New resident

This is Nelson. He lives in our pond. Now I am afraid to clean out all of the algae because I worry it will make him leave...

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Libby Skywalker?

There are many things I never want to do in my life. I don't want to knit a sweater out of cat hair, I don't want to see Celine Dion in concert and I don't ever want to be considered an Arby's "frequent diner." As of today I have another thing to add to the list -- I don't ever, ever, ever want to go out on the Grand Canyon Skywalk.

For those of you unfamiliar the Skywalk is a platform jutting out over the edge of Grand Canyon -- four thousand feet up from the canyon bottom. Oh, and it has a glass bottom, just in case you really wanted to know how far you would fall if the whole thing broke apart and crashed onto the rocks below -- which I'm pretty sure would happen if I set foot on it. It also has glass sides -- which don't go all the way up. Um, hello, calling all jumpers? The Golden Gate bridge is going to look like nothing compared to this. Not only that, you have to pay for the privilege of looking death in the face while crazy people try to take their own lives. Fifteen bucks! I would rather pay to have someone kick me in the shins, or to buy a Danzig CD.

Of course, because the idea of the Skywalk scares the hell out of me, Ryan thinks it is the coolest thing ever. He wants to go this summer to stare into the brink of oblivion. He says it's perfectly safe and a once in a lifetime opportunity. Of course, this is also the man who jumped out of an airplane, thought a shot of Tequila would cure a broken wrist and maintains skateboarding is a safe mode of travel. In fact, I bet he would skateboard on the damn Skywalk if they would let him. That's how crazy he is.

I think the only way I will ever set foot on the Skywalk is if my Mother goes with me. I'm a skydiving tightrope walker compared to her. She gets nervous in a three story house. When I was a kid we went to the observation deck at the Empire State Building -- and she stood plastered against the wall -- sure if she came to well fenced edge it would spell her doom. The Empire State Building is only 12-hundred feet tall. The Skywalk is more than twice that -- with a glass bottom. My family is actually afraid if she even sees a news report about the new attraction she'll start screaming. But, if she'll go with me I will gladly pay for both of us.

I don't think I'll be booking tickets to Arizona any time soon...

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Easy as pie -- my ass

Before we went to California Ryan went to the grocery store to stock the house for our house sitter -- and went a little nuts. The way he shopped indicated he either thought we were going to be in LA for three years, not three days, or that some major catastrophe was scheduled in our absence. Among his purchases were cold cuts galore, a three pound bucket of potato salad, and a huge bag of apples. No one could have eaten all of those apples unless all they ate were apples, for every meal, and every meal featured four apple filled courses. And since we didn't have a rabbit watching our house I wasn't surprised when we returned home and found most of the apples were untouched.

Now, I love apples, but I am a VERY picky eater. One brown spot or mushy bit and I won't eat it. Ryan loves fruit, but is more of an oranges and bananas type person. So, it seemed there was only one answer to our apple predicament (other than chucking them at cars) and that was pie.

The ideal.

I have made two other pies in my life, and both were made under the watchful eye of my Mother -- who is a pie wizard. She makes dough so good I used to eat it raw (no, I'm not kidding, you should try it). Her crust is always light and flaky with a seemingly limited amount of effort. She makes it look as easy as, well, pie. I called her this afternoon to get her recipe and it seemed simple enough -- water, shortening, flour and salt. I had all of those things. I told all of my co-workers about my pie aspirations and promised to share my bounty with them. I figured I had enough apples to make at least two pies.

Then I actually tried to make a pie -- solo.

It started out easy enough. I peeled the apples and covered them with sugar and cinnamon. I cut the shortening into the flour and added the salt. But when I started to add the water the dough didn't seem to be getting moist at all. So, I added more. Then it looked to wet. I added more flour. Perfect. I pounded it into a ball and set it on my perfectly floured counter. I put my rolling pin down in the middle, did two quick rolls, and the whole thing split in half -- with most of the dough stuck to the rolling pin. I put more flour down, floured the rolling pin, made the dough back into a ball and started again. And the same thing happened. After about four tries and half a bag of flour the dough stayed down. And it looked good, until I went to pick it up. I found the dough was now shunning the rolling pin, and clinging to the counter.There was no way it was coming up in one single piece. I scraped it up and started again.

I have always been very good at knowing when I'm beaten. The second time I rolled out the dough and it stuck to the counter, I had the same feeling I did when I lost the 7th grade class election. All the crying in the world wasn't going to make a difference. My countertop was now more flour than granite. If that dough wanted to stick, there was nothing I could do. I started peeling up small pieces and laying them inside the pie pan until the bottom was covered. Then I added the apples and repeated the process for the top. For a final touch I spelled out Ryan's name in fork pricks. It looked like a pie from a Tim Burton movie.

The reality.

It tasted pretty good though -- and luckily Ryan didn't marry me for my pie making skills. He fell in love with my cookies.

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Wino country

I love wine. I love the pretty labels, the fancy corks, the protocol of opening a bottle. I also, on occasion, enjoy drinking it. I think that part of my fascination with wine comes from growing up in a culture (Utah) where it is so vigorously sequestered. You can only buy it in state run liquor stores, and even then the selection is pretty crappy. You have to go to a special wine store to get anything good. Because of the mystique surrounding wine in my state I find myself goggle-eyed in places where liquor runs free as the wind. All of the varieties, all of the brands -- available in the grocery store! I find myself wanting to spin around and sing like Julie Andrews. So, obviously, when Tara said they wanted to take us to wine country I was more than happy to go.

The drive up the coast to Santa Barbara was lovely. The sky was blue, the waves were crashing and the traffic was co-operating. It was like the universe wanted to help us on our way to a mid-morning buzz. We started at a small winery in a pink castle. The fairy tale allusions just made it that much better. The wine was delicious, and we got to keep the glasses! Really, free wine glasses. If I had known about this two years ago Ryan and I wouldn't have registered for stemware. Of course, I'm also the woman who wanted to register for Muppets collectors glasses.

Tara tries the wares

For hours we sniffed, we swirled, we talked about fruitiness and nice legs, compared tannins and pretended we knew anything about wine other than it goes in your mouth and gives you a nice warm feeling. My favorite vineyard was one we visited at the very end of the day, mainly because I got to see a lizard. Oh, yeah, and there was a dog there who liked playing fetch with a cork. It was kind of like an alcoholic petting zoo. I couldn't have been happier, I mean, unless there had been monkeys.

He was so drunk.

There was really only one distressing moment of the day. Tara, not liking the wine we were sampling POURED IT OUT. I'm not kidding. Not even thinking about it, like wine grows on trees, she poured it into the large spit bucket on the counter. And suddenly I understood that scene in "Sideways." I looked at Tara, trying to understand what had happened to my friend. "What?" she said, "I don't like it." I hope that reasoning is good enough for the sober children in Africa.

Ryan and I ended up taking home seven bottles of wine. We plan to drink it from our souvenir glasses, watching the sunset into the west -- the land of wine, and freedom.

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Playing the ponies

I have never been a particularly lucky person. Don't get me wrong, I have a great husband, a wonderful family, blah, blah, blah. I'm blessed. But the only thing I have ever won was a coloring contest for children 10 and under. I was 12. It was one of the only times in my life I've appreciated my short stature. However, my lack of a relationship with Lady Luck has never stopped me from thinking I'm Nathan Detroit when it comes to any situation where gambling is involved. I think its the lingo -- double down, let it ride, flat busted -- that I really love. Also, most gambling involves some sort of drinking, which is always a plus in my book.

On Saturday we went to Santa Anita to watch the races. It was dollar day, meaning entrance, programs, popcorn, hot dogs and beer were all just one dollar. ONE DOLLAR. And people say America isn't a great country. When we entered the grounds I was pleasantly surprised. I expected a den of iniquity -- but instead it was more low brow Disney. Sculptured bushes, a fountain, clean paths, it was lovely. Of course, this was at 11:15 in the morning before the races had ever started. By the end of the day almost every inch was covered in losing bet slips and tears.

Once we had gotten our first dollar beer of the day (priorities), I prepared to make my first bet, realized I had no idea what I was doing -- and that there was MATH involved. You had to figure out the odds, and the percentages, and how much to bet in order to win more than 30 cents. All I had wanted was to pick a horse with a funny name and win a lot of money. But now I had to THINK! Fortunately, I was not the only clueless one at the track, and so there was a tutorial going on. About twenty of us sat there with our mouths hanging open, listening to the talented Howard explain things like Trifecta, Exacta, Win, Place, and Show -- pretending that we spoke the language. After about a half an hour Howard finally realized none of us knew what he was saying -- and simply went through the races, telling us which horse to pick in each race.

Kent picks his ponies

For the first race Ryan and I decided to bet on "So Long Sonoma." Five dollars to place. We felt pretty ballsy because we were going against Howard's recommendation -- and going with the advice in the betting guide. I went off to get more beers. By the time I got back the race was over. Those horses are fast. "So Long Sonoma" had come in second -- and we had won three dollars and fifty cents. I saw my future spreading out before me, weekends at the track, fresh air, cheap beer, and the money rolling in. Then "Brite Red State" crashed all my dreams.

This horse is fast. I didn't bet on it.

It was not the horse Howard had picked in the fifth race. He said "Lady La Belle" was a lock (see how I love the lingo), but I just had a feeling about "Brite Red State", after all, I'm from Utah. I meant to bet five dollars to place. But then I heard the guy next to me bet ten dollars "straight across the board" and I really wanted to say that too. So I did. What I didn't realize was betting "straight across the board" was actually three bets -- and fifteen dollars. I didn't want to bet that much, but I also didn't want the lady in the betting booth to think I didn't know what I was doing. I mean, she would probably tell everyone and then I would just feel stupid. So, I took my ticket and oped for the best.

The best sucked.

"Brite Red State" stayed in the back for the first half and then made his move -- to fourth. No win, no place, no show. "Lady La Belle" came in first. Damn Howard. Ryan and Kent wanted to stay for the next race, but I knew when I was beaten, so after one more cheap beer I held my head high and walked out of Santa Anita, poorer, but wiser.

Maybe I'll go back some day. I just have to see how I do in my NCAA pool.

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A plague of dinner

So, here we are visiting our friends Tara and Kent in Los Angeles. The weather is balmy, the traffic is busy, and I weigh fifty pounds more than anyone else. Its kind of like being on Jupiter in the future.

Last night we went to dinner with our hosts, Kent's son Sam and his Mom Nicole. Tara said we had to try this restaurant at the Santa Monica airport because they have the best mojitos ever. What she didn't mention is that they also serve bugs. Yes, insects, which Ryan was all to eager to try. While the rest of us were happy with dumplings and spring rolls, he ordered a nice heaping plate of crickets.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Would it be like at a seafood restaurant where they let you pick your lobster? What kind of dipping sauce would go best with crickets? What arrived was actually little disappointing -- a heaping pile of potato straws -- that looked like they had been prepared in a very dirty kitchen. The crickets studding it looked like they were climbing a mighty potato mountain. I half expected to see one on top with a flag.

I'm what's for dinner.

I ate three of the crickets, which thankfully had been de-legged. I had to stop after that, not because I didn't enjoy eating something with a head -- but because they really weren't that good. Sam summed it up perfectly -- they tasted like the inside skin of a peanut -- you know, the part you throw away. Ryan ate several more, I think mostly to gross out Tara, and Sam used most of his serving trying to get them into Tara's dinner so we would accidentally eat one. So, while they weren't a culinary success, they were definitely entertaining.

I bet the scorpions were much, much better.

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Mommy Warbucks

I have decided if and when we have a baby -- I will be the bad parent. I don't mean bad as in beatings or alcoholic rages or buying Barney DVDs -- I mean bad as in sucker. I think we should probably take out a second mortgage on the house right now, just because I fear the word no will disappear from my vocabulary once I'm knocked up. In less than 24 hours two things have happened to reinforce my fears. First of all, Luke came down with a cold.

Luke is what is known in most circles as a "hypochondriac." He loves wearing band aids, always thinks his nose is bleeding and usually responds to questions about his health with tales of a "really bad cold." It's like my grandmother has been reincarnated as a four year old. When Ryan and I took him to the dog park the other day Ryan warned him against getting his socks wet for fear of blisters. The moment the words came out of his mouth blisters instantly formed on Luke's feet. We spent the rest of the walk with him convinced we would have to amputate when we got back to the car. But, today, he was really, honest to god sick. My father called in the morning to let me know he was staying home with him until my sister could get off in the afternoon. I asked him to put Luke on the phone and the minute I heard his little snifflely voice I only had one question "what can I do to make you feel better?" Promises of presents started pouring from my lips as if I could bribe him to get well. I couldn't stop myself. Normally I am a very soft touch with that kid anyway, but during this phone call, I was promising trips to Tahiti and mountains of toys.

The second instance happened just moments ago -- at Starbucks. I was waiting in line for my afternoon fix when a little boy, maybe seven or eight, burst through the door sobbing. Today is his birthday, he had saved up his money -- and Build-a-Bear was out of the turtle he so desperately wanted to stuff. My heart was spurred into action. I had to make this child stop crying. I thought about buying him another bear so he could save his money for the turtle, I thought about going to Build-a-Bear and making a turtle out of lesser loved animals fully in stock. I actually considered buying him a real turtle. I dug into my pockets, only five bucks. Luckily for my bank account I had left my debit card behind.

Ryan is definitely going to have to be the hard ass. I just can't do it. Yes, I can be demanding, harsh even, with reporters, and waiters and telephone salespeople, but none of those look like children. I guarantee that if telemarketers were all under ten I would have bought countless time shares and cable television plans by now. Any hopes for our children not being the epitome of spoiledness is in the hands of my capable husband. Well, him and the good people at American Express...

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The best laid plans of giant corporations

I just saw an advertisement for ready made cheesecake filling. In the commercial two women are eating cheesecake obviously made from the filling and a ready made graham cracker crust. But we all know that isn't how this product will actually be eaten. It will instead be eaten by the spoonful late at night straight out of the container, possibly only in the light of the refrigerator bulb, maybe with pretzels.

I have to get some.

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A very special episode of LibbyLogic

I love "This American Life." For those of you unfamiliar (troglodytes) it is a magazine radio show on NPR hosted by Ira Glass. I like it not only because I think it makes me a better person no matter how many bottles of non-organic milk I buy or how hard I laugh at movies starring Adam Sandler, but also because it can be almost as funny as I am. Yes, at times it becomes almost as preachy as I am, but often it is just fun. This weekend's show fell somewhere in between. It was about TV. And, of course, being NPR, it was not about how great television is.

Whenever I come across critical discussions of television I immediately am on the defensive. After all, this is the medium that has fed me and clothed me for almost my entire life. My father is in TV, my grandfather is in TV, two of my uncles are in TV. My middle name might as well be Sylvania. So, you can see why I bristle any time someone starts a conversation with "I don't even own a TV."

Teacher, Mother, Secret Lover

I don't feel this makes me a TV apologist. I know there is a lot of crap out there. I've even produced some of it. But I think to dismiss a whole medium just because of "According to Jim" is a bit like hating all music just because Meatloaf is still selling records. And I know that some of you are saying "but there's no educational value to television" -- but really, does everything has to be educational? Isn't there time for learning fractions AND laughing at monkeys dressed like people? Not even all books are educational -- for those of you who "prefer reading to the boob tube." Hello, Michael Crichton?

I think its time everyone put down their petty biases and give their television a hug. Not only because it deserves it, but because eventually it will take over the universe. After all, even "This American Life" now has a television show...

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More than you wanted to know

I had my annual visit to the gynecologist today. Now, normally I wouldn't talk about this, much less write about it on what is pretty much an international billboard, but since a majority of my thoughts as of late are about fertility and my lady parts, I feel its relevant. Because just in case I wasn't feeling bad enough about myself and said lady parts, this was the most depressing trip to the gynecologist ever.

Not a post-modern duck puppet

First of all, the waiting room was full of pregnant women, sitting there with their rosy cheeks and their bulging stomach and that smug look of satisfaction. And, of course, they had taken all of the copies of "People" so the only magazines left were all about parenting with articles about how wonderful it is to have a baby and how people without children really won't go to heaven.

When my name was called I went back to face the scale. I had been dreading this moment since I made the appointment six months ago. At last years appointment I had been on Weight Watchers in preparation for summer and swim suits. But this year my attitude was a little different. I figure, I'm trying to get pregnant, so I'm going to get fat, so I might as well enjoy the ride. I'll make a big push and lose the baby weight and the pre-baby anticipation weight all at once. And no, I don't care if you think this logic is flawed. Refer to the name of the blog if you have questions. As expected my girth has expanded over the past year. I tried to make excuses, that my jeans were made of iron, or I had lead for lunch, but that couldn't keep the nurse from noting the depressing number on my chart.

For those of you who have never been to the gynecologist before this might be the time for you to go check scores at ESPN.com. Because this is the point when I had to get naked.

Normally, I enjoy being naked. It means no fashion decisions and a free and easy feeling I enjoy. But not in this case. There is something about the gynecologist's office that just makes naked feel so exposed. They give you a little gown and a drape -- but that just makes it worse. I felt like a flasher that just hadn't gotten caught yet. Then of course there is the whole issue of grooming. I know, she's a doctor, she's seen it all, but I still wondered if my bikini wax still looked good and if I should have shaved my legs this morning instead of last night. Added to my worry is the fact that this same doctor sees not only me, but my two sisters and my mother. It made me wonder if she was doing a silent comparison as I sat in the stirrups. What if I was the big disappointment in the crotch care department?

The actual check-up wasn't that bad. I like the fact that my doctor doesn't try to chat at that time or explain in soothing tones everything that is going on. Its wham, bam, pap smear ma'am. She refilled my prescriptions and all was well. But then she wanted to talk about Luke.

Normally I love to talk about Luke. But normally I'm not wearing a hospital gown backwards while trying to retain my dignity. However, I like my doctor so I pulled out my camera to show her a few pictures and she oohed and ahhed said how excited she is that I'm trying to get pregnant. And then I had a horrible thought -- as soon as I get pregnant I'll have repeat this experience multiple times. That office will no longer be a once a year treat, but a constant presence in my life. I shivered.

I wonder if they'll let me bring my own scale.

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The Lion is not sleeping tonight

Ryan came home from his latest trip on Sunday with a wicked chest cold. That means for the past few nights he has been snoring like a wildebeest with a deviated septum. Now, I love my husband with all my heart. However, I also know that if I do not get the proper amount of sleep each night I am slightly less pleasant to be around than a Zombie on Xanax (wow, the metaphors are flowing today). So, for the past two nights I have waited until Ryan was sound asleep and crept out to sleep on the couch with the dog and at least one cat hot on my heels.

I have previously posted on this very blog how much I love my couch. It truly is paradise. However, the paradise is a bit less when my legs are fighting a dog for space and a rather large cat is sleeping on my head. The only way to make it bearable is to stake my claim first, before they can make themselves comfortable. Monday night was no sweat. They weren't expecting me on the couch and so I was able to stretch out and fall fast asleep before they got on the couch -- so they were forced to take what room was left.

Last night they had me beat.

When I carried my blanket and pillow out to the living room just before midnight Sally had already curled up on one end of the couch and Rita, the aforementioned large cat, was sound asleep on the other end. I pushed them both off onto the floor -- threw down my pillow, but before I could put down my blanket down they both reclaimed their spot. I then tried to muscle my way in, sitting in the middle before slowly laying down and stretching out to full length. I managed to get my legs under Sally, but Rita was not going to give up that easily. After all, she still had her place -- and now she had my pillow. I slowly began to slide my head up onto the pillow, but did not get far before I heard the growl of doom.

Don't look directly into her eyes

Before I go any further I feel I should describe Rita for those who do not know her. Rita is 24 pounds of pure North Carolina barn cat fury. She was adorable as a kitten, but once she started to grow all pretense of cuddliness disappeared. For the first four years we were together Ryan couldn't get near her. My mother claims Rita cornered her when she went to feed her while we were out of town. She had to use a broom to get out the door. I am the only one who Rita seems to like. But that was before I tried to sleep on the couch.

Upon hearing the growl I can only describe as "guttural" I quickly lifted my head -- and felt her claws catch in my hair. She was pissed. Me AND the dog on the couch and her paw snarled in the hair of her adversary. I put my hand up to extricate her -- but then realized I want to keep all my fingers. So I started shaking my head vigorously, hoping she would let go. Since I wouldn't put my hand up for a small sacrifice -- she held fast. Finally, in a desperation move, I head butted her and sent her flying off the couch. Now, I don't know how many of you remember "The Princess Bride" but Rita came back towards the sofa with the same lumbering, angry gait as a Rodent of Unusual Size. She jumped, and in that moment I put my head firmly down on the pillow. My life passed before my eyes. She landed on just the other side of my head and laid down, her back turned firmly towards me. A moment later she began snoring only slightly quieter than Ryan. It was a truce. I drifted off to sleep, careful not to change my position for fear of starting round two.

I went back into my bed about 5am, when Ryan came out to tell me he wasn't snoring any more and to please come join him. I left my blanket and pillow, figuring I would put the couch back together this morning before going to work. That turned out not to be an option. When I went to retrieve my bedding and replace the sofa cushions I found Rita sprawled on the couch, her body on the blanket, her head on the pillow. I knew better than to wake her.

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We've been together five and a half years

Me: "Disney on Ice is coming to town. Should we get tickets for the kids?"
Ryan: "Do you really want to go?"
Me: "No, I hate 'on ice' shows. I would go if it was 'Disney on fire'."
Ryan: "That's my joke."
Me; "No it isn't."
Ryan: "Yes it is, you stole it."
Me: "That is a Libby original."
Ryan: "I think we share a brain."

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WWLD?

There are few things in this world that annoy me than pointless shows of do-goodery (its a word, got a problem with it?). You know what I mean, good intentions that have been funneled into projects that really do no good whatsoever. Like school children gathering stuffed animals to send to children in Africa, or helping the blind celebrate arbor day by drawing them pictures of trees. Activities that could do some good if those involved just did a little more thinking and put in a little more effort.

Now, I am by no means saying that I am Mother Teresa. I am a big believer in checkbook charity. Every so often Ryan says we should do some community service as a couple and I send 20 bucks to the food bank to get out of it. But I am also not holding myself up as some pillar of goodness and calling television stations to come do a story about me knitting sweaters for homeless dogs. Yes, that really happens.

The latest piece of pointless claptrap meant to save the world to catch my attention is the "complaint free world campaign." It was started by a pastor in Missouri who decided too much complaining is the root of the problems in the world. Yeah, that's right, the problems in the world have nothing to do with a widening disparity between the haves and have nots, an ongoing war, dishonesty in government or the growing apathy of the public who now care more about Anna Nicole Smith than violence in the Sudan, it all comes down to people complaining. If everyone would just shut up, join hands and sing "Kumbaya" everything would instantly get better and the hole in the ozone would close.

As if this wasn't enough, the pastor's crusade comes with accessories -- specifically a purple rubber bracelet (I will save my diatribe on the whole pointless bracelet thing for another day). You are supposed to switch the bracelet from one arm to the other every time you catch yourself complaining. Then, if you last 21 days you get a "certificate of happiness" -- and a lobotomy.

The pastor has been all over talking about his mission of mindlessness, on NBC, on CNN, even in my personal bible, People magazine. Every time he talks about how the purple bracelets are brining happiness to people not only in Missouri, but all over the planet. And every time I end up throwing something.

It isn't that he doesn't have good intentions. He does, but his intentions have led to a pointless gimmick rather than to real action. How about instead of just not complaining having people examine their complaints and then do something about it? Don't like high gas prices? Ride a bike. Always worrying about money? Make a budget. Don't like your mother-in-law? Hire a hitman. Just do something other than posture.

If that were to happen, if someone were to start a feel good movement with a real purpose and real results, I would stop all my complaining. Yes, that might mean a vow of silence, but I think it would be worth it.

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Sally vs. the sofa

Our first Christmas together my now husband Ryan gave me a sofa. It is a large purple thing, perfect for sitting or sleeping and I had been lusting after it for some time. We lovingly christened it "couchtopia." For four years we lounged and cuddled and watched TV on our wonderful furniture island. Then last October we found a dopey looking dog at the pound, brought her home and named her Sally. And the couch became one big chew toy.

I knew the couch was a potential scratching post. With three cats I knew that battlefield well and was armed with sticky tape strips and a spray bottle full of "bad cat" water. But I had no idea that a dog would actually attempt to EAT a couch.

At first she seemed to have no interest in our beloved sofa except to enjoy sitting on it and cocooning with me and Ryan. Of course, this was in the early days when Ryan and I stupidly left things like shoes, books, remote controls, purses, artwork and telephones just laying about for her general consumption. As the weeks progressed and I began thinking like a dog, scouring the house for any potential chew toys, her choices became fewer and fewer. But there was one thing I couldn't pick up and put on a higher shelf -- the couch.

Sally and the object of her affection

The first attack happened in early December. We returned one Saturday night to find a couch cushion on the floor, torn open and disemboweled. After minutes of screaming and crying and threatening to never let Sally back into the house, let alone on the couch, I found that if I re-stuffed the cushion and flipped it over, no one would possibly notice the damage. I went out the next day and bought bottles of bitter apple spray -- "guaranteed to keep dogs from chewing" the label said -- and saturated every inch of couchtopia with it. It turns out Sally is a bitter apple kind of dog. What I thought would be a deterrent became a favorite seasoning. It was like the icing on the couch.

Over the next few weeks Sally attacked the couch cushions again and again. I tried covering them with a blanket -- to no avail. I tried pouring cayenne pepper on the filling -- nothing doing. Finally, I pulled the coffee table up to the edge of the couch, hoping if she couldn't get the cushions off Sally would give up. So, she chewed on the arms. I armed myself with thick black thread and tea tree oil. Sewing, and then smearing at least once a week. Sally started smelling like a hippie.

Then, about a month ago, a miracle occurred. Sally had to have minor surgery to have a growth removed. As part of her recovery she was given a large white plastic collar to keep her from chewing on her stitches. It also gave us lots of laughs as we watched her accidentally scoop up snow in the backyard, or bump into walls with the edge of her collar. But the best thing of all -- she couldn't chew on the couch. The collar had made it impossible for her to grab hold. And she didn't seem to mind it. She could still eat, drink and do everything else -- she just couldn't chew. So, after the stitches were out, we kept the collar, putting it on her every time we left her alone with the furniture. I thanked my lucky stars and started looking for upholstery repair companies.

Dog from space

And then, last week I came home in the afternoon to find Sally, in her collar, gleefully bounding around the living room, a piece of purple fabric in her mouth.

The battle goes on.

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Streetlight

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The egg timer

When Ryan and I first started dating people (my Mother) were always asking us when we were going to get married. We would squirm, they would get their perverse thrill and the moment would pass. Then, like days after we got engaged the question changed -- now it was "when are you going to have a baby." We always an sered the same was "2007." After all, this was 2004 and with a three year window anything could happen. Hell, I figured a cars would be flying and no one would wear anything other than silver metallic jumpsuits. But now it is 2007, and people (my Mother) are wondering when our offspring will be arriving.

The short answer is, I don't know. I'm pretty sure Ryan and I are doing everything right. I've bought all of the vitamins and have peed on a variety of strips meant to determine everything from ovulation to my seasonal color palate (I'm a spring). And, of course, I am wearing the watch.

The watch was given to me by our medical expert at the station, in the hopes that I will be her guinea pig for a future story. It tracks my body temperature and the level of chloride (who knew) in my sweat and then magically tells me when I am at my most fertile. I was kind of hoping it would do so with a loud alarm and a announcement of "fertility has started, commence humping now" but it turns out the display just changes from "not fertile" to "fertile, day one."The watch resembles something that I would have worn in fourth grade. That does not mean I am advocating fourth graders wearing it though -- they really should wait to worry about fertility. Its purple and has a stretchy band and big buttons. All it needs is a Hello Kitty face next to the cycle day readout. I had to wear it to work today (I forgot to put it on last night) and only one person commented -- and she thought it was a promotional item from Burger King.

Ryan still isn't sold on the watch. I think he worries its making me obsessive. The other night the battery light started blinking and I almost ran to Smith's in my pajamas for a replacement until I read in the instruction book that the battery light comes on TWO WEEKS before the bettery will actually die. Does that make me obsessive? I didn't think so.

I wonder if my ferility will lose an hour on Saturday night?

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Photo

Moonrise over industrial Salt Lake

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Crack of dawn

This week my schedule is a bit different because I am filling in the for the noon producer while she has some sort of surgery. Its either sinus or sex reassignment -- I don't remember which. I figure I'll be able to figure it out by looking at her when she comes back.

What this means for me is that I must now be at work at 6am in order to put the show together. That means I must get up by 5:30 at the latest if I don't want to go to work in my bathrobe with dirty hair. Now, I wouldn't mind that, but HR might have a problem with it, and we all know my goal in life is to avoid HR. I was actually surprised that 5:30 in the morning still exists. I distinctly remember a campaign to outlaw the early morning hours. After all, as my friend Tara says "what do you need to do at 5 in the morning that can't wait until 10"? Can I get an amen?

Getting up that early in the morning just brings out the worst in me. First of all, I do not look pretty. I think lack of sleep actually makes my nose bigger. Really, its Durantesque. Add to that my eyes squinting into light they don't want to see yet -- and I pretty much look like a naked mole rat with a blonde bob and a bad attitude.

I need coffee

In addition, my sense of humor lags when I'm tired. Where I would normally offer up a witty bon mot I instead just stare into space and mutter "whatever" under my breath. There is no song in my heart or spring in my step, just a gurgle in my stomach as I finish my breakfast feast of coffee and Pop Tarts from the vending machine.

The only thing that makes the mornings worse are morning people. For the past two days I have been greeted cheerfully by Julie, who helps write the noon show. Now, I love Julie, shes fun at 3pm, but at seven its a little like being besieged by a Keebler elf. I think she must be some sort of evil genius trying to destroy me with peppiness.

Luckily my tenure on the show will be short, just a week. Then I will go back to the world of the living, where coffee shops are already open, where having a drink after work doesn't make me a mid-day drunk and where there is nothing I can't put off until at least 9:15.

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My secret shame

My name is Libby Mitchell -- and I am late night eater.

There are few certainties in this world. Puppies are always cute, Utah will always vote Republican, eating ceviche from a sidewalk vendor is never a good idea and sometime between midnight and 2am I will walk the floor -- with the need to feed. Now, in this day and age of weight loss gurus and diets that wisely suggest "just don't eat anything white" eating past 8pm is looked upon as a sin on par with punching a kitten while spewing racial epithets -- on national TV. Both Oprah Winfrey and Pamela Anderson have spoken out about it -- which pretty much makes it law. But I can't help myself. Early in the morning hours, before even roosters are up, I find myself sleepily walking from my bedroom to the kitchen in search of snacks. Sally is normally hot on my heels, waiting for whatever morsel may fall from my grasp and onto the floor. Leftovers are always a favorite, as is pizza or tortillas. I mean, whats the point of late night eating if you're going to have carrots?

I don't think I am ever fully awake when I eat in the middle of the night. the next morning the snack is more of a tasty fever dream than the memory of a meal. Nothing has its daytime taste -- it all is just a bit better and delicious eaten in only the glow of the refrigerator bulb. Then the urge to eat leaves as quickly as it came, I hit the pillow and am almost instantly asleep.

I should probably stop my midnight snacking, it has obviously added to my less than svelte, but not quite circus lady figure and I am never hungry for breakfast, which Bill Cosby taught me is the most important meal of the day. Of course, he also is accused of drugging women and groping them and I am not going to start doing that any time soon.

So, I guess for now I will just enjoy my refrigerator picnics and let Oprah and Pammy scoff along with the rest of the world. I am loner, Dotty, a rebel, and I just can't wait eight hours between meals.

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Snowbound

I am officially sick of snow.

I awoke this morning to find at least another three inches of the white stuff covering my deck and my yard. Sally didn't even want to go outside -- and she usually romps in the snow like a polar bear, only not as deadly. As I pushed her out the door this morning she looked at me with utter disdain. She walked four steps, peed on the deck and came back in. I think it was just to spite me.

Winter Freakin' Wonderland

Now, just like everyone else I was excited to see the first flakes fall at the start of winter. I enjoyed snuggling on the sofa as the storm went on outside. I went sledding, I even made a half-assed attempt at building a snowman, but enough is enough. Its just so white and cold and so wet and drippy. All of my winter clothes have lost their appeal. I have been reduced to wearing a black t-shirt and jeans every day because everything else just smacks of effort that I am not willing to make. My spring clothes hang their and mock me in their cute, colorful funitude (yeah, its a word, got a problem with that?). My sandals sit at the bottom of my closet looking forlorn as morning after morning I once again slip into my plain, brown closed toed shoes.

I am tired of wearing a coat. I am tired of digging my car out of a snow coma every morning. I am so tired of my socks being wet -- even inside shoes. And I am tired of covering the snow in the news. If people don't know how to handle it by now they should move.

Now, if you'll excuse me I am taking my hair dryer outside to clear a patch of grass for Sally.

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Feelin' the Love

From the white board in the control room.
I think Libby is a nice name.

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Luke, er, Dan Zanes...

Exhibit A

Ryan is in Denver for a conference until Friday, so last night it was just me, the dog, a pizza and a bottle of wine. And since you can't save wine once you open the bottle I found myself drinking just a wee bit much. And when I drink I tend to get chatty -- which is why about 8pm I found myself calling pretty much anyone who would pick up the phone.

I spoke to my mother first, who was at that moment (what luck) perusing this very blog for the first time. She had one simple question " When are you going to write about Luke?"

For those of you who are not familiar Luke is my sister's four year old son, my parents only grandchild and one of my favorite people in the world. Really, if someone asked if I wanted to have dinner with either Kissinger or Luke, I would pick Luke -- and not just because he probably drools less. The kid is freakin' hilarious. I'm not just saying that because we share the DNA or because "all kids are funny." He has a gift. See exhibit A.

Lately he hasn't really been himself though -- probably because he's too busy being everyone else. On any given day he could be his pediatrican, Dr. Bancroft, Fireman Dan, or his musical icon Dan Zanes. One thing is for certain though -- if you slip and call him Luke, he will not be very happy. See, I told you, hilarious.

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