Queen of the night

For three days this week I am working on the morning show -- which means I have to arrive at the office at 11pm and leave at 7am. Because I'm not quite tired enough getting my butt out of bed at 5am to do the noon and I really enjoy not seeing my husband. No, actually I am doing this due to a major personality flaw -- I am too damn nice. The regular producer is out of town celebrating her first anniversary and the senior producer on the show is moving. Oh, yeah, and no one else is stupid enough to agree to work this shift.

This isn't the first time I have done the overnight thing. Three years ago when I was in grad school I actually requested this shift. It made it easier to attend classes -- even if it did age men ten years, take a permanent toll on my sleep habits and adversely affect my personal hygiene. It was while I was working overnights I decided I really didn't have to wash my hair every day. Also, I had chronic heartburn and bad breath. Thinking back on it now I am amazed Ryan ended up asking me to marry him. We had just started dating when I was working that shift so my hair was in a constant state of bedhead and all I wanted to do was sleep. I think he was amazed when it was finally revealed that sunlight did not, in fact, make me melt.

This shift wouldn't actually be so bad if it weren't, you know, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. There is almost no one here -- and there is no chance that any management is going to show up unless the entire world starts on fire. And it would have to be the whole world. Just Asia? They're going back to bed. Oh, and I can wear whatever I want. For instance, right now, I am in a robe, slippers and a feather boa. And no one is looking at me strangely because they are all wearing the same thing! But, before you all start clamoring for graveyard shifts let me tell you one thing -- all the weirdos come out at night.

At least three times a night the police scanner blares reports of a naked man walking through an apartment building, or a drunk who thinks calling 9-1-1 and not saying anything is funny. It is also the time teenagers decide walking into a 7-11, grabbing beer and running is a good idea, even if a cop is parked in the lot. Of course, criminals aren't the only odd creatures to deal with overnight -- those who work it for a long time are an odd bunch too.

There are two guys who have been on the overnight shift for as long as anyone can remember. One is an editor, one is a photographer. It is easy to understand why the editor is on this shift -- he is too annoying to work around people who aren't sleep deprived. Really, according to this guy he has worked every job ever invented in television -- in fact, he invented television. And he feels that telling his stories over and over and over again is not just interesting -- but a learning experience for all involved. Oh, he's also incredibly lazy. He assumes everyone is so brain dead it won't matter if he uses cell phone video from 1986 or shows Bill Clinton when the script is actually talking about Hillary. He also knows that if and when a manager catches up with him they will probably have forgotten what they wanted to talk to him about in the first place.

The other perennial night guy calls himself "The Night Hawk." He is very good at what he does and is usually is on the scene of news before the cops arrive. The only problem is that he has started believing his own hype. He has been known to yell at those who question him "I own the night!" No, I'm not kidding.

Luckily, just one more shift and I can return to the land of the living. I have practically made the senior producer take a blood oath that he will never ask me to do this again. After all , my good humor only goes so far -- especially when I'm sleep deprived.

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Thomas the money grubbing Jerk

This weekend my parents, my sister and I took Luke and to Heber City to worship at the altar of children's television characters. We went to ride on Thomas the Tank Engine -- and give him all of our money.

When my father first asked if I wanted to go on the Thomas excursion months ago I pictured a nice relaxing ride on the old Heber train (which they turned into Thomas) though Provo canyon looking at the spring blooms and feeling the wind in my hair. What I experienced was very different. It was a carnival from hell.

From the moment we entered the train yard we were inundated with things we could buy. Toy trains! T-shirts! Train whistles! Ice cream! There was something at every turn to make kids whine with desire. And there were kids everywhere. Ugly kids. Ugly, screaming kids. I began to feel like King Kong being besieged by puny New Yorkers. I knew at any moment they would force me to throw myself off a tall building.

We led Luke through the maze of conspicuous consumption -- allowing him to look, but telling him he had to wait until we were ready to leave to get a toy. This did not go over well. After all, there were four of us -- surely one of us could lug around a giant train set for at least a couple of hours. Finally though, we were able to pull him away from the toys -- it was time to ride Thomas.

It is my firm belief that lines in any "first come, first served" situation bring out the worst in people. It doesn't matter if they are waiting for the dentist -- every worries that they will miss out if someone goes in front of them. This was no different. Twenty minutes before the train left the station people began packing in, readying for the race to the train. Never mind it was a huge train and there would be seats for everyone, these people acted as if getting on first or getting on twentieth was the difference between driving Thomas -- and being forced to hang off the side. And I was no better! Luke had said he wanted to sit int he first car and we would be sitting there -- even if I had to shiv someone. I mean, we all remember the red teacup incident at Disneyland. Luckily, the front car didn't seem to be all that popular, so no blood had to be spilled.

The ride itself was nice. Of course, it was only 20 minutes long. You see, the Thomas the tank engine put on the train was just a shell, a ruse, a pretender. All the work was actually being done by a steam engine at the other end of the train. And while it could easily pull the cars downhill, pushing them all back uphill was a different story. So, the train couldn't go very far. But those 20 minutes were bliss. All the kids were quiet, all the parents off their feet and contented -- and there was nothing to buy.

Thomas wants your wallet...

Of course, once we got off the train the tour of things to buy continued. To exit the train you had to walk past the area where kids could get their picture taken with Thomas. And who would want to deny their child of that wonderful experience? Even if it cost $20. In the end my sister not only bought the picture -- but a key chain with the picture on it. So, she has a portable reminder of when she used to have money...

At the end of the day were were all tired, hot, dirty, sticky and broke. Everyone just wanted to get in the car and nap on the way back down the canyon. That is, everyone except Luke. He was too jazzed from his mighty big adventure and too excited about his might big train set. All the way down the canyon we heard about what he liked, his ride on the train and his love of Thomas. And suddenly, I was willing to do it all again. Even if it meant a second mortgage.

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Fear of b-roll planet

In the news biz whenever we are talking about something -- but not someone -- in particular we use what is known as b-roll. You all know what I'm talking about. High school kids with their faces obscured, a close-up of a cigarette that only shows the mouth and hand, the blurred women reaching for a pack of condoms in a drug store. And, of course, there is the mother of all b-roll clips -- the headless fat person.

I don't think there has been a news cycle in the past five years where some shot of headless fat people hasn't been used to illustrate a health problem or a diet fad or the concern over the fact that all of America has a fat ass. Oh, using shots of fat people walking away is okay too... just as long as you can't see their faces. That way no release has to be signed and forever more those larger faceless folks can appear on the news all over the world.

Do we really think people don't recognize their own legs?

About five months ago the station got a call from one of these "b-roll people." He wasn't fat -- but a smoker -- now a former smoker. He wanted us to stop using the b-roll because even though we didn't show all of his face we showed just enough so that his family could identify him and wonder if he was smoking again. He described his lips and we all instantly knew what clip he was talking about. Of course people would recognize him -- he had a very bad mustache. I don't know if the video ever got deleted from the archive, but it got me thinking. What about the fat people? Every time we show their headless bodies or faceless backs are we just inflicting junior high school like torment? Or, does anyone ever recognize themselves and think "I felt really good that day" or "My favorite jeans make me look fat?" Because I know how I feel when I catch the wrong angle in the mirror -- and would be horrified if that mirror were being broadcast across the country.

Now, before you start thinking I am worried about this on a purely altruistic level -- know that there is a deeper force at work -- vanity. Every time I use one of these generic fat people clips I fear I am just daring karma to have a camera pointed at me the next time I'm at the mall so when the footage airs I can gaze in horror at my now famous fat ass. Oh, the humanity.

So, here is what I propose. Fat people show your faces. If you see a camera pointed in your direction -- even a block away make sure your face is visible. Or better yet start waving your arms or dancing. It makes the footage unusable. Get the word out -- let's make fat b-roll a museum piece. And remember, you aren't doing it for you, you aren't doing it for fat people everywhere, you are doing it for me, my size 12 pants and my love of all things fried...

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I feel dirty

It has come to my attention that LibbyLogic is being censored. Yes, dear readers, it appears that the Jordan School District is blocking my site from those needing their dose of sarcastic ranting. Why, you may ask. They consider my site pornography. But, Libby, you must be saying, there is nothing pornographic about your site. I know, gentle reader, I think it is because i titled a previous post "The Bitch is Back." Either that or the full frontal nudity I have been including subliminally.

No matter what the reason I will not take this affront lightly. The gestapo like tactics of the Jordan District must stop! How are children ever going to grow into caustic young adults if they only exposed to proper websites and blogs -- like Fox News? So, what am I going to do? Am I going to stage a protest? March with a sign in front of every school in the district until my voice is heard? Write my Congressman and ask for help? Take this all the way to the Supreme Court? No, none of those. Instead, I am going to use the greatest weapon at my disposal -- my power or persuasion.

Reasons Why LibbyLogic is good for Children -- and America

1. America needs to laugh. In these days of war, famine, global warming and NBC's crappy fall line-up who will bring redemption? The jesters. Especially the short, sarcastic ones with too much time on their hands.
   
2. Increased vocabulary. I think we have all benefited from my grasp of the English language and how to manipulate it. Hello, "niceified" anyone? I'm also up on the latest slang. Kids can related to me when I say something was jammin' in the hiz-ouse.
   
3. The war on drugs. If kids are happy and occupied reading LibbyLogic they have less time to uses drugs. And a hand on a mouse scrolling down the page is too busy to hold a crack pipe.
   
4. Pictures of my dog. She is much cuter than any of those stupid kittens on Cuteoverload that the kids love. I bet that stupid site isn't blocked by the first amendment squashers at Jordan.
5. Tips on being a better citizen. By letting the world know what annoys me -- and probably all forward thinking people in the world -- I give others the chance to better the world by stopping their bad behaviors early. For instance, people could reconsider their stupid do-gooder movements before they start.
   

There are thousands of other benefits of LibbyLogic I could highlight -- but most of them are strangely connected to the fact that I have a great rack. And that probably would just lead to more censorship. So, I will leave you with this to ponder -- if a blog is blocked by a school district and no one complains then what is the sound of one hand clapping? Deep, I know.

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Prom Night

This past Friday night -- I went to the prom. No, I have not taken up with a 15 year old in a random attempt to recapture my youth. I was a chaperon. Let me repeat that. I was the one making sure no one caused any trouble. Go ahead laugh, I'll wait...

Are you done?

Ryan and I had agreed to chaperon the prom months ago when I assumed I would be too pregnant to drink any more and would need some kind of comedic distraction. However, the prom rolled around, I still was not pregnant and I found myself more in need of a drink than ever. Because high school kids are just like they were when I was in high school -- only now I'm not desperately trying to get them to like me, so it's harder to pretend they aren't all tools.

He got sooo lucky later...

The theme of the prom was James Bond. At first I thought it was kind of cool and old school that the kids had picked a kind of sophisticated theme, until Ryan clued me in that the theme was tied to the fact the year is 007 and pretty much every high school from Bakersfield to Paramus was holding proms with diamonds, fake martinis and teenage boys doing bad British accents.

It was fun watching the kids come in decked out in their prom finery -- mainly because it let me really let me use my inner Joan Rivers. Let's just put it this way -- I think the girls in the school bought out all the self tanner in the valley. And all of the body glitter. And dresses with cutouts were quite popular this year at Wet Seal or wherever they all shop. The best part of the outfits were the ridiculously high heels that every girl was wearing. They had to come down stairs to enter the prom and I seriously thought a couple of them weren't going to make it. getting to their tables across a title floor was another feat to behold. Suffice to say by the time the dancing started pretty much every pair of high heels had been abandoned to the sidelines so the ladies could truly shake their groove things.

A few of the abandoned shoes

Ryan and I did not do much dancing. First of all because we were busy watching the kids and secondly because my dancing kind of looks like an Autistic child having a fit and Ryan has a certain level of coolness to protect among his students. So we stood on the sidelines while the young people danced to such classics as "Smack That" and "Pimp Juice." Just as I was about to start in on a diatribe about the music young people listen to today the DJ played "Thriller" by Michael Jackson and the kids began squealing about how much they love "oldies." Oldies? I remember when I got that 45. It was right before the McCarthy hearings.

The best thing I can say about the prom is that we didn't have to bust anyone. No one was found drinking, or having sex in the bathroom or sharing roofies. At least, if they were, we didn't know about it, which is just as good as if they weren't doing it at all. Yes, it would have been fun to reign hellfire down on some 17 year old who thought sneaking Boones Farm wine in bota bag was "classy" but after the initial rush it just would have been a pain in the ass -- and we wouldn't have gotten out of there at 11. And I had a big bottle of "congratulations you didn't kill anyone at the prom" wine waiting for me at home -- and a prom date I needed to take advantage of...

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Too Damn Smart

Last night we walked up the home of some friends for dinner -- and being that we are "those kind of people" we took our dog along. I can only imagine how obnoxious we'll be when we bring both Sally and the baby with us everywhere we go. Maybe we can alternate which one we take. At least the baby probably wouldn't chew on the sofa if we left it alone. But, then again, leaving Sally won't get us arrested for child neglect... But, I digress.

When we arrived at the home we were greeted by their dog Stella. Stella is one of my favorite dogs in the world. She is big and yellow and, I swear to God, laughs at my jokes. She is also a binge eater. Her vet actually put Stella on a diet because she had a little too much junk in the trunk. She actually is looking quite svelte now though and I think will be ready for bathing suit season. As soon as we walked in the door Stella took off to protect her beloved tennis ball, Sally ran after her to steal it and Ryan and I sat down with our hosts for a lovely appetizer of artichokes and a ranch dipping sauce. After about an hour it was time for dinner, so we moved over to the table for some scrumptious pork chops and pasta. I should have known something was up when Sally and Stella did not immediately follow and begin begging.

We first noticed something was wrong when both dogs appeared with strange white smears on their faces. At first we assumed it must be pollen -- they had been playing in the garden. But then Ryan noticed the smears were runny -- and had a ranchy tang to them. Yes, the dogs had decided to clean up the first course for themselves. However, they skipped the middle man artichoke and went straight for the good stuff.

Our hostess then went into the kitchen to start clearing up -- only to discover there was little to clear. The Sally and Stella cleaning crew had been through and thoughtfully cleared up the mess of the leftover pork chops. I can just imagine Sally standing guard at the door while Stella brought the pork chops off the table with a hearty "Oh, my god, I'm starving!" I'm sure she was well rewarded for her complicity in breaking Stella's diet.

After they had been found out both dogs stared at us with "Who? What? Pork Chops?" looks on their faces. And that just makes it so damn hard to be mad. At least it was until later that evening when Sally (and I'm sure Stella) too began filling the house with gas that could only be described as "toxic." Really, we could sell it to the military and end the war in Iraq. But, at least while she was tooting, Sally was smiling and dreaming of a wonderful night of stolen porkchops covered in ranch dip...

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The Bitch is Back

Some of my loyal (and mouthy) readers have recently commented on the sentimental nature of my last few entries. No, not the pickle one. The ones regarding my husband and my mother. One commenter who shall not be named (Tara) even referred to my "schmoopiness" when describing my writings. Of course, I think anyone who invents the word "schmoopiness" must be pretty schoompy themselves -- but I am not going to be brought down to the level of name calling. Even though Tara is a notorious slutbag.

Let me assure you, gentle readers, that I have not changed my cold as ice, hard as nails, kitten stomping ways. I'm still mad as hell and not going to take it any more. It's just that now I occasionally like to sit back and have a glass of wine with my husband between rages. Is that so wrong? But, while we're on the subject of my well known rants -- there are a few things I would like to get off my chest...

Why do clothing stores order ten million pairs of size four pants -- and only two or three of each other size? Don't they notice all of the unsold Barbie clothes sitting on their shelves? Is making larger women feel bad more important than making money? Also, why are the larger sizes usually ordered in the most unflattering styles and colors? No, I do not want high waisted magenta jeans with ankle zippers. Didn't want them in '87 -- don't want them now.

Just because you work with someone does not mean they have to talk to you. If on more than one occasion the person in question replies with only one word answers and does not turn away from their computer to talk to you -- get the hint. They do not want to hear your thoughts on Jay Leno's monologue or be asked how their morning is going. They just want you to pretend you don't see them and annoy someone else. Got it? Good.

There should be two lines at the coffee shop -- one for the time wasting bastards who want half-caf, skim, strawberry guava macchiatos and one for those of us who take coffee the way God intended it -- black and bitter. We should not have to wait just because we have common sense.

Adorable animals stories should only be on the news if absolutely nothing is going on anywhere in the world. No spelling bees, no can drives, no nothing. And then a story about the weird lack of news should be aired instead of the latest "oh look at what the kitty did" story. Same goes for kids trying to set inane world records.

I should be able to call into work and tell them my hair looks awful, my face is broken out and I can't find anything that doesn't make me look fat -- and have them take these as legitimate reasons for not going into the office. If they would let me do that just once a year I would be a much happier person. They could think of it as "workplace beautification."

Okay, I think that's it for now. I feel much better. Now I'm going to go skip through a field of wildflowers and sing show tunes... And if any of you have a problem with that -- suck it.

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Special Mother's Day Edition

Ah, Mother's Day. The one day of the year when all of children's transgressions can be forgiven with a bouquet of zinnias purchased at 7-11. When kids call mothers they haven't talked to in months -- mainly because they can't stand them -- and lie about the wonderful childhoods they had. When restaurants can charge double for runny eggs Benedict and cheap fruit salad because they give each Mom a daisy. What a holiday.

I am kind of a Mother's Day abnormality -- because I like my Mom. Yes, we have had our moments of gritted teeth and rolled eyes, but, for the most part we enjoy each other's company. We have similar sense of humor and propriety and we generally make fun of the same people in shopping malls. And she has taught me a lot... mostly by example.

1. If you stick your hand out of a moving car a big truck will most likely come along and rip it off. She knows, it happened to a friend in high school. He was an identical twin and the only way could tell them apart was one didn't have an arm.

2. If there is a large statue of Jesus at your school with a missing hand do NOT make it a hook and then lay in it's arms to have your picture taken. You will be expelled.

3. It is possible to have been at Woodstock and recording with the Archies at the same time -- with no real proof of either.

4. Vacations are a time to eat everything you want -- because calories don't count. Also, because you walk everywhere. On vacation everything is within walking distance -- even if that distance is four miles up steep San Francisco streets.

5. Buying candy and drinks outside the movie theater and bringing them in is more fun -- and surprisingly tastier -- than buying them there. Just be sure to cough when you open your soda can so no one can hear it.

6. Don't try to skip school by claiming you have leukemia. Eventually someone will find out and you'll end up with your new stepmother going to school with you every day for a month.

7. Webbed toes (a family trait) can be disguised in open toe sandals by drawing a lie down the middle with eyeliner.

8. Meatloaf is delicious hot -- but always save some for cold sandwiches the next day.

I could go on and on -- but I won't -- mainly so that me Mom keeps speaking to me. I will just end by saying I am very, very lucky to have to have Ellen Mitchell as my Mother and that I can't wait to be a Mom myself due largely to her example.


I love you Mom.

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Not right

I try not to comment on the news -- because I bathe in it all day. When I am not at work I try to focus on the better things in life, like wine and unicorns. But, sometimes something comes up that is so egregious, so disturbing and just so wrong that I cannot hold my tongue. Such a matter came to my attention in the New York Times yesterday. What was it, you may ask? Darfur? Iraq? The return of high waisted jeans? No, none of those horrors could compare with what greeted me on the food and dining page.

Kool-aid soaked pickles.

No, I am not making this up. This trainwreck of a food idea has actually reached the point where people are trademarking names and guarding "secret recipes" for their drink mix dunks. Schools are serving them to children. There is actual etiquette on how to eat them. I mean, my god, the New York Times is writing about them! Isn't that a sign of the apocalypse?

Don't put this in your mouth

I am well aware that as a kid I ate bizarre things that adults questioned. Peanut Butter, pretzel and cheese sandwiches come to mind. But this is beyond anything I may have enjoyed in my youth. It looks radioactive -- only I think radioactive waste probably has higher nutritional value. Tons of sugar and salt and the remnants of a once proud vegetable. AND THEY ARE GIVING THEM TO CHILDREN!!! What happened to the whole "children are our future" thing? Did that go out the window when Whitney Brown started doing crack and reality TV?

Please, join my crusade to save our food. Pork rinds, cheetos, those noxious bright orange "cheese" crackers that have the shelf life of uranium, those can all stay. But these have to go. Our future depends on it.

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An open letter to my husband

Dear Ryan,

Two years ago today was by far the most memorable of my life -- including the day I got to meet and pet a monkey. We got married. I'm sure you remember -- you were there. I can't think of any other event that has changed my life the way marrying you has. And I mean that in a good way, not a "omigod what did I do" way. You are my best friend, my hot piece of ass, my favorite comedian and my personal advisor. You save me from myself more often than not -- and don't judge me when I make colossal and avoidable mistakes. You make me feel smart and beautiful and funny and loved. Really, I only have one problem with you. You have turned me into a total sap.

Before we met I was a tough bitch. My entire shtick was centered around how a good man was hard to find and how gay men were the only ones you could trust. I actually remember saying -- with regularity -- that eventually sperm would be sold in the grocery store cold case so the species could continue with the headache of trying to find a partner. I admired the preying mantis and the black widow and considered them evolutionarily superior. My favorite way to spend an hour was to sit on the porch and talk about how much men sucked. Then you came along and blew my comfortable and caustic world all to hell. Now I watch romantic movies and sigh because they make me think of you. Is that gross, or what?

I mean, how can I complain about you? You are kind, generous, handsome, intelligent and more fun than a moon bounce full of puppies. I would rather spend an evening dancing in the kitchen with you and Sally than going out to the most fabulous party alone. You have expanded my world -- and not just because of our wonderful adventures around the globe. You get me outside of my comfort zone -- and then make me stay there until I feel at ease.

Even if I wanted to complain about you -- I doubt I could get anyone to listen. My Mother is not kidding when she says she'll miss me if we ever break up. When I arrive at a party alone I am asked at least a dozen times where you are. I think some people have really considered rescinding their invitations when they discover I'll be coming stag because you are out of town.

I love building a life with you. I can't wait to meet our children and figure out new and exciting ways to screw them up. I mean, look what we've done to our dog. She's certifiable. I also can't wait to see the rest of the world with you. Turkey, India, Greece, the Galapagos Islands -- the list of places we still have to see goes on and on.

You know what though? Even if we never go anywhere again. If we never have kids and we spend the rest of our days sitting on the porch eating peanut butter straight from the jar -- I'll be happy. I'll be with you. But the peanut butter better be chunky...

I love you.

Libby

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Sally's rough life

We dropped a bomb on our cats when we brought Sally home.

The three of them had worked out very intricate plans and schedules before she arrived. Maggie ruled the bedroom, Rita -- the couch and Alice -- the outdoors. Whenever a human wandered into their given area they were the first to get attention. No one was allowed to sleep anywhere but their designated area -- unless the proprietor was already in the prime sleeping space. They had similar rules for food. Dry food was free game -- but the one can of wet food a night had strict rules. If it was beef, Rita got to eat first; if it was turkey, Alice (which fits if you've met Alice); and on fish or mixed grill nights Maggie got first bite. Then, and only then, could the other two eat. And any human food given had to be divided evenly. Only if it was left on the floor for a certain length of time could it be poached. None of these rules were breakable and would result in a cat fight if tested. They could not have been clearer if one of the cats had typed them out, laminated them and hung them on the wall. Sally ruined all that.

Sally sleeps anywhere she wants -- usually taking up the most space her 44 pound body is able to. She will eat anything, even if someone else is already eating it. And if the cat food looks good she has no problem pretending it's actually just a very wussy looking dog on the label. She does not speak the cats' language -- and probably tear up the rules sheet if it were presented to her.

At first the cats dealt with Sally's disruption by pretending it wasn't happening. They would disappear whenever she was around -- and then revert to the aforementioned rules when she left the house. But, now, they are taking back their territory.

"Attica! Attica!"

It started, surprisingly, with Maggie. She was not about to cede what she considered as her bed. At firsst she would nose in on the opposite side of Sally, trying to steal my attention from the dog. Then she got bolder, actually stepping on Sally's head in order to push her nose under my head to get strokes. Alice was next to join the onslaught -- chasing Sally off the porch and pouncing on her as she lay in the grass chewing whatever treasure she had stolen in the house. Rita finalized the coup in a very simple way. She just won't get off the couch. If Sally is in the front part of the house, Rita is at her post. Only when Sally leaves, or is torturing Maggie in the bedroom does Rita get up to eat or stretch or use the cat box. Other than that Rita is a sentinel. And all three have banded together to save their cat food. Now they crowd around the bowl together, trading off turns quickly so not to allow Sally an entrance. She is stuck licking any crusty remains they may leave for her.

Sally has taken to the cats change in behavior with an increased wariness. She never looks directly at them any more -- she just stares out of them out of the corner of her eye. When one approaches -- especially Alice -- she stiffens and waits for him to pass, like she's hoping he won't see her if she's perfectly still. It's like she's confused a small cat with a T. Rex.

As if dealing with the cats isn't bad enough -- Ryan has begun firing Sally with regularity. It started last week when he realized that part of his new job was going to involve personnel issues. That made him think of the fact that as his career goes on he might actually have to fire someone. This idea petrified my gentle husband. At first I offered to be his hatchet man -- and do all his firings until he was comfortable with it -- or monkeybots ruled the world -- whichever came first. But, then we realized that would kind of be like having your Mom fight for you in fourth grade, so we came up with an alternate plan, practicing on Sally. So, over the past ten days Sally has been dismissed for a number of reasons: sleeping on the job, tardiness, bad attitude and butt sniffing. Each time she is rehired, only to have the axe fall again. The last time it happened she looked at Ryan and me as if to say "this really isn't as funny as you think it is" before laying back down and going to sleep.

I'm just glad we don't have kids yet. I think being constantly fired by your father might be seriously scarring. Of course, my father fired me once -- but that's a story for another day... Maybe Father's Day.

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Random Conversation

Me: I wish my period would start, I feel like a whale.

Ryan: Maybe you're pregnant.

Me: Well, I took a test yesterday.

Ryan: What did it say?

Me: It was negative. Do you really think I wouldn't tell you if I took a test and it was positive?

Ryan: That does sound like something you would do...

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