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From this:
To this:
Looking at that first picture I cannot believe how alien looking Meg once was. Especially since she is now this fat, happy, giggly baby -- who ALWAYS has her hands in her mouth. Really, we try to stop her, especially when she puts her fingers far enough into her mouth to gag herself, but she always finds a way to outsmart us. We have offered her pacifiers, and teething rings, even the occasional dog toy, but nothing makes her happier than chewing on her hands. She especially loves it when she grabs a hold of her tongue. You should hear the squeals of joy when that happens. It's like she's won a prize.
Meg no longer likes laying around, she prefers sitting, or even better, standing. She still needs help, of course, but when she plants her feet she does it like a gymnast. I am actually thinking of getting a little card that says "10" on it, because I think that is the only proper response to her performance.
I don't know if you've noticed, but there is pretty much nothing Meg could do that I wouldn't think was wonderful. The last four months have turned me into that person. I applaud her even when she is crying, or poopy, or inducing vomiting by putting her entire fist in her mouth. If I were to compare her to the baby books there are things she is doing better than she should be, and things she should be doing that she isn't. However, right now, those books can suck it. When I look at her? All I see is perfect.
Oh, how I love her. I can't wait to see what comes next.
I did want to get another cat.
As I write this it has not even been two weeks since Rita died. After she was gone, Ryan and I sat down and actually talked about getting another cat, because he thought it would be a nice Christmas present, but didn't want to get one if I wasn't on board. I wasn't. After all, Rita's death kind of destroyed me. Not just the death itself, but also everything that led up to it. I won't go into it, but diabetes made Rita lazier and grosser than I ever could have imagined. Let's just put it this way: Lysol and Murphy's oil soap became my best friends. After that, I was thinking that maybe it was time to move away from cats, and maybe think about getting a new puppy when Meg was four or five and Sally needed a pick me up.
I was resolute. And then came Tuesday.
Meg is cared for during the day by two people: my Dad and a wonderful woman named Hazel. Both live next door to very eccentric older couples. However, while my Dad's neighbors collect lawn ornaments, Hazel's neighbors collect people. Crazy people. When I arrived to pick up Meg on Tuesday, one of the craziest was in the driveway -- with kittens.
Before I describe the kitten that, by now, you know is coming home with me, let me describe the woman who delivered her to me. I am not sure of her name, but I know she has no short term memory due to an accident involving a semi. She has told me about it several times, but, of course, does not remember she has told me before. She lives in a large 1970's circa van packed with junk she picks up on the road, most of it purple or orange. She loves Meg, and despite her memory problems, always remembers her name. Oh, and she cannot resist a living thing in need. She says she doesn't live in a home because she needs to care for her "friends" all over the state. She means people, and animals. And this time she brought one to me.
"Do you want a kitten," she called as I got out of my car.
"No, I want to stay married," I replied. I picked up the kitten anyway. It was cute, but a boy, making it easier to put down. I have never known a boy cat that didn't spray.
"Well, I have two if you know anyone who wants one. One boy, and one girl."
And then she stepped out from under the van. I knew her name instantly: Olive.
I called Ryan and asked him if he would kill me if I brought home a kitten. He said he wouldn't kill me, but he would question my sanity. I said that would make two of us. I took her home anyway.
Olive is definitely not a replacement for Rita. First of all, she is not a bitch. She is in charge, but she cuddles in rather than standing off. She follows everywhere, instead of waiting to be sought out. Also, she LOVES everyone. She lays in Meg's lap and lets her grab her fur -- without complaint. She tries to ride Sally, and suck on her ears. She even tries to cuddle up to our other cat Alice. Oh, and NO ONE cuddles up to Alice. Ryan is even smitten, despite the fact Olive won't stop biting his toes.
Yeah, I didn't want to get another cat. But I am so glad she is here.
I don't know if I have ever mentioned it before, but I am not the only member of my family who works in news television. My Dad is in television news. My grandfather was in television news. Two of my uncles are in television news. And now, I fear that a new generation is being indoctrinated. Luke, and even Meg, are already joining the cult.
Luke first started coming into the office when he was about three. His Mom would drop him off when I was finishing my shift on days he was done with preschool early and did not want to go to daycare. It was fine, since usually my Dad and I were both there, and rarely both of us were in a crisis at once. He could either sit in the control room with me, or in engineering with Dad -- both of which are filled with buttons. At first he would just stare at them, then push them randomly. Eventually he wanted us to push them to show them how they work, watching our every move and learning. Now he pushes them, gives time cues to reporters and weather guys, and helps to tune in live shots. When anyone asks him what he wants to do when he grows up he says "my Grandpa's job." I guess he would say my job, but even he knows how unimportant I am.
So, Luke is a lost cause. But I had hope for Meg. That hope is fast fading though.
Meg LOVES the news. Most babies will stare at the television, because of the lights and the sounds, but how many will shun kids shows and pay rapt attention when "News Hour" with Jim Lehrer is on? Really, tonight she got upset because Ryan was holding her bottle so the screen was blocked. He isn't the only newscaster she likes, either. I hate to say this, but my Dad claims she likes the "Today Show." Yes, this is not technically "news" in my eyes, but I have to keep in mind Meg is still under 4 months old. I am sure by January even she will realize an exclusive interview with Kate Gosselin has no journalistic value.
I am hoping that it is just the talking that has Meg so interested. I am hoping that she will take that love of language and become a poet, or a writer, or a singer, or a teacher, or a diplomat. Or maybe I should just start with flashcards of doctors and lawyers -- wait not lawyers, even people in news pity them -- and hope I can break the cycle now.
If I don't, at least she'll have family around. Maybe she and Luke can even carpool.
Meg reached two big milestones this weekend. First, she laughed, legitimately laughed, out loud. And she did it multiple times. It is the best sound in the world. Oh, and she started rolling over, front to back, repeatedly. Of course, I could tell you she also started singing opera, because I have as much proof of that as I do of the laughing and rolling over. It isn't because we feel that documenting these moments would in some way steal her soul. It isn't that we don't have still, and video cameras within arms reach at ALL TIMES. It is because, you see, our daughter is Michigan J. Frog.
As everyone knows, Michigan J. Frog, before he became a shill for a now defunct television network, was the amphibian who ruined a hapless man's life in "Merrie Melodies." He had a beautiful voice, and great stage presence, but he would only sing when only the man was watching. The minute the man tried to show off his talents, or make money off of them, all Michigan would say was "ribbit." If Meg could say "ribbit" when we pulled out the cameras, she would. Of course, that would be entertaining, so she probably wouldn't. She would say it the minute we put the camera away though.
This morning she was laughing up a storm. Really, you would have thought Ryan and I were the funniest people in the world the way she was cracking up. And all we were doing was making baby noises while tickling her sides. I grabbed the camera. I hid behind Ryan and I turned it on. Ribbit. She couldn't even see me, but she could sense the camera was on, and suddenly, she was off.
Same thing with the rolling over. Three times in a row she pushed herself over from her tummy to her back. The fourth time? While the camera was rolling? She sucked on her hands and then started to cry. I guess she wanted it documented how mean I am to her.
I would love to say she was just having an off weekend, but really, this is how she is. Meg is one of the most smiley babies in the world, though you wouldn't know it from the pictures. We have been able to capture her smiling only twice, and both times were on crappy cell phone cameras. Trying to get her to smile, or keep her smiling, with a good camera up and ready is an impossibility. Oh, wait, she will smile -- if the camera malfunctions.
Maybe I will chisel a picture of Meg smiling. Don't know how I will prove she laughs though...
Our cat, Rita, died last Friday. We had her put to sleep after her diabetes got the better of her. I wasn't going to write anything about it. I mean, I was, but then the weekend happened, and I got pissed about other things, and I thought I was okay. After all, she was 13, and sick, and it's more about quality of life than quantity.
Then yesterday I came home from work, put Meg in her pajamas, put on my nightgown, got in bed, and fell apart. I have been in a funk ever since. So, I am hoping that writing about Rita will help -- at least little bit.
I got Rita in 1997, four months after I moved to Washington D.C. I didn't get her in Washington though, because people there actually spay and neuter their animals. No, Rita came from a backwoods farm in North Carolina on a trip to visit my parents. She, and about 3-million other kittens, were in a guinea pig hutch. I looked in, unsure who to pick, until she climbed up my body to my shoulder and looked at me as if to say "let's go." We were thick as thieves from that moment on.
Yes, those are laser eyes...
Rita may have been a bitch, but she saved my life. I was so crazy in my early 20's that I didn't know which end was up. I drank too much, I dated bad men, and I harmed myself in any way possible. However, whenever I thought of going to real extremes, I thought of Rita. Who would care for her if I wasn't around? NO ONE WOULD DARE. So, I had to be there. And she was there for me.
I would tell you about the end, about the seizures, and the turkey we fed her, and about the many times we thought she was checking out, only to have her rally again, but I would rather your last image of Rita not be of her infirm and dying, but alive and sassy. In the first year after I got her, I took Rita everywhere. That meant when I drove from D.C. to N.C., she went with me. Not in a cage though, but looking out the window. She would lay across my shoulders, looking out the window, grabbing bites of Taco Bell burrito, and having the time of her life. I think she even tried to flash her boobs at truckers.
I hope I did right by her. I know she did right by me.
Warning: This is a rant about my anger at a bank. Read at your own risk.
Recently, my husband and I were taken for 465 dollars. No, we weren't taken in a confidence scheme by a man with a mysterious scar named Lefty. We didn't buy a share in a hot new resort being built in Haiti. We didn't invest money with a man promising big returns named Vernie Manoff. Instead, we were swindled by our mortgage lender, who is probably your mortgage lender too: Citimortgage.
It started in August. Ryan and I were thinking about the future and how we could start saving. We had just adopted Meg, and wanted to start thinking not just like adults, but parents. When the letter from Citi arrived, offering us a lower rate if we would take on a 20 year mortgage, for just a slightly higher monthly payment, we thought it was a sign. We jumped at the chance. After all, how could we lose? The letter called us "good long standing customers." It was like getting a financial hug.
I called the number. I talked to Kimberly. She applauded our responsible decision and congratulated us on the baby. She told me there would be a $465 application fee, but that it was "no big deal" because when the refinancing was finalized we would skip a month of payments. It would all be even Steven. We signed the papers, we paid the money, and we waited.
And nothing happened. Really, the silence was deafening.
Finally, at the start of this month, I got a call from a new loan officer, Vanessa. Everything was fine, she said, the underwriter was just finishing up. Then, she disappeared. Oh, she was virtually there, with an email account and a phone number where we could leave messages that were never returned, and a fax line that was always busy, but we couldn't actually communicate with her.
Today I called, and, instead of leaving a message, pressed "0" to talk to another agent. It was then I was told the refinance had been rejected, earlier this month actually, and that the application fee, you know, the one that was "no big deal" was non-refundable. I argued with the woman, and then I asked to speak to her supervisor and argued with him. I asked why we hadn't heard from them. He told me a letter had been sent out, and that he had no idea why we hadn't gotten it. I was amazed he was using the "lost in the mail" excuse, but I regrouped. I told him we would good customers. I told him about my conversations with Kimberly (who he claimed no longer worked there), I told him we would take our mortgage elsewhere. He didn't care about any of it. All he seemed to care about is that Citi got to keep my $465.
I don't really know what to do now. I filed a complaint with the FTC, and will file one with the Better Business Bureau. I do not expect to get my money back, or to take my mortgage elsewhere. After all, if my own lender does this to me what will happen elsewhere? Also, I kind have had all the fight knocked out of me. I guess that's what they were counting on.
Still, it would have been better if my loan officer had been named Lefty. At least it would have been a better story to tell.
Buying clothes for a baby is not an easy proposition. On one hand, there are clothes everywhere, in every store, all crying out "cute." On the other hand, most of those clothes are either poorly made, feature evil cartoon icons of corporations, or are so "cute" that they make any rational adult want to puke. Oh, and on the third hand the well made, cute, but not too cute, comfortable baby clothes cost more than anyone should pay for an outfit that will be worn maybe twice and vomited on repeatedly -- I mean, unless you're Lindsey Lohan.
I feel like we have really lucked out when it comes to Meg's clothes. We have many, many people who have given us wonderful hand me downs, and we have discovered that, for the most part, clothes by Carter's are economical, well made, and just cutesy enough to be darling without making me need insulin. However, I am starting to notice some nefarious undertones in their garments. Take this one for example:
At first glance it looks like a basic nightgown featuring good animal friends and the words "I love hugs." Really, who doesn't? Well, I don't really, but that's another post. Let's go back to the nightie, and look a little closer...
How many people, or animals do you know that give hugs right under the jawbone, covering the trachea? Unless you know a lot of serial killers, I am betting none. That elephant is not hugging that giraffe, he is trying to kill it. "I love hugs?" More like "I love inter species hate crimes." Oh, and that's not all. I give you, the jacket:
Try to ignore the adorable baby and focus on the ears on the hood. You cannot buy a Carter's jacket without them. It's almost like the CEO of the company has seen "The Island of Doctor Moreau" one too many times and declared all babies must look like genetic experiments. Luckily they look like cute genetic experiments.
I makes me wonder if I should listen to Barney CDs backwards to listen for satanic messages. Wait, you can hear those forwards, can't you?
We had one little baby, and yet our laundry has tripled. Yes, I know, babies go through clothes quickly, spiting up and having diaper blow outs -- and that then there are the sheets, and the blankets, and the socks, and the burp cloths, all of which have to be washed at the first sign of dirt, but I just don't see how it all adds up. Yesterday I spent putting away a pile of laundry almost taller than I am, and today I went into the basement to find it growing again.
I started to think that maybe I could make Meg a "free range" baby, and just put papers down for her "leavings," but then I realized I would like to keep custody of her. Then I considered asking Ryan not to wear shirts, but I have heard that song "Don't Stand so Close to Me," and I have seen the girls at Ryan's school. No one could resist that gorgeous hunk of man. Of course, once I came to my senses, I realized I shouldn't make my baby or my husband suffer, so I needed to make the sacrifice, like June Cleaver, Claire Huxtable, or the Tooth Fairy.
So, from now on, no pants.
The re-gift. There is not a person in the world who has not given one, or received one. Anyone who says different is either clueless, or lying. Everyone has had that moment when they have hastily wrapped something because they have either forgotten a gift giving occasion, are totally broke, or don't really care about the person getting said gift. And who hasn't opened a present only to find that the box has been opened, or there is Christmas wrap stuck to the back (oh, and it's not Christmas), or that the item in question was produced in 1985. NO ONE! We all do it. We all re-gift, and accept re-gifted items. So, I think it's time we all just admit, and be open about it.
Think of it this way: regifting is green gifting. Instead of taxing the earth to buy a new item, the giver is using something already here, and making sure it is not thrown away in vain (or put in a basement to gather dust). We should regift with pride! Wrap that piece of crap we didn't want in plastic grocery bags and write a card on the back of a magazine subscription card just to let everyone know how ecologically friendly it is.
Of course, while those regifting should do so with the zeal and self-satisfaction of Prius owners, they should also expect a little mocking and derision -- like Prius owners. The person receiving the regift should be allowed to recognize it, and loudly tell the story about it. For instance, my sister received a set of goblets for her wedding that had not been sold at the store in question for more than a decade. And they were not pretty goblets at all -- they were like something out of "Labyrinth." She should be able to tell that story with vigor, milking it for every laugh she can get -- especially when the regifter is present. After all, if they can't enjoy the story as well, what the point?
Oh, one more thing, the person getting the regift shouldn't have to write a thank you note. After all, if ecology is the point, do we really want to kill a tree to write a thank you note? Or, if a thank you note is required, I think the receiver should be allowed to send a thank you note previously sent to them. Think of the possibilities! Give a baby blanket, get a note for a chafing dish! Give a chafing dish, get a note for crotchless panties. It would be like a weird "Choose Your Own Adventure" book!
I am so glad I thought of this before the holidays! Or, rather, that I was forced to think of it. I mean, really, who gives a change purse as a baby gift? Turning it into a positive though, because I am sure my sister needs a change purse! And my nieces need "doll" clothes that Meg has grown out of! Oh, I can't wait to shopping in my basement -- and save the world.
There are some crimes I can understand. Embezzlement. Shoplifting. Monkey theft. I am not saying I would, or have, committed them, but I can understand why people do. There are others that are harder to comprehend, like murder or kidnapping. And then there is the one I will never get: child sex abuse -- specifically those cases that involve a teacher having a relationship with a student. It isn't that I don't understand wanting to have sex. Or wanting to abuse power. It's the fact that any adult, with any adult dating experience, would want to have that type of relationship with a teenager. After all, teens are gross.
My husband is a teacher, my Mom is a teacher, and quite a few of my friends are teachers as well. Because of that, I am in schools, and around kids, quite a bit, and I have observed their grossness firsthand. They dress horribly. They eat disgusting things in a disgusting manner. They talk loudly, and about ridiculous things. Oh, and they smell. If it isn't body odor, it's too much cologne. Really, I think the only reason teenagers are attracted to each other is that their brains and/or olfactory senses are not fully developed.
How desperate and/or stupid does someone have to be to overlook all of the things that make a teen a teen? Even worse, how desperate and/or stupid and/or deluded does someone have to be to convince themselves that it is a "real" relationship. It is bad enough when we report on teachers that have abused their power and entered into a sexual relationship with a student. It is even worse when they try to justify their actions by claiming to be "in love." Oh, really. What is it that sealed the relationship? A shared love of the Jonas Brothers? Those long conversations that center around bad poetry and reality television? Or maybe it's the belief that showering is not necessary as long as Axe body spray is available?
Just gross.
What really makes me angry (outside of the emotional/physical damage done to the victims) is that for each of these emotionally stunted predators there are dozens of good teachers, who really care about kids, who have to deal with the fallout. Every teacher I know lives in fear of being accused of improper dealings with a student. All new teachers in the state of Utah must now take a seminar about proper teacher student relationships, as if they are all potential predators. Why? Because a handful of their colleagues have no moral compass and lousy taste in who to date.
Nope, I don't get it.
I am all about being a woman. I have never, and will never, wish to be a dude, even on days that I am bloated beyond belief or seemingly hemorrhaging pain as my uterus tries to make a break for it. I love being a woman even though I make less money than my male counterparts, and most likely always will. After all, money can't buy not having genitalia that looks like a reject from the Henson Creature Workshop. I mean, really, you can see variations of female genitals in all kinds of fine art. However, the only place you see representations of male genitals are porn and weapons. (And yes, I know there are plenty of penises in art, but they are just realistic penises, not artistic musings, and most of them are really small. Um, David, are you cold?).
While I love being a woman, I think there are limits. You know, like standing naked in the gym locker room and putting in a tampon while other people are around (true story). Or, wearing a representation of your vulva around your neck.
Really, who would wear one of these? Who is so confident about their vagina, no matter how pretty, that they are willing to wear it around their neck? I mean, I wear a necklace with the letters M.E.G on it and get questions. I can only imagine the queries one of these beauties would bring up.
Stranger: Is that an orchid?
Me: No, it's a sculpture of my labia.
Stranger: Oh.
Like I don't have enough problems with HR.
Of course, if I don't want to wear my vagina (not vajayjay, no bajingo or whatever cute name prime time wants to think up) around my neck, there are other options. The artist who makes these unique pieces also offers "uterus plushies" or "I love my vagina" mugs. I guess because a home isn't a home without a pussy -- er, a cat.
While I don't think I want to own any of these objets d'art, I will still be buying some of them. After all. Christmas is coming up, and I still haven't decided what to get Tara. I just know I want it to be something personal.
I have worked (full time) in television news for thirteen years now. Yeah, that sounds sad to me too. In the time that I have been in this profession I have learned many things. For instance, almost everyone in this industry has a deep seated fear of being left out. Also, free food is like crack to us. Oh, and we can all predict the future.
Don't worry, people in the media aren't all savants that are drawn to the business because of our magical powers. If that were the fact at least one of us would have warned NBC about the Jay Leno disaster. We can tell the future, because we have seen it all before. Man who claims he was kidnapped by mysterious assailants? Faked it. Politician says he isn't lying? He is. Balloon boy? Not in the balloon.
Let me tell you what happens, at least twice a month, in every newsroom in America: a child is reported missing, and a camera crew is dispatched. Is the child really missing? No. Is the child sleeping at a friends house, or in a place other than their bed? Yes. Did the parents look ANYWHERE before calling the police? No. Really, it has gotten to the point where the words "missing child" make me roll my eyes rather than say a prayer. And I live in the land of Elizabeth Smart.
The balloon boy thing did have a few "wild card" factors that made it a bit to figure out. His brother said he saw him get into the balloon. His parents are clearly nuts. His name is Falcon. However, the law of averages still says he was just fine, and in a place someone should have looked BEFORE they called CNN. You know, like a box in the attic.
Oh, well, there's always next time. Until then, I really hope someone sends some muffins to the newsroom. I am craving carbs.
I am (once again) on Weight Watchers. For those of you keeping track at home this is the fourth time, and the second time I have actually lost weight. It is also the first time I have ever gone to the meetings. I blame that on my friend Meghan, and her sick sense of humor. Doesn't she know it's much easier to lie about your weight when you do it at home and enter it on line? Well, if she does she doesn't show it.
The meeting we go to is full of crazy people, including one woman who yells out "steamed vegetables" whenever the leader asks for weight loss tips. Actually, if the people in the meeting weren't fat, I would swear it was a meeting of people with eating disorders, and who don't want to get rid of them. Really, you should hear them talk about how to lose weight. All of the "tricks." You know, like only eating the egg whites. Filling up on water before you eat so you can't eat much. Taking bites of a forbidden food and then spitting it out. I am expecting a lecture on laxatives any day now the way things are going.
I am not saying that I haven't learned anything useful. For instance, I have found that I actually prefer olive oil on pasta instead of butter. That there are ways to prepare vegetables that makes them not taste like vegetables. That there are whole wheat pastas that don't taste like whole wheat pastas. Oh, and that there is no real substitute for bread -- no matter how hard they try to pretend.
Above is the bread Weight Watchers recommends. Sara Lee "Delightful." You can eat two slices of it for one point. For those of you who don't know the system, I won't explain it so your head won't explode. Just know that normal bread is one slice for two points. Really good bread (like Great Harvest) is three points. So, I could trade one slice of really good bread for six slices of the Sara Lee. Oh, and then I could use those six slices as coasters.
The people at Weight Watchers claim this bread is "just as good" especially when it comes to making sandwiches. Well, I guess, but in order to make it palatable I had to greatly go over my point with fillings. Mustard is supposed to be a "zero points" add on, but I had to put so much on it counted as seven. I am guessing the people who like it are not really carb addicts like me, and are willing to eat this so they can enjoy things like bacon. I, personally, would rather have the turkey stuff, and eat real bread.
And I am not even going to spit it out.
Today I almost wrote one of those awful "I have nothing to blog about" blog posts. Yes, I know, it's sad but true. I was actually two paragraphs into it before I realized I wold rather claw my eyes out than read such a post, and that it wouldn't be fair to inflict one on you. I sat at my computer, staring at the screen, trying to think of something else to say, other than the fact I have nothing to say. I thought about writing on how Barney Frank should be helping the equal rights cause instead of acting like an old bitter queen. I thought about defending Obama's peace prize win, even though I was a bit taken aback by it myself. Of course, then I realized that if I was going to tackle stale topics I might as well just write about who is cuter: Luke or Han. I was always a Luke girl myself, I don't care what anyone says. He was the Jedi, none of it would have happened without him, so just shut it about Han's smoldering looks and charisma. I don't want to hear it.
I think you can all see my dilemma.
So, what, I am sure you are asking, is the point of this post. Have I tricked you into reading a post about how I have nothing to write about, by writing about how much I hate such posts? Well, kinda, but it's worth it, because, without further ado I give you -- wait for it -- MEG IN HATS!!!
One hat...
Two hat.
Red(ish) hat...
Blue hat.
Some hats have birds...
And some are birds.
And some will fit a little later.
Yeah, I know it's a cop out, but I figure since Meg is the reason I have nothing to say (I mean, other than silly baby goop), she might as well pull her weight and help me out with a post. I think it's only fair. After all, I made Sally wear hats after she ate our sofa.
Yeah, okay, I'll keep this post to show to Meg's therapist later. I'll put it in the file with the others...
It was a perfect fall day for a walk. Not to hot, not too cold. Sun shining, but not in that obnoxious "oh, look at me, I'm the sun" way. The dog was restless, and Ryan and I needed exercise after gorging ourselves on dim sum. We decided to hit the park. We bundled up Meg, and were off. Oh, and the moment we started walking, she was out.
The park nearest to our house is the largest in the city, kind of like the central park of Utah. Ours just has fewer millionaires, and more dirty hippies. On Sunday it is filled with all sorts of different people, most of whom make me feel much better about myself... For instance, there were these guys:
Yes, they are playing beach volleyball in a sand pit that most likely is home to numerous used needles, and E.coli. And they are playing in it without shoes or shirts. I guess some people really like knowing how they are going to die.
This is the weekly "drum circle" that takes place in the park every Sunday. Basically it's just a time for people to smoke marijuana in front of their kids under the guise of a "cultural event." Still, it is nice to know there is still a market for tye dye and patchouli in Salt Lake. Oh, and by nice, I mean horrifying.
Those people are walking on a tightrope. And they weren't the only tightrope group in the park. Actually, I counted three groups total playing on tightropes today. I guess it's the new thing. Better than sword swallowing...
Of course there were tons of dogs in the park. This one was my favorite. He wasn't pulling much, but he was pulling it with gusto. And he still found time to bark at every person and animal that walked by him.
We returned home feeling lighter, less jumpy, and a lot more in tune with our neighborhood. Yep, it was a perfect fall day for a walk.
To this:
Looking at that first picture I cannot believe how alien looking Meg once was. Especially since she is now this fat, happy, giggly baby -- who ALWAYS has her hands in her mouth. Really, we try to stop her, especially when she puts her fingers far enough into her mouth to gag herself, but she always finds a way to outsmart us. We have offered her pacifiers, and teething rings, even the occasional dog toy, but nothing makes her happier than chewing on her hands. She especially loves it when she grabs a hold of her tongue. You should hear the squeals of joy when that happens. It's like she's won a prize.
