Cat From Space

The cats are the toughest members of our household. I have to throw water on either Alice or Olive at least once a week because they are either starting a fight, or trying to kill something. Two weeks ago I awoke to a robin flying around our bedroom and Ryan trying desperately to catch it. Olive hadn't harmed it at all, just brought it in for us to see. For the rest of the day, after Ryan got it back outside, that bird sat in our front tree and glared at us all. Olive glared right back.

Of course, the rule in life is that if you are going to be tough, you are going to get hurt. Right now, Olive is hurt. She came in three weeks ago with a bite wound. It was treated, she took antibiotics, and we thought it was over. Then, last Friday, she came inside with what really looked like Halloween makeup on her side. A wound the size of a quarter had opened, with various parts and whatnot visible underneath. I tried to clean it up. There was no cleaning. We took her to the vet. Even the vet recoiled. When she finally came home, Olive had two drains, 17 staples, and was wearing the cone of shame.

She has been wearing it since.

While the cone may be difficult for Olive, we are enjoying it quite a bit. It's really funny when she thinks she is licking her wound, and actually is just licking the inside of the cone. Oh, and it is great watching her thinking she can walk past something, only to get her cone hung up. The cone also makes it much easier to give Olive her super-duper antibiotic because, when she spits it out, it lands in the cone and we can just put it back in. Perfect. When it seems like it is really bugging her we just give her some of her painkiller. The beef flavored pain killer. No one better tell Anthony Bourdain about it, or that might kill his sobriety.

Really, the only problem with the cone is when Olive wants to cuddle -- in the middle of the night. There is nothing quite like being awakened with claws in your arm, and a cone scraping your face. Oh, and the drool spilling out of it due to her sleepy state from the painkillers. Beef flavored painkillers.

After all of this Ryan suggested just keeping he cats inside. No fights. No stitches. No drugs. No cones of shame. No 200 dollar vet bills.

I don't think he realizes that the current situation is much less complicated.

After all, we aren't that tough.

So NOT Fun Bags

I am tired of my boobs.

Don't get me wrong, I am usually very glad to have them. I have been told many, many times that they are one of my best attributes. They are fun to dress up in low cut dresses and blouses. They help me win arguments with my husband. I really do like them, most of the time. Right now though, they are just a pain in the ass.

Part of it is the heat. When the weather is hot, my boobs seem bigger, heavier, and just more THERE. I am always aware of them. When I am typing at my desk, they crowd against my arms. When I am drying my hair they stare back at me in the mirror, the biggest thing in the picture. No shirt When I am outside I can feel the sweat gathering underneath them, above them, and between them. It is not a cooling feeling at all, but a sticky one, that leaves me wondering if I am about to get "boob marks" on my shirt.

Oh, and don't even get me started on my bra. I am ALWAYS messing with it. The straps slip. Or the underwire digs. Or the clasp is coming undone. Or the cups are slipping. Honestly, there are days I mess with my bra so much I'm worried that someone in my office is going to sue me for sexual harassment. I try to be discreet, but I can only do so much and still get my job done. I don't think I am wearing the wrong size either, I just think that my bra is channeling the energy of my boobs.

It would be so nice if I could just take my boobs off once in a while. Just hang them in the closet and wear a summer tank top out in public without worrying that I look like a pagan fertility idol. Or go to sleep in the days before my period without wondering if one of those ridiculous boob separators would help me sleep better. Maybe I would even go to the swimming pool without wearing what feels like three ace bandages around my chest, all in the name of decency. Oh, what a glorious day that would be!

Sigh.

Well, I guess it could be worse. I could have balls. I hear those things are a real nightmare.

Buster Poindexter Can Suck It

It is damn hot in Utah right now.

Yes, I know, east coasters, it's a "dry heat." Nothing can compare to the misery you are enduring with the heat AND humidity. You should all be given medals. I mean that. However, I listen to you bitch when you have two inches of snow on the ground, and have been out of work for three weeks because of it, when I only am excused from work when even a dog team can't get me there, so I think listening to me complain about the "dry heat" is a fair trade. Oh, and you can buy wine in the grocery store, so shut it.

Our house is extremely small. We have a swamp cooler, and a ceiling fan, and a small fan in the living room. Despite all this, no air is moving. The only ten feet of the house that are cool are those directly in front the cooling sources. I would like to blame it on mechanical problems, but all are working perfectly.

We have taken to eating large amounts of popsicles and ice cream, mostly because the idea of cooking anything makes us all want to go on strike. The fact that I am eating ice cream just proves how hot it is. I do not eat ice cream. I spend my calories on wine. Yet, because of this heat I made Ryan take me to get a Butterfinger shake yesterday. I ate it all. And then I felt dirty.

Meg seems to be taking the heat in stride, mostly because she LOVES the water. She is happy at the community pool. She is happy in the kiddie pool. She is happy playing in the sprinkler or the hose. She is happy with the spray bottle. As long as she is around water, she is smiling. Even when it's just water from a water bottle...

Of course she's keeping cool, half of the water is going down her shirt. It would be annoying, but I will admit that the times I have been the recipient of the splatter it has been quite refreshing.

I can hardly wait to complain about winter again. I am even looking forward to listening to the east coasters complain about it too.

Yeah, it's that hot.

Thanks, But No Thanks

I don't have a problem with Mormons. I have never been a Mormon, or wanted to be one, but I have lived around them most of my life. I work with them, am friends with several of them, and even count some among my relatives. In fact, in my personal experience, I find that if you don't bother Mormons, they don't bother you. I mean, unless you were once a Mormon, but didn't follow the exact instructions to get on their "do not call" list. In that case? All bets are off.

For instance, this morning the Mormons came calling for my husband.

Yes, my husband, the man who thought it was a good idea to marry me, was once a Mormon. He hasn't been active for years, got married and baptized his child in the Episcopal church, and no longer considers himself Mormon, but he hasn't filled out the official request to be dropped from the church membership. That, coupled with the fact he still has very active Mormon grandparents who occasionally still ask if he will ever go on a "mission," and who know where we live, means occasionally the church comes looking for him. All the other times he has gotten the door, but today, he was busy with Meg. It was my turn.

The boys sent by the local ward (Mormon church) were probably 14 at the most. Puberty had obviously been kinder to one, leaving him looking like the older brother of the other. Both were wearing pink ties -- I don't know if that was required. When I opened the front door they both smiled.

"Hi, is Ryan ______, here?" They mispronounced his last name. I knew something fishy was up.
"Can I help you?" I still wasn't sure if they were Mormons. They could have be selling magazines.
"Well, we're just from the ward up the hill, and we have his name on this list." They both pointed to the list.
"Yeah, he's not a member. Hasn't been for years."
"Well, he's on the list," both pointed again, "so we thought we would check." They smiled bigger.
"Okay, well, thanks." I really wanted to be polite, but I was in the middle of the Times magazine article about abortion providers, and I really wanted to get back to it.
"Are you a member?" The bigger one looked down at his list, searching. He looked back up. I felt I could hear all of the ears of my Mormon friends prick up, waiting to hear what I would say to this young buck. I shook my head ever so slightly. He got the message.
"Would you be interested in community event information?" The little one finally spoke up. Nope, puberty hadn't hit him yet.
"We have friends." I responded.
"Okay. Have a nice day."
"You boys have a nice day too."

I watched them as they walked down the driveway and to the street. They checked the list again, and the little one pointed at a house down the street.

Now, I know some of you are thinking "what harm would it have done to get community event information?" That would have been "bothering" them. Expressing interest. Like if they had asked me about my blog. They never would have gotten away.

Wait! That would be a great way to increase readership!

Maybe next year. After all, as long as Ryan is in the house, and as long as his grandparents know where he is, I know they will be back.

Hiding My Shame in the Nick of Time

I have now lost close to 20 pounds. It's an accomplishment to be sure, but last night it almost cost me my dignity.

I like jeans. They are all I wear -- and I like them slightly baggy. After a 20 pound weight loss, that means they are VERY baggy. Like 16 year old wanna be white boy rapper baggy. Really, all I need are shamrock boxers, a tank top, and a sideways cap and I could be "DJ Only Wearing This To Piss Off My Dad Until He Makes Me Go to College." I mean, except for my boobs. And the toddler. And the fact I'm 36.

I should buy new pants, I know, but I don't want to. First of all, there is the fact I still have 20 pounds to lose. I don't want to have "fat, medium, and normal" pants. I don't want to buy every size Old Navy has to offer. Also, I kind of like the fact my pants are so big. They show I've done something, and that I am winning the battle of the bulge. I feel like one of those people who hold up their enormous pants on infomercials and smile.

I wasn't smiling last night though.

I was coming home from book club, and my hands were totally full. I had Meg on my hip and a hand under her butt. I had her diaper bag and my purse over one shoulder, and I had a shopping bag of toys I had taken to entertain Meg during book club over the other. I had a box of wine we had ended up not needing (lightweights), tucked under the arm that wasn't supporting Meg. Oh, and I had to reach for my house keys.

I was about half way up the front walk when I felt my pants start to slip. I felt only slight panic, and just widened my gait, hoping that would fix the problem. It did not. They slipped further, and now seemed to be picking up steam. I thought about setting down Meg, or the box of wine, but then realized that would end in the crumbling of the magnificent pyramid of stuff I had built upon myself; and that I would probably just camping, drunk, in the yard.

I had to make a run for it.

With every step I took I felt my pants going lower and lower. They slipped to the top of my butt. I wished for the millionth time in my life I didn't have a flat Irish ass. They slipped to mid-crack. I knew I was in trouble. I got to the door and thrust my hips forward "Solid Gold" style, hoping that would buy me time until I fumbled with my keys and opened the door. It was a desperation move, but it worked. It bought me just the seconds I needed to flip the lock. My pants fell, exposing the back of my gray granny panties and my white chicken thighs, just as I stepped inside and the screen door swung closed.

Meg burst into hysterics. She thought it was the funniest thing ever.

Now, it is true that my dignity may have not been totally saved. I have neighbors across the street, and they have windows; and screen doors are far from solid. However, I like to think I was victorious, and that I saved anyone living near us from having nightmares about my butt. They never would have been able to eat pancakes again.

Maybe I should buy a belt.

Nah. I would ruin my street cred.

A Blog I Left Behind

I read Dooce for the first time today in months. And now I can't stop thinking about it.

I used to read her stuff all the time. I used to enjoy reading it. It was funny. It was interesting. It was real. I felt I could relate to her, and really found myself cheering for her when she did well, and sympathizing when she didn't. I discovered other blogs I liked by reading through the comments on her posts. Now though, on the off chance I look at her site I just feel a painful burning in my chest, and the word "why" reverberating in my head.

Some of it is jealousy. I would love to blog, and be a cottage industry, and move into big beautiful house after big beautiful house. I would love to have book deals, and be flown to New York. I would love the whole package. I have a wonderful life, with a beautiful family, and everything I need, but still, that grass looks mighty green from this side.

However, while jealousy is a part, what really keeps me from reading is the fact I don't think the same person is writing it any more. She's not funny. She's not self depricating. She seem to alternate between bragging, and being defensive. Her pictures are still gorgeous, but the stories that went with them are gone. It makes me sad, because it's like I lost a really good friend who I liked to visit every day, and now I just see in the grocery store and turn down another aisle so I don't have to deal with her.

I don't know, I guess everyone has blogs they outgrow, or that they stop liking. I know I have lost and gained followers depending how whiny or funny I am. Luckily, there are still other blog friends out there who I still think are pretty cool. They just don't have huge mansions... Yet.

Birthdayapalooza

I am officially birthdayed out.

The celebrations for Meg's first year went on for two days, and included a trip to the zoo, a family dinner, a birthday breakfast, a huge garden party with all of our friends, tons of gifts, a birthday parade (just kids in hats with bells, no Shiners), and a pizza dinner with Meg's beloved Meghan and Andrew.

I loved every minute of it, and found myself crying happy tears on multiple occasions just thinking about what joy Meg has brought to our lives over the past year, and the joy that is still to come. I wouldn't take a minute of it back. However, it has left me totally drained. So, you'll have to forgive me, but I am going to cop out, and just post pictures of Meg and her cake. I know it's what you all want to see anyway.

At first she wasn't quite sure about it...


And the sugar rush that came with the first bite startled her...


Soon though, she was diving right in...


And getting it EVERYWHERE!


So, in the end, there was nothing to do but dunk her in the baby pool to clean her off.


What an amazing girl. What a wonderful birthday. Now, I am going to go sleep for a month -- and then I will start planning next year's bash...

One Year

From this:
To this:
My baby is now a kidlet. A funny, opinionated, mobile, smart, tricky kidlet. No, she isn't walking yet (though she tries to get down from my arms like she is about to run a marathon), and she still can't do the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. However, she is into everything, especially those things she shouldn't be. Of course, when she gets caught she is willing to admit her mistake, shaking her head and saying "no, no, no." It's so cute we almost want her to do something she shouldn't so that we can see her do it.

Meg now eats EVERYTHING. She loves fruit with a zest usually reserved for middle aged women in juicer commercials. Tonight she was eating a bison burger and looked up to say "yummmmm." Avocados do not last long in our house because of her, and very little goes to the dog. She even eats spinach. I'm sure that later she will get preferences, but right now everything tastes good to her, and she is savoring every bite.

Changing her diaper, or putting clothes on her is now an ordeal. She is happiest when she is naked, and will fight with all her might to stay that way. It has gotten to the point that I gather numerous things to keep Meg interested before I even try to change her diaper, and always pick outfits that can put one in less than three seconds. She wears a lot of "bag" type outfits. If only they made them in my size too...

For her birthday we are taking Meg to the zoo. Then we are letting her smash her fist into a cake. I'm not sure if we are getting a stripper, but Ryan said he had a surprise for her. Whatever we end up doing though, I know every moment will be spent marveling at our girl, and the blessings she has brought to our lives.

Oh, how we love her.

Nope

Well, damn.

We didn't win the lottery. Didn't even come close. Couldn't even fake it by turning 6s into 8s or 7 into 9s. Out lottery ticket may as well have been in Chinese -- and then the numbers still wouldn't have matched.

I guess we're better off not winning the lottery. First of all, I bet our bank would have charged us a huge fee to cash the giant novelty check. Then we would have had to deal with all those people asking for money: widows, orphans, widowed orphans. I wouldn't know how to determine who was worthy and who wasn't. I would end up just throwing any group with "monkey" in their name. And we all know Peter Tork is already rich enough.

Meg probably wouldn't be a very good rich kid, anyway. Horses scare her, and I don't think caviar would be well received. She does love tuna fish though, and mutt dogs, and hand me down clothes. And watching her enjoy all of those things, and grow, and laugh, and talk, is better than anything money can buy.

Still, it would be nice to offer her the option of caviar. Just to then decide to slum it with tuna -- just for fun.

Damn.

So Proud

Today, we took Meg to a toy store for the first time. She instantly zeroed in on one object...


She kept saying it was a "dog," but the fact she had absolutely no fear of that giant stuffed alligator made me proud. After all, this was me with an alligator...


Yes, mine was real, but Meg's was still as scary -- it has a 99 dollar price tag.

Maybe after tomorrow when I am a millionaire.

My Destiny

I don't want to upset any of you, but after Wednesday, you'll probably never hear from me again.

Don't worry, I won't be jumping off a bridge, or checking into a mental institution, although I have thought of doing both in the past month. No, you won't be hearing from me because I will simply be too rich to blog any more. That's right, I'm winning the lottery.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Libby, Utah doesn't have a lottery." Well, duh. We also don't have anywhere you can buy cold white wine on a Sunday. This weekend though, I went to a wonderful place where anything is possible: Idaho. And that's where I bought a shit load of cold wine, and solidified my future with the pick of just six little numbers.

Some of you might be chuckling, saying "oh, that Libby," thinking I'm just being "whimsical," and "funny." No. I am dead serious. I am planning on winning the lottery on Wednesday. Every time I pass that ticket hanging on the fridge I count down the hours until our lives totally change. Until we can pay off our student loans. Until we can hire a good contractor to fix the swamp in our backyard. Until we will never have to worry about sending Meg to college. Until I can hire Jillian Michaels to be my friend, and then fire her because she embarrasses me in public.

I would love to keep blogging after I win, really I would, but I think things would just be weird between us then. Not because of the money, I know none of you care if I am rich or poor; but because I plan to get snooty. I mean, really, really snooty. I plan to decant my box wine before I drink it -- that's how snooty I'll be. And I doubt any of you will really want to read about that and how my butler left schmutz all over my sock garters.

I will miss all of you though, after I've won the lottery on Wednesday.





Yeah. See you Thursday.

Finally, The Real Use For A Yoga Ball

It's hot, I'm tired, Meg is crabby, Ryan is fishing. I could blog about all of that, or you could just go stick a fork in a light socket. Or, you could watch this...

Tara is 75 months pregnant, and her back always hurts, so she bought that ball today in the hopes that would make her feel better. It didn't, so she gave it to her dog, Molly. Priceless.

You're welcome.

One Dollar

Most people who work in television had some sort of ADHD. Even if they have never been diagnosed, even if they won't admit it, no one in my field has a very long attention span. We are built to pay attention to the moment, and to get news on the air as fast, and as accurately as possible; and then forget about it. When we are forced to dig for news, or to sit around and wait for news, when things are "low key," it is very easy for us to lose focus. It is very easy for us to be distracted by the ridiculous.

Right now, the ridiculous is all about the one dollar bet.

In the past month a co-worker has worn safety goggles that were left sitting around for an entire day to earn one dollar. Another has forgone shoes and hoped they would get to claim their prize without having to take a trip to HR first. A third put Mentos and Diet Coke in their mouth to see how big their cheeks would get. And then, there is Cody, who earned his money by eating the most disgusting cupcake ever to enter the newsroom -- all in one bite.

You know food is not good when it comes into the newsroom and two hours later is all but uneaten. I have seen co-workers almost shiv each other when pizza has been brought in, and chips left over from someone's weekend part -- on a Wednesday. These cupcakes, though, were inedible. I don't know where these cupcakes had come from, but even the most desperate of us wouldn't touch them. They looked like chocolate with white icing but, as one person who took a chance said. "that is definitely NOT chocolate." Cody tried to eat one, and spit it out immediately.

And then I offered him a dollar.

Worth every penny. Now though, I think the limits of the dollar bet may have been reached. I mean, a man almost choked to death on a paste flavored cupcake. How are we going to find someone to top that, for just a measly dollar?

Next up: five dollars. It will be epic.

I Feel Petty

I feel like I am surrounded by pregnant women.

Really, it's like I'm in a pod person movie, and the pods are continuously talking about heartburn and hemorrhoids. Sometimes when they get hungry I fear for my fingers. After all, I am sure I look delicious.

There is no way in the world I would want to be pregnant right now. First of all, I have the world's most adorable daughter, and I am enjoying every minute of being her Mom. Another baby would be so unfair to her, as well as to the baby who would just pale in comparison at this point in time. Also, our house is close to bursting with just one baby; I can only imagine it with two. Despite these fact though, I find myself experiencing little pangs of jealousy with every baby announcement.

I think it's just that so many people are seemingly easily doing something I can't do. It isn't the babies they are having, again, none can hold a candle to Meg, but the fact they can have them at all. It's like being in a room filled with people who can whistle, and not being able to make a sound. You might have a flute that makes a much more beautiful sound, a sound you love more that any whistling you can imagine; and you know that even if you could whistle the sound probably wouldn't be as charming, intelligent, easy going, or sleep through the night as well as your flute. Also, everyone loves and admires your flute. Still, part of you still feels bad because you can't whistle.

Yeah, I know, that metaphor sucks.

Oh, and I wish I were taller.

Did I mention Meg is almost half my height? And that she sings the "Tiki Room" song? She's so amazing.

Maybe I'll use her picture to ward off hungry preggos. And if that doesn't work I will just throw pickles and run...

Damnit.

See? I never do these tagging things right. I totally spaced I am supposed to pass on this award to five other bloggers. Hmmm, who to pick?

Well, first let's go with Steamy, because I think her list would be both interesting and terrifying.

Then, let's call on Maureen, since she never really got a chance to slut around in her 20's, and everyone needs that chance, even if it's only hypothetical.

It was recently CLo's birthday, and she deserves some virtual plastic Barbie sex.

Joe is British, so I bet his list will feature at least one of the Royal family. I want to see if it's Princess Margaret.

And, last but not least, Wanna Bee, for questioning on her blog just what "sexually active" means, making Diet Pepsi come out of my nose.

Okay, now I feel like a better bloggy person. I'm sure those I've tagged will grab that naked Barbie button and do wonderful things with it.

Oh, and Cheeseburger Doritos are available everywhere. They are in the black bags that are meant to appeal only to college kids. They will change your life forever.