up to the craps table. He stood back for a while and watched, then he started asking the dealers questions, then he came skipping over to me to deliver $60 in chips. Craps had recruited some fresh meat.In my slot zombie state, I couldn't accept any new knowledge and refused to play craps, but the second day in Vegas, I threw the dice after being sponsored by a neighboring player and turned $10 into $30. A few hours later, trying to get rid of the $10 in chips we had left from one casino, I threw the dice again, and $10 became $50. A few hours later, as we stopped to play once more on our way to the room for the night, a table of Chinese people were winning left and right on a Hi/Low bet with 31:1 odds. Craps, it turns out, is the shit.

Why weight?

Today I joined Weight Watchers. This is actually the third time in my life I have joined Weight Watchers. You'd think by now I'd have learned how to watch my weight, but alas, my Taurean hardheadedness still wins. Well, that and my addiction to potato chips.

Today I weigh 152.4 pounds. This is actually not a bad weight for me, considering my senior year in high school I weighed 148 pounds, and the first time I joined Weight Watchers I weighed 166. I went that first time because I had to hold my breath while I bent over to tie my shoes, and after I visited my friend Heather who was on Weight Watchers, I got the pictures developed and whoa, was my face round. Well, even though I don't weigh 166 pounds, my face is round again in pictures. And I have to hold my breath when I tie my shoes, which I barely noticed since I mostly wear flip flops. And yesterday, when I tried to chase Mack to the end of the alley, roughly 25 yards, I was breathing like a gold medal swimmer after an Olympic race.

I've been trying for about three weeks to get myself under control, but I'm weak. I'm a bad boss of me. I let myself get away with buffalo wings and calzones and beer and candy and Cheez-Its. And potato chips. And then when I'm embarrassed to wear clothes without a comfortable top layer, I pout and succumb to Sweatsuit Syndrome, except that instead of Hanes I at least maintain a Victoria's Secret Flannel Jammies standard.

I know no one is interested in my weight woes. But by putting it here, in print, I'll have to start paying attention to it before I get to 166 pounds. For humoring me, here's an evolution of a fat face. At least I can maintain a ponytail!

I Do, Again

(As I sit down to write this I am experiencing one of the true joys of having a full-blown husband: "Did you bring in the suitcases?" I am also getting an insightful lesson on the joys of parenting: "Kitty looked like she had to poop, but she was just sitting there like her butthole was about to explode!")

It's officially legal. Mack and I spent Thanksgiving weekend in Las Vegas saying, "I do," "I will," "Absolutely," and "Yes." We, along with 57 other couples at the courthouse between 6 and 6:30 p.m., secured a Nevada-based marriage license and headed to the Garden of Love Chapel to make promises to one another. It was a dream come true, at least for all the white trash blood cells running through my body.
To prepare for the ceremony, I bought a bottle of champagne I know to be $3.99 at a liquor store for $14 at the hotel gift shop and put on some mascara. Then I subjected Mack to some Before shots so I could give my mom a visual reproduction.
Mack and I with our Nervous Faces on.A stretch Hummer limo snaked its way into the valet/taxi drop off at the Frontier hotel, an old Vegas lodge whose atmosphere left me with a sore throat and what I'm sure will develop into black lung. We hopped aboard, rode downtown and climbed the steps to the Las Vegas marriage license branch. We received congratulations from everyone from the beggars on the corner to the officers by the door as we made our way inside and through the necessary paperwork. I felt a distinct sense of pride wash over me for being able to complete the one-page form after listening to the guy at the window next to mine try to explain that he has no idea what his father's name is even though a Jr. is affixed to the end of his own name.

We paid our $55 and joked about where the divorce branch is with the clerk, although Mack's mom has already informed me that divorce is not a tradition in her family when I joked about it over dinner one night. Then we carried our white enveloped documents back to our limo and headed off to the Chapel in the Middle of a Construction Site.

The Chapel was quaint but still boasted five altars. We picked the one that was the most readily available, the second most ugly one, and were herded to the bouquet wall to pick from a rainbow of silk flower bouquets. I chose a red, blue and yellow number roughly the size of my torso and assigned Mack a purple boutonniere that he delicately stabbed through his sweater. Then we were hypnotized by the voice of the Baptist minister into thinking we were doing a rehearsal when we were actually doing the real ceremony. I caught on just before I took off down the three-foot long aisle.Our ceremony, which cost $149 plus tips, which totaled about $200 when it was all said and done (limo drivers, photographer, videographer, minister, the guy at the window we asked to take a picture of us with our license), lasted about four minutes from start to finish, including time at the end for the photographer to take some blurry shots of our rings. It was very sweet, very short, very direct and very complete.
Afterward, we headed to the New York, New York Casino to ride the rollercaoster. I didn't think of the perfect metaphor that is for a marriage until afterward, when I jokingly said to my mom, "We went ahead and got our ups and downs out of the way." I have a feeling that marriage, like any long term relationship, will be one of those things that makes you grin from ear to ear at certain times, that makes you lose your stomach at others, that makes you want to scream, that makes you laugh, that makes your head hurt, that goes by way too quickly and that, when it's all said and done, really is thrilling.

What I Am Thankful For

Every year at Thanksgiving, my perfect family with its perfectly cliche yet beautiful traditions goes around the table and each person says what they are thankful for. It does feel like a chore to come up with something clever yet sincere, something that honors the tradition without making it feel overdone, but it also feels good just to actually say to the people you love the most in the world, no matter how cliche it sounds, "I am thankful for all of you." This year I didn't get to go around the table because the table was 2000 miles away. Don't worry, we'll be making up for it at Christmas, mark my words.

So, instead of going around the table, I'm going through the last 24 hours.

Dear Cuisinart,
I am thankful for you. You make dicing the onion so quick that I can actually get it chopped, transfered to a bowl and moved to the bedroom before tears start running down my face. As if that isn't enough, you follow suit by chopping celery, grating cheese, grounding chickpeas and making things that would normally be too difficult worth getting into. Thanks Cuise, you are my most honored kitchen appliance.

Dear Diet 7-Up,
I am thankful for you. Normally I don't drink pop because it's loaded with high fructose corn syrup and if it's diet, it boasts aspertame, aka Sweet N Low. Well, aspartame gives me a headache no liquid is worthy of. But you, Diet 7-Up, you are sweetened with Splenda and you are caffeine-free. I can drink you without regard to the hour of the day or concern for my noggin.

Dear Honda Metropolitan Scooter,
I am so thankful for you. Because of you I have not had to fret over a parking spot or worry about gas prices or actually walk those distances that aren't worth driving to but aren't really worth walking to either. You are the happy medium, happy to get me to work five minutes early or get me to work on time, depending on how obnoxious my hair is being. You make the life I want possible, and your just tiny enough to keep my out of harm's way, even if harm is the size of a Hummer.

Dear Chi Flat Iron, the pink one that benefits breast cancer,
I am thankful for you. With your ceramic heat and instant power, I am able to manage a hairdo I should never have been privy to. I should have been stuck with frizzy waves that won't be tamed, but with you I get sleek hair that elegantly arrives at tattered split ends (I am not thankful for my endless depleted checking account). And it's soft, no matter how tattered it is.

Dear Television,
I am thankful for you, in a love/hate kind of way. You entertain me better than most humans. You make hangovers feel like vacation days. You bring complete losers onto my radar and make me feel like my life is progressing beautifully. Because of you I need to lose 15 pounds, but because of you I've been able to spend weeks with those Amazon tribes that put bones through their chins and those African tribes that put plates in their lips. You always put a smile on my face, sometimes without my knowledge.

Dear Microwave,
I am thankful for you. Without you, what would I eat? I know I've been neglecting you the last couple days in preparation for Thanksgiving, but who makes those leftovers worth eating? Gas stove? No. Dishwasher? No. You do, Microwave. You, the greatest invention of my life.

Dear Shoes,
I am thankful for you. I love each and every one of you. I wish more of your friends lived in my closet, but I am still glad to have you making my feet feel exquisite. Even though most of the time I just pull you out to look at you, since wearing you for more than four hours should be a form of torture adopted at Guantanamo, I appreciate how the possibility of you makes me feel. And I am grateful for the way you make me look 5'9" when I am really only 5'6". I am much sexier at 5'9" and that degree of sexiness would not be possible without you.

Dear Living Things Around Me,
I am thankful for you. You know who you are, you know how you make my life special, whether by giving me pride when I walk up to the front door with your orange flowers or by giving me a laugh when I rub your tits and you pretend you don't like it, you are part of my everyday, and you inspire a spectrum of emotions to prove that I am human and this is what it's about.

Dear Canned Pumpkin,
I am thankful for you. Is there no end to your ability? Pie, muffins, soup, bread. You are becoming as versatile as the potato, which not only deserves appreciation but also respect.

Dear Las Vegas,
I am thankful for you. Nowhere else on Earth can you book a $150 wedding and not feel like you're getting nothing for nothing. Nowhere else can you buy your marriage license 15 minutes before making a lifetime commitment. Nowhere else in the United States do I want to make the impossible promise to love, honor and cherish that leaves out the promise to ignore, agitate and argue with the highest hopes I've ever had.

That's about it. I'd much rather be beating my family over the head with how much I adore them, but in their absence, it's still important to be thankful. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, and if you've got any room, there's some homemade macaroni and cheese and a layered pumpkin pie waiting for you in my fridge.

A Wild Mushroom Cigarette Kind of Evening

I discovered the finer things in life one evening in the bar of Jonathan at Gratz Park when Chef Jonathan sent a brownie pot pie to my table.

Oh. My. Heavenly. Father.

I wish I could melt back into that memory the way the warm chocolate housed in the brownie shell melted in my mouth. I remember I ordered Rocksalt Roasted Chicken that night, because chicken was familiar and I knew I liked salt. Mack ordered Beef Wellington, which I'm not sure if it is supposed to be capitalized, but judging from the taste of it, it should be. The flavors exploding off of his dish put my pathetic little chicken to shame, even though it was delicious. That's when I realized my flavor fear had seriously left me in the dark about the magic that is food.

Since then, I've been a committed food adventurer. Sometimes I end up at the equivalent of a Wal-Mart parking lot, but sometimes my tastebuds get to explore every nook and cranny of the "Goddamn Grand Canyon," as Louise so eloquently refers to it. Because I exist in a state of perpetual broke, my dinners out rarely get to be extravagant, but this weekend was an exception. My friend Charlie came to El Ley, bringing with him his taste for the finer things and standards that can't be shaken. He likes a tittle of wine poolside before dinner, an education on the menu before ordering, and food that makes you feel like royalty -- or at least like a critic. Charlie generously invited me and Mack to have dinner with him at a place du jour called Grace.

It was heavenly. I perused the menu and mingled flavors in my mind that I'd never associated before. Prosciutto wrapped figs. Pumpkin, sea urchin, sweet Maine shrimp risotto. Wild burgundy snails. Hemp seed, pink peppercorn tofu. What in the world?

Since Mack is a fish-eating vegetarian, we all heartily agreed on Sashimi of Japanese Hamachi. The description underneath all these imi, achi words said "wild mushroom cigarette, yuzu gelée." What in the world?

Who cares. They brought out an eight-inch joint of crispy mushrooms wrapped in the most delicate pink fish I've ever seen. After my first bite I wanted to throw it back up and eat it again. Even the vomit of that bite would have been good. The fish practically melted in my mouth. The mushrooms crunched in a way I didn't think mushrooms could. The pineapple enhancements wrapped up the palate with respect to the dish. It was food in harmony, the way chef's intend food to be.

For dinner I ordered a less exotic grilled tenderloin of wild boar with roasted Brussels sprouts, herbed Yukon Gold potato spaetzle and violet mustard sauce. Violet mustard sauce sounds a little freaky, and Brussels sprouts haven't even made the bottom of my list of Foods I Crave, but after Saturday, I'm willing to eat anything starring violets, mustard or sauce and plan to enroll in Brussels Sprouts Roasting 101.

If anyone has any outrageous must-try foods, let me know. My appetite is definitely whet.

I Bleed Blue! (and White and Red, in that order)

As I'm now on the coast that brings up the electoral rear despite all of its forward-thinking, I'd like to send Kentucky a gigantic and heartfelt THANK YOU for outting Ms. Anne Northrup and inning Mr. John Yarmuth. Also thanks for keeping Chandler in, although it would have been a pity and an embarassment if he'd lave lost since he didn't have a challenger.

It's strange, but being surrounded by educated, aware, understanding, diverse people actually dulls the fight in you, for better and worse. It also makes you appreciate the little shifts happening in places like Kentucky, since anymore, they really can make the difference.

Thanks to everyone who voted (to change the world for the better) and shame on you to those who didn't (it takes like seven minutes).

Where have all the bloggers goooooone?

(Title to be sang like the song that says Where have all the cowboys gooooone? Sorry, it's been stuck in my head and I'm trying to get it out.)

I started stalking blogs last year about this time. I came to El Ley on Nov. 2, 2005, and after about a week of being a five-year-old's accomplice, I took to the web for adult interaction. That's when I would check in on people through their blogs. Liz and Phil were the blogging mother and father, but last fall for some reason blogging became infectious. Lisa started the Schandingalings blog in October, and while her posts weren't frequent, they were regular. I started mine in January. When I came home in February, Amber M. introduced Amber Alert!, Jana started up Jana Land and Leiah gave birth to Ahh--Life. In the spring, Evil Doug from Marikka's even offered up some of his cynicism, and while I didn't read it much because I didn't know who was who or whose team was whose, I was still glad to have another link to try when the days got really boring. When Brett started trivia on his blog in April, I started getting up in the middle of the night looking for updates. When he went crazy in May, just days after he'd hooked me with trivia, it was like watching a car accident unfold in manic text. I was a blog-reading junkie, and I had scored some of the best suppliers on blogspot. But then, after the summer, blogs and their authors dropped off the face of the earth.

I get it. Kids were being adopted and being born, promotions were earned, relocations were necessary. But what about me? What about me?

Since it takes 48 seconds to read a blog entry and/or check its comments and since my old standbys have apparently moved on (despite my pleading with them on myspace!), I've found myself with a little extra surf time on my hands. I'd like to offer up these blogs I've fallen for, in case I ever leave you hanging or in case you need to fill the same voids I do. Or in case you find yourself at home on a Saturday night perfectly content drinking cider and eating popcorn and not feeling at all desperate until you go to check some of your favorite blogs and apparently the rest of the world has a life.

Dooce: I thought I was hot shit for finding this blog. Turns out she is basically famous, and rightfully so. Heather Armstrong is a recovering Mormon and stay-at-home-mom whose newsletters to her 33-month-old wide-eyed wonder are heart-wrenching and hilarious. She also has a very comical dog with a nose for spaghetti and a head for remotes. Add her to your favorites. She is so worth it, especially if you are married, are a parent, have parents, live with depression or need to laugh.

Very Zen: This one is sometimes hit or miss, so I don't check it all the time. She takes awesome photos and sometimes sings in the bathroom, and those are an extra treat. I found Amanda, the author, through Dooce. I like when she does political things. It's definitely worth checking out.

PostSecret: A suicide hotline place put this one up, but it's way cooler than that might make it seem. Basically every Sunday a new blog comes up with postcards that people have mailed in telling secrets. It's a little seedy, a little inspiring, a little funny, a little tragic all rolled into one. Something about confessing is so attractive. This is favorite-worthy.

Found: There's a little thing called Found Magazine, which is actually a book in my mind, that is freaking awesome. Found is a compilation of found letters, photos, fliers, whatever is found, and they are so fun to look at. On the website, there's a new one every day, and once you get turned on to this site, you start justifying looking at your feet while you walk with the assertion that you are looking for the next great found item. Liz found one while she was visiting that actually called someone a "Dirty Chicken." That is reason enough to add this to your favorites.

Quickmuse: This one's for all the writers and readers out there. It's basically mind-stalking. Quickmuse organizes writing sessions with authors, gives them a topic, and has them write about it. The cool thing is not only can you read the final piece, but you can watch how the piece evolves... like watch what the author deletes, see what gets replaced, get a glimpse into how their minds work. The writing sessions are pretty occasional, so adding Quickmuse to your bookmarks is sufficient. I signed up for the newsletter so I could just get the emails and not have to check the website, although I still do.

If you haven't checked out Tread's Photo Blog (see my links), that one is worth it too. I'll keep checking my old stand-bys, but I gotta say, I'm losing hope. Or maybe this is just an intervention... in which case, I'm fine, I promise.

The Power of the Push Up

This is my 100th post.

It just so happens that today I want to write about my boobs. Fitting, isn't it?

I've hated my boobs most of my life. They're big, which in real woman world equals droopy. They're not saggy because they are still full (of hope that they'll fulfill their purpose as feeding machines), but they are big so they can't defy gravity. I finally found a way to deceive gravity thanks to an episode of Tyra Banks' talk show where she had women try different bras and showed how a bra really can change the way your body looks, an overly delightful attendant at Victoria's Secret and an afternoon with Leigh. But still, my boobs are not pretty. Big, sure, but pretty, no. See, I'm prone to stretch marks. Seriously, I got my first ones across my lower back when I was 10, long before I expected anything to stretch, so I actually had to go in my parents' room and ask them what these red marks on my back were. When I was 14 and one boob started to grow (yes, they grew independently), it stretched its way into a B-cup while the other one waited until I was 16 to start blooming. It wasn't much of a problem unless I had to get in a bathing suit, in which case there was no way to hide the obvious rift in growth patterns. I guess it's better than getting a boner at the chalkboard, but it still sucks.

I kept the ninnies under wraps and pretty much tried to pretend they didn't exist through high school, even though they grew to full size. I'd wear two bras to play sports and dodged low cut dresses for dances. Then, one day at an awards ceremony, a friend of mine I called Jon Tuba caught a glimpse down my top. He then said he knew a secret about me, as if I didn't know it already. When he whispered that he knew I had stretch marks, I should have smacked him and said, "I know you're fat." But I didn't have the sense then.

A couple years later I consulted a doctor about getting a breast reduction. I've always been a little stout, mostly because I have a problem with potato chips, so when I went to the doctor I was afraid of having surgery because if I lost weight I knew my boobs would shrink. I've never been a fan of surgery, let alone surgery I can avoid by, you know, exercising, so I just sort of let it go. Plus, having a polaroid taken of your droopy boobs is enough to send any rational woman running from a doctor's office vowing NEVER to return. It's humiliating enough trying on jeans.

I think when I found out my great-grandma had had breast cancer I decided I'd better forgive my boobs for being the way they are. No, they're not perfect, they're not even nice, but they are healthy. And turns out they're comfy to lay on, too. But today I discovered that, as flawed as they are, they are powerful tools.

I've never risked letting them heave with my breaths in public, but I wore a new boatneck sweater to work today and got to conduct an accidental experiment. Turns out the sweater dipped a little more after a couple hours of wearing it than it did when I put it on. Then I noticed men who normally ignored me or were dismissive of me were a lot friendlier. Not flirty or sexual, just jovial, more at ease. They listened when I talked, laughed when I made jokes, explained things to me with patience. It wasn't flustered or horny, it was more like they were having fond flashbacks from a time only their deepest subconscious could remember, all sparked by a touch of bosom.

Of course when I came home it was a different story. Instead of my tatas luring respect out of or giving comfort to Mack, they inspired him to stick a Fudge Brownie Square in my cleavage.

I will never understand the fascination, but at least it's interesting to watch the reaction.