That is why I wanted to pull my hair out during these conversations:

Girl 1: I’ve been trying to lose weight, but it’s just not coming off. I don’t understand. I’ve cut my calorie intake down to 800 calories

Girl 1: Yeah, that must be it. It’s hard. I get so hungry.

Holy mother of God! Eight hundred calories? No wonder she wasn’t losing weight. She’s eating the caloric intake recommended for an infant. Her body is probably going into starvation mode and holding onto every calorie for dear life! Keep it up, honey. Soon the hair will fall out, the skin will dry out, and you’ll be looking smoking hot in that bikini.

Girl 1: OMG, I can’t believe you’re eating that for lunch. That has, like, so many fat grams in it.

Girl 1: That’s TWO servings.

(It wasn’t; it was individually packaged.)

Girl 2: Oh my gosh! So it’s actually 28 grams?

Girl 1: What?? No way. You would be huge!

Perpetuating those myths and buying into that mentality can lead to dangerous places. Why do I care so much? I guess you could say it’s a sore subject with me. Despite knowing what I do about nutrition, I have had a love/hate relationship with food my whole life. It developed into anorexia at about 11 or 12, progressed into bulimia around 13, and I went back and forth with that off and on for…well, honestly, sometimes I still struggle.

With a lot of divine intervention, I’ve managed to keep it under control for the last seven years or so. But sometimes when I go through a difficult time and everything else seems to be out of my hands, it feels like what I allow into my body is the only thing I have control over. That’s when it gets really hard not to slip back into old habits.

It’s a frustrating condition to struggle with. You allow yourself to believe so many things that you know can’t be true. Most days, I can look at myself in the mirror in the morning and think I look great. By lunch, I will be depressed and discouraged thinking that somehow – in the last four hours – I have gotten fat. Where did that arm bulge come from? Did my stomach get bigger? Are my legs thicker? Was the lighting at home somehow different than the lighting in the office bathroom? Yet each time I step on the scale at the gym, there it is: the same number it has been for months, as if feebly attempting to prove to me that I’m going insane.

I hate how much I obsess about food. It really seems to rule my life sometimes. I plan out every calorie, every bite, for days in advance. It’s a difficult addiction to have. You can live without drugs and alcohol; you can’t live without food. You’re forced to deal with it all day, every day.

The point is, this is not something you want to play around with, and I wish people would get their facts straight before spouting off nonsense. You never know how one comment might stick in someone’s mind; it could be just the push they need to fall into that destructive cycle. It happened to me.

It has been brought to my attention that certain friends are in the process of trying to get knocked up. Since said friends are among my last remaining friends that are sans children, this completely freaks me out concerns me.

I am worried that said friends must be getting bored and, rather than get knocked up, they are actually in need of a good hobby. After all, I don’t think said friends realize that babies are forever. They poop and cry and scream and turn into teenagers who hate you.

So, because I am such a good friend, I have decided to provide them with ideas for exciting pastimes so as to dissuade them from their current form of recreation.

Tandem Bike Riding

Traveling

Windsurfing

Going on Safari

Skydiving

Instead, if you continue on this course of action, you will be faced with:

or

or maybe even

Please think it over. Should you change your mind, I have an open invitation to scale El Capitan or possibly even run with the bulls in Pamplona.

Sincerely,

The Introvert

On Friday night, as soon as we drove into town, we met my parents for dinner. Being the awesome parents they are, they wanted to take us out for our anniversary the night before. They informed us that we had a gift waiting at our house. They weren’t lying. When we walked through the door, we immediately noticed something was amiss. It was clean! My parents had spent who knows how long clearing out the sheetrock dust, tools, paint cans, etc. We wandered from room to room in awe. When we got to our bedroom, there was a beautiful flower arrangement and a card with a $100 Lowe’s gift card. I almost cried. When I called to thank them, they said that they felt bad that we always have to come home to chaos, and they thought it might be nice if we got to come home to a clean house for once. When I win the lottery, they are so getting a beach condo. And maybe a pony.

Anywho, our anniversary began with a trip to Surplus Warehouse to get the granite tile for our countertops. Next, was a trip to Lowe’s to spend our awesome gift card on plywood, grout, and a sink. Then, it was on to Wal-mart and Whataburger. The afternoon was spent with me doing 5 loads of laundry and him working on the kitchen. His present to me was calling a contractor to do the texturing in the kitchen and master bath. It was perfect! I’d been asking him to do that for weeks. He totally got to cop a feel for that.

For dinner, we went to Longhorn Tavern, which is every bit as fancy as it sounds. But, hey, we are trying to save some cash and it is THE best chicken-fried steak on the planet. Hands down. Unfortunately, we had to hurry through our romantic dinner because we had to get to Home Depot in time to rent the tile saw before they closed. Then there was that drag race we had tickets to. Just kidding. We aren’t quite that redneck.

We did get to spend some time that evening watching a re-run of SNL curled up on the couch with the dogs. All in all, I think it was a pretty good anniversary. We were productive, and we had a good time hanging out together. However, next year, we’re hoping for something a little fancier. Atlantis, perhaps.

The whole drive back, I kept telling him I was perfectly willing to skip my four-hour Magazine Editing class and hang out with him that night. But for some reason, he kept insisting that I go. We used to skip class together all the time. Why did he suddenly want me to be so diligent? And why does he keep answering the phone? Who keeps calling him? Is he happy to see me at all?

When we finally got to campus an hour later, he decided that, rather than drop me off, he would walk me to class. That’s more like it, I thought. But he parked in the parking garage on the opposite end of campus from my class. He said that he missed walking on campus with me, so he thought we’d take the long way. I was in four-inch heels carrying a twenty-pound backpack, but who can say no to that?

As we passed in front of the Academic Building, we noticed someone had put flowers in front of the statue of Sul Ross, which we thought was weird. Then he said, “Oh look, there’s flowers over there too”, and he pulled me to the Century Tree where a dozen red roses were lying on the bench under the tree.

When we got closer, I saw that my name was on the card in his handwriting. I wondered how in the world he managed to get those there when he’d been with me the whole time. I read the card: “Jenny, You mean more to me than anyone in this world. You have been there for me when I needed it, kept your distance when I needed that; loved me when I was unlovable, been my friend when I wasn’t friendly. You have been more than I could ever hope for. Thank you for doing all these things for me. Love, Ryan” I turned around, all smiles, and thanked him for the card and he said, “Well, there was one thing that wasn’t on the card.” That’s when he got down on his knee and proposed.

I giggled and cried and eventually managed to say yes. Then I looked over to see Ryan’s former roommate, Derek, taking pictures of us paparazzi-style from a few feet away. He’d caught the whole thing. Ryan had Fed-Exed the card to Derek, and Derek picked up the flowers for him and set everything up (hence all the phone calls). He’d had it planned a month in advance. Everyone knew but me.

As you can imagine, I really didn’t want to go to class then. But when I showed up to class with a dozen roses, a ring, and a new fiance and explained to Dr. Gastel that I’d just gotten engaged 10 minutes earlier, she said, “Oh that’s an excused absence! You can go!”

Ten months later, on July 12, 2003 (3 years and 364 days since the day we met), we were married. It was about as perfect as a wedding could be. And believe it or not, I love him even more now. Happy 5th Anniversary, Husband.

Cute single girl with quirky job

Snarky best friend/sister/gay man

Love/hate relationship

The sweet guy vs. the hot douchebag.

Lip-synching or karaoke scene

Clothing montage thrown into the mix.

Prince Charming

And don’t forget the all important Motown soundtrack.

I guess I’m just hoping Hollywood will start coming up with some original ideas. Am I reaching for the stars?

River trips often require an amazing amount of planning and logistics because coordinating a large group is like herding cats - even under the best circumstances. Add to that the lodging, sleeping arrangements, who is bringing what, how many coolers to bring, which float has what regulations, who’s paying for parking, what to do each night, etc … and soon your brain will melt and ooze out of your ear.

Then there are the cooler logistics. All I have to say is that I’m glad I went to the river with three finance associates, two accountants, and a former mathlete. If I were left alone to figure out all the cooler-related equations I would have leapt off the balcony. Let’s see…if there are twelve people on a four-hour float, how many beers do you bring, how many mixed drinks do you make, how many snacks do you pack, how many water bottles do you take, whose stuff goes in which cooler, which knife should I use to stab myself in the eye…

In the end, it’s worth it. We always have a good time. And we always make sure to have some chicken fried steak at Grist Mill and maybe catch a concert at Gruene Hall or River Road Ice House if we can last that late after a day of floating and drinking (flinking?).

And if you’re a people watcher, I don’t know that there is a better place in the world to spot weirdos.

Exhibit A

“Smokey the Bear hat? Check. T-shirt converted to sexy tank? Check. Cut off shorts? Check. Man I look hot!”

Exhibit B

This fella reminded us of the Australian Party Guy

Exhibit C

This is why Texas stereotypes exist. The tattoo on this dude’s leg matched his t-shirt.

Yet another reason why I love this state. It really is like a whole other country.

I just got this email with strange foreign mistranslations, and I thought they were hilarious. I threw in a few pictures from Engrish.com in there as well. Enjoy!

Here are some interesting mistranslations:

In a Belgrade elevator:
To move the cabin, push button for wishing floor. If the cabin should enter more persons, each one should press a number of wishing floor. Driving is then going alphabetically by national order.

A doctor’s office in Rome:
Specialist in women and other diseases.

In a Rome laundry:
Ladies, leave your clothes here & spend the afternoon having a good time.

On a menu of a Polish hotel:
Salad a firm’s own make; limpid red beer soup with cheesy dumplings in the form of a finger; roasted duck let loose; beef rashers beaten up in the country people’s fashion.

A Finnish hotel’s instructions in case of fire:
If you are unable to leave your room, expose yourself in the window.

Ad for donkey rides in Thailand:
Would you like to ride your own ass?

In a Czech tourist agency:
Take one of our horse driven tours—we guarantee no miscarriages.

Car rental brochure in Tokyo:
When passenger of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage then tootle him with vigor.

A temple in Bangkok:
It is forbidden to enter a woman even a foreigner if dressed like a man.

In a Bangkok cleaners:
Drop your trousers here for best results.

In a hotel in Yugoslavia:
The flattening of underwear with pleasure is the job of the chambermaid.

In a Paris hotel elevator:
Please leave your values at the front desk.

Then it came to me. I have lexical-gustatory synesthesia. That’s a fancy way of saying I taste words.

I learned the term “synesthesia” on a news show like Dateline or something. It means that two senses combine. I’ve heard of people who could hear colors or see sounds, but I only recently found out the name for my specific type of synesthesia.

It wasn’t until college when I told anyone that I had this strange ability. I was born with it, so it was a long time before I realized that it might be unusual. And I was right. When I did start to tell people, they looked at me like I had just stripped naked and smeared pudding all over myself.

But this condition really does affect me more than I realize. I mean, if I were trying to come up with a name for my child, I’d have to make sure it didn’t taste bad since I would be saying the name over and over for the rest of my life. Annette tastes like snot, Cody tastes like baby food, Douglas tastes like roach spray smells, you get the idea (or maybe you don’t and you’re thinking I should be on meds). Fortunately I didn’t marry someone with a bad tasting name. Same deal.

Furthermore, I think part of the reason I took eight years of Spanish was because nearly all Spanish words taste like Mexican food. Spanish class was delicious

It has also made for some interesting conversations like this one with a co-worker:

CW: So, what does God taste like?

Me: Marshmallows

CW: But when you eat marshmallows you don’t think of God?

Me: No.

CW: Awesome!

But as odd as this condition may be, I think it helps me as a writer. I feel words in ways most people can’t, so I have a unique perspective. God must have mapped that out. Mmmm…marshmallows.

I think my passionate hatred for bad grammar, spelling and punctuation escalated when I worked in the writing center of a junior college straight out of college. The lack of knowledge people had of their own language - and the fact that they didn’t seem to care - made me what to take out the unabridged dictionary and beat them with it.

To give you an example, here’s a conversation I had with one student:

Me: So, I noticed that about halfway through this paragraph, the voice changes. Are these your words?

Student: No, I got that out of a book.

Me: Word for word?

Student: Yeah.

Me: So why aren’t there quotation marks and internal documentation around it?

Student: Oh. Is that when you do that?

or perhaps…

Me: Do you know the rules for using a comma?

Student: What’s a comma?

That’s right; these kids graduated from high school. It’s a wonder I lasted an entire school year in that job without stabbing myself in the jugular with a pencil.

Apparently, people don’t get any better once they enter the business world because I see misspelled and badly punctuated signs, advertisements, menus, and billboards all the time. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I had a red sharpie so I can act as a syntax vigilante wherever I go. That is why this guy is my hero: Roads Scholar Copy Edits America.

On the other hand, as long as there is a poor understanding of the English language, I will have job security. Plus, I don’t particularly want to be hated.

How did I do that? I started by going to every store I liked just to scope out the merchandise. I dug through the new stuff, I dug through the sale rack, I dug through the clearance rack, I tried on stacks and stacks of clothes in each store (secretly hoping it would all look terrible on me so I wouldn’t be compelled to buy it all).

When I did find something I liked, I debated with myself whether to actually get it or not. How much of my current stuff could I wear this with? Do I have the right shoes? Do I have the right jewelry? Do I have a cami to go under this? Can I wear it to work?

Many times, I put things on hold so I could go back to a previous store or scope out the next store because, hey, what if Banana Republic has something better? Nothing worse than buyer’s remorse!

Six hours later…with ankles swollen and feet blistering, I finally left. What did I buy? A top for 50% off (with an additional 10% off because of a makeup stain) and a dress for $14. That’s it. I didn’t even find the stuff I needed. When I got home, I promptly went online and found exactly what I was looking for in under 15 minutes (except for those Balenciaga-inspired gladiator sandals I left waiting on hold at Nine West).

On the bright side, at least I burned 847 calories from all the walking. I celebrated by eating a pizza for dinner.