My saving grace

As many of you know, I recently decided to rejoin Weight Watchers. This has not been easy because I love food. I mean, really love it. Also, I work in a television newsroom -- which for some reason is a vortex of food. Someone is always having a birthday, or bringing in baked goods, trying to get rid of leftover food from a meeting, or opening a bag of chips to share. Honestly, if day goes by when someone does not bring food into the newsroom people get edgy. They start hoarding sugar packets and non-dairy creamer just in case the famine goes on for more than an afternoon.

Since I have gotten back on the fat wagon I cannot take part in the newsroom buffet. No birthday cake. No celebratory donuts. No chocolate bars Tamara brought in because her mother-in-law works for Hershey (I love that woman. Never met her, but I love her.). I mean, technically I could partake, because of the points plan -- but then I wouldn't be able to eat anything else for like three days. So, I have been sitting on the sidelines watching other people, skinny people, stuff their gobs with utter abandon while I chew on an All Bran bar and try to control my murderous impulses. But, not any more. I have discovered a secret pleasure that only millions of other people know about. Hostess 100 calorie packs.

Manna from Hostess

Ordinarily anything Hostess is a WW no go. Really, the point counter just laughs if you try to enter the word Twinkies. But these beat the system. Three little cakes, 100 calories. One point. And they have more fiber than the All Bran bars -- which I'm pretty sure are made of rope . And they taste good. Like the icing top of the normal cupcakes. I never realized what was missing in my life until I found these little pieces of happiness.

The first time I ate a pack I consumed them very slowly -- hoping to make it last. But now I just stack all three on top of each other for a truly gluttonous feeling. And then I smile at my newsroom collegues with cholocate smeared teeth.

Now, if only someone would make a 100 calorie bowl of carbonara...

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Sally snacks

This afternoon after work I decided to take a nap. I didn't sleep very well last night after waking up at 11pm thinking it was time to go to work. I even started the shower. It took Ryan a good 5 minutes to convince me I still had six hours to sleep -- and this was as I was staring at the clock on the stove.

So, I stumbled into bed about 2pm, put my head on the pillow and pulled the blanket under my chin. And then I felt something small and hard under my hand. I picked up the object -- it was a dried out tortellini. Of course, instantly questions started running through my head and at the forefront was "how the hell did a tortellini get in my bed?" We haven't had tortellini in about a month. And at that time we ate it at the dining room table. I knew I hadn't snuck tortellini in for a midnight snack since then and I was pretty sure Ryan hadn't either. That left one culprit -- and she had just hopped up on the bed beside me.

I held the tortellini out to Sally. She looked at me, looked at it and looked at me again as if to say "oh, is that where I left it?" She took it very gingerly out of my hand and then crunched it down, a doggy smile on her face.

I don't even want to know where she was hiding it or if she has other things stashed. I just thank God it no longer was covered in sauce.

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The house on Sunnyside hill

Ryan and I live in a neighborhood that is "gentrifying." Basically what that means is half of the houses on our street look nice -- and the other half would not look look odd with a Chevy on blocks in the front yard. It also means there is a promise of increased property values -- but not enough to move us into a neighborhood that has already been niceified (my blog, my words).

The creepiest house on the street is about six homes up the block from us. It is dark and dingy, with an overgrown lawn and bushes, dirty windows and a walk and driveway that have never been swept. I have never seen a light on inside -- and there is something large in the driveway covered by a tarp. It looks like a set from Silence of the Lambs. For about a year I thought it was deserted. I mean, how could anyone live in a house without ever turning on a light? Unless they were half bat. Which actually would be kind of cool, but that's beside the point. Then about six months ago I noticed that a very clean Ford something was parked in the driveway. And then it was gone. And then it was back. I wondered if someone was coming into the get the mail, or check on things. So, I asked the neighborhood busybody -- and she told me the shocking truth. SOMEONE WAS LIVING IN THE HOUSE!!!

Girl Scouts go in -- but never come out...

She said she's only seen him once -- when she was heading up some neighborhood project. He's in his late fifties, had lived alone in the house for at least thirty years and is a nuclear physicist at the University. A nuclear physicist? No wonder he never turns on the lights, he probably glows.

After I learned someone was lurking behind those dirty windows and closed door I became an adult version of Harriet the Spy or Sheila the Great. Every time I walked past the house I would slow to the pace of an arthritic turtle. I would let Sally off her leash in the hopes she would run into the yard and I would have to follow her. But, she knew better, and would look at me like I was trying to feed her to a Kraken. Any time I saw silver car drive up the street I would strain to see the driver. But nothing. The mad scientist was eluding me. And no one eludes Libby!

Then, two days ago Ryan and I were walking up the street when we heard the door open. I had already passed the house -- but Ryan was in perfect viewing position. I regretted the fact I hadn't brought the giant net I bought just for these occasions. I held my breath in anticipation -- hoping I would scare him back inside. This was it, I just knew it! Maybe we would befriend him like the kids did with the weird looking dude in that movie Goonies. We would show him the joys of the outside world, like flying kites and Taco Bell. We would change his life. And everyone would think we were wonderful people for it. I didn't think a Nobel Peace Prize was out of the question. Or a spot on Oprah.

So, what did Ryan see? Nothing. The door opened, a hand came out and grabbed the mail, and the door slammed. It probably wasn't even the scientist. Probably his pet "thing."

I wonder if I left a little trail of uranium pellets if I could lure him out....

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Point, set, fat

I am back on Weight Watchers. I was on the program this time last year and lost 12 pounds -- which quickly appeared back on my ass the moment I quit. I was on it again in December -- but quit because the Clomid I'm taking to try and get pregnant was making me gain weight -- and I didn't want to punish myself any more than I already was. However, over the past few months the Clomid excuse has gotten old -- after all, it does not cause you to gain 15 pounds each month and eat an entire cheese pizza every other day. I needed to at least police my eating again -- even if it meant not losing weight as quickly. Hence the Weight Watchers. I just forgot one thing -- Weight Watchers royally sucks ass.

I am doing the "flex" program -- which in theory means I can eat whatever I want within limits. Those limits pretty much include looking at food, smelling it, but not putting it in my mouth. At least not the food I want to eat. I can have all the vegetables I want. Mmmm, radishes. When I can eat the food I want it is in extremely small portions. A cup of cooked pasta. Do you know how little that is? It's like half a child's portion at any God fearing restaurant. And that's what nothing on it! No cheese! No sauce! No Butter! Don't even get me started on how much this program hates butter, or I like to call it, life lube. And yet, for one cup of dry pasta I have to give up four points! And I only get nineteen a day! A single piece of bread is two points! I can longer enjoy my favorite snack of nine pieces of bread without going over my limits. I've had to cut back to eight! And the healthy stuff has points too. Milk, two points. An apple, two points. It makes me want to eat nothing healthy -- in order to save my points for the junk. Let's see two points for an apple or a glass of wine? I think we all know what I'm going to pick.

The thing that really bugs me though? The fact that exercise doesn't get you much. 40 minutes on the elliptical machine? 2 points. That is one piece of bread. Oh, and I get to check a little box on my daily progress chart. Um, if I have the gumption to put on work out clothes, go tot he gym and stay on the machine for 40 minutes I should get a hot fudge sundae covered with onion rings -- and at least two checks on my chart.

However, WW is not all bad. For instance, I never have to deal with people. It's all online. Yes, they suggest meetings, but that just wouldn't mesh with my personality. After all, I really don't like people all that much. And when I'm hungry and grumpy I like them even less. And some of the people on WW are just such "can-do" assholes that I think I would eat my arm just to get away from them. I tried to go into the chat rooms online once -- and could only stay for about ten minutes. First of all, it was emoticon city. I saw smiley faces made of every kind of punctuation imaginable. Second, some of the people are so optimistic about everything. There are people who write that they don't eat all their points every day -- and they don't feel hungry. Um, I call bullshit. If you didn't want all your points you wouldn't on Weight Watchers. So, if I had to meet these people in person I think I would just end up making one of them cry -- and unless that counts as exercise I doubt WW would smile on it. Even with emoticons.

I think Ryan will be happy when I'm off WW, even if it makes me gain 50 pounds. He is very tired of being reminded how many points are in everything he puts in his mouth. He's also tired of me taking bites of everything he eats because stolen food doesn't count as points. Well, we all must suffer so I will look pretty in a swimsuit in Mexico.

I wonder how many points are in a margarita the size of my head?

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Who needs enemies...

It is that time of year again when charities employ athletic events in an attempt to raise money. Ryan is doing the Swing-a-Thon for breast cancer and my friend Burk yesterday informed everyone that he will be riding 150 miles to fight MS. But what should have been a time of pride and support quickly turned into an e-mail assault on me and this blog. I have reproduced the e-mails here -- making the evidence public in my upcoming libel and defamation of character lawsuits.

Burk wrote:

I’ve been drafted to ride in the MS 150 coming up this June. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “That’s really fucked up. They’re going to give Multiple Sclerossis to 150 people?” Well that’s what I thought, too, and I went down to “speak” with the brazen fuckers with a Molotov cocktail. But it turns out this is a bike ride to raise money for programs that help people with MS! Boy did I feel foolish! After a little research, and a little jail time over another "arson" charge, I decided that this really is a good cause, and the money actually goes to fight MS, and not to line the pockets of Washington “fat cats”, or to give clean drinking water to Africans like some charities I could mention.

Now I realize that some of you, like Libby, will confuse MS with MSG, and respond “fuck you Burke, I likes my MSG”. And I know that some of you are Jewish, and therefore don’t believe in charity. And that’s totally cool. This is America, and I’d fight to the death to defend your indefensible views. But if we can all look past our religious handicaps, or other moral shortcomings, and look in your heart and agree that MS is a bad thing, and should be stopped, goddamnit, because it isn’t helping anybody, sign on to the MS website at:

http://www.nationalmssociety.org/site/PageServer?pagename=HOM_EVENTS_ms_bike_ride

Choose to pledge/sponsor a participant (and please enter my name, "Burke Byrne", and not "Jack Ass" for god’s sake) and give me money. Remember, every little bit helps prevent me from ponying up the entire 200 dollar entry fee.

And if you don’t choose to lend your support, I understand, and I’m sure you have your reasons for thinking MS is a good thing.

Honestly- no pressure, but it is a good cause.

Now, that was bad enough -- but then Ben had to pipe up:

I would just like to take this opportunity to object to both the Swing-a-Thon and the MS Ride. Obviously, I support the causes for which they are intended to benefit, but I feel that these fundraisers are too soft-core. I mean, who doesn't want to get out and ride a bike on a beautiful spring day (besides my wife, who is afraid of bikes). I can't remember what the Swing-a-Thon entails, but I imagine it is either wife-swapping, swing dancing, or swinging a baseball bat at something, all of which are a good time, especially when done outdoors on a beautiful Utah spring day. Of course people will toss in some cash because of they support you and the charities, but I think if you really want people to sponsor you for a charity, you have to make some sacrifices and do something that people actually want to see you do apart from their general charitable and friendly nature.

However, I'm not one of these assholes who just complains and does not propose a solution; I am a different kind of asshole -- a thinking man's asshole. So here is my fundraising proposal, and I am willing to put my money where my mouth is ...

1. Tongue Kissing a Senior Citizen - $0.05 per year of age per minute, 70 year old minimum, and double if it is same-sex. (Ex: Burke tongue kissing an 80-year-old man for 10 consecutive minutes = $0.05 * 80 * 10 * 2 = $80 for MS from each sponsor)

2. Olive Oil Power Hour - $4 each for the first 10 shots of olive oil, $6 each for the next 10, and $5 for each after that. No light oil ... only the real deal.

3. Ice Water Testicles - $2 for each minute testicles are submerged in bucket of ice water.

4. Reading Libby's Blog - $5 per correct answer on the "Libby's Blog Quiz." What are Ryan's favorite fruits? How many pies has Libby made in her life? Don't know? Better study up!

5. Testimony - $5 per minute of bearing testimony at a Mormon church of my choosing. $5 bonus for every different sexual position or act incorporated seamlessly into said testimony.

Then Justin decided to pile on:

Ben, What do I get for a prolonged tongue kiss with the prophet after kicking back a Costco bottle of olive oil with my sack stuck to a block of ice. I'll do anything to raise money for a good cause, except read that damn blog again.

And these are the people I call my friends...

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Pumping Iron

This weekend I did the unthinkable -- I went back to the gym. Not only that, I went two days in a row. And I might even go this afternoon. What could have made me resort to such a desperate move? Well, on Friday I seriously considered buying a pair of jeans -- because my fat pants are getting tight. Yes, I almost purchased fat, fat pants. But, instead, I went back to the gym.

One day I'll look like this...

I used to go to the gym all the time. Of course, this was in the days when a wedding dress was in my immediate future and I didn't want to waddle down the aisle. After we got married Ryan and I tried to continue working out, but our schedules and the desire just to stay home and have competitive eating contests made it difficult. Every night we would plan to go to the gym, but then one of us would be hungry, or cranky, or lazy and the other would fold like origami. However, we did continue to pay for the gym -- as if sending in the $62 dollars a month would in some way keep our butts from getting any bigger. Alas, it does not work like that. At least not yet; I think someone at MIT must be working on it.

I do the elliptical when I go to the gym. The main reason for my choice is my utter lack of co-ordination. When I run on a treadmill I look like an epileptic gerbil. Also, I don't run very fast, so I always feel like people are silently judging me. The elliptical lets me run -- without having to decide where to put my feet or how my legs should move. It's like exercising half asleep. I have tried to do weights -- but none of the machines are built for a person of my short stature. I always feel like I should bring a phone book to sit on. I could do free weights -- but they are over by the mirror , and there are always guys there "pumping up" while watching themselves lustily. It creeps me out.

My favorite thing to do at the gym is people watch. We belong to a county rec center, so the cast of characters is always on par with that of a John Waters movie. There are always two or three horribly out of shape older men who are convinced that if they do five reps on the bicep machine they will be transformed back to their younger physiques. At least one of them is wearing a tank top. It's usually the one who really needs to shave, or mow, his chest hair. There is always one super-fit couple pushing each other to do more reps, lift more weight or run a little faster. Whenever I see these couples I always speculate what their love life must be like. Does the competitive spirit make their sex life spicy? Or do they resent each other so much that when they try to come together romantically they repel like magnets? There is always one person that I fear is about to have a heart attack. They are usually going ten miles an hour on a treadmill with a 30 percent grade, or trying to force fifty pounds over their heads with one arm. They are drenched in sweat and bright red -- but convinced if they don't feel like they are about to die the work out doesn't mean anything. There are also always a couple people who look like they are cruising -- which is really gross considering the other people I've just described. The women wear lip gloss and walk slowly on the elliptical machines -- the men look oiled and always grunt with the effort of lifting weights -- even if it's just ten pounds.

The worst thing about the gym is when people try to talk to me. There is nothing quite as bad as trying to carry on a conversation while exercising. Trying to spit out coherent syllables with what little breath I have just makes a bad situation more unpleasant. I could stop exercising, yes, but then I would lose my momentum and have to go home and eat ice cream. Or, I could do the gym wave, but I have gotten in trouble for that before. I waved at my friend Jane's new boyfriend and for two days had to listen to complaints that I was rude to him and that must mean I don't like him. I don't like him, but that isn't why I resorted to the gym wave. So, now I just solider on, holding short conversations, trying to be nice, and hoping that no one is expecting my usual witty self.

But enough with the jokes, in case any kids are reading (hi, kids!), exercise is a wonderful thing with many benefits. It lifts my mood, keeps me healthy and helps me fit into my pants. However, if I don't lose ten pounds by Friday I might have to resort to home liposuction with my dust buster.

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3 dog life

LibbyLogic has become a dog blog.

I didn't mean for it to happen -- but in reading over my past entries I have noticed one thing comes up again and again -- my dog. I'm sure that if I had a kid it would be a kid blog -- and my sofa would still be whole. But since most of my free time is spent with a creature who would rather eat a book than read one I have been writing mostly about dogs. But, never fear, I have noticed the trend and will do my best to expand my horizons to topics other than Sally.

After all, she wasn't my first dog.

My first dog was Coco, a small gray poodle who came to live with me when I was 18. This was back in the days when I jogged willfully instead of at gunpoint. Every night I would go out for a run and about a block into it be joined by Coco and his mate, I'm not kidding, Chanel. We would all run and then I would drop them back at their home and put them back in their yard before running the last block to my house. They usually beat me there, tunneling out once again under the fence. I would stretch out and wait for their owner, a large burly man who should not have owned dogs named Coco and Chanel, to come pick them up. Then I would go inside and tell my mother we should keep them, and she would roll her eyes. This went on for months until my Mother was outside with me one evening when the dogs' owner came to get them. Chanel got in the car instantly, but Coco cowered. The man went for the back of neck, making him yelp. Then I heard a voice behind me.

"Put the dog down." It was my mother, but it didn't sound like my Mother. It sounded like the voice of wrath.

"This is a four hundred dollar dog lady. You want to pay me for him?" I think the owner already knew he was beaten -- but he had to put on a good face.

"I'm not giving you any money. Put the dog down and go." I honestly think that if the man hadn't gotten in his car at that instant beams would have shot from my Mother's eyes and reduced him to ash. Instead he wisely chose to turn and go; and Coco scampered into the house with a new champion.

Coco -- now about 102 years old

I wanted to take Coco with me when I moved out of the house, but my first apartment didn't take dogs and by the time I landed in a place that did my parents both looked at me like "you want to take our dog" and offered me the crazy calico cat instead. I wasn't taking her -- she had devil eyes.

I remained dogless for nine years after that -- but always had my eye out for a new canine companion. I didn't want to just go pick out a dog though -- I wanted it to come to me.

Stella showed up in the spring of 2003. She was the dog of Ryan's friend Amy who was heading of to grad school. She wanted someone to watch after Stella until she got settled. Three months turned into six months and six months turned to nine. After ten months I told Ryan that if Amy ever wanted Stella back I would have to flee with the dog to Mexico. We would send him a postcard with a picture of both of us, wearing sombreros and small mustaches. Stella now lived with me -- and we couldn't be happier. At least, until the summer of 2004.

Benedict Stella

That summer Ryan and I decided to go to New Zealand and Fiji -- leaving Stella in the care of my parents. Big mistake. We had just placed her in dog heaven. She was allowed to sleep on the beds, was given treats and had Coco and my parents' other dog Penny to romp with. To seal the deal my parents got just gotten a kitten. Stella imprinted on little Smarty -- and decided she had found a new home. When Ryan and I returned and tried to get her to go with us she looked at us as if we were trying to drag her off to a Turkish prison. When we would call to her she would hide behind my Mother or my Father staring at them beseechingly to protect her. We even tried to bribe her -- to no avail. She had landed in the promised land and there was no going back.

When we brought Sally home in October my sisters both immediately asked when she would be going to live with my parents. But I think we'll be holding on to this dog. And it's nice that I still get to see Coco and Stella and they have gotten to know Sally. They aren't sure they like her -- but they have stopped shunning her. And Sally seems to give them the deference they deserve. When we leave my parents after a visit all three seem to be happy in their places, and I am happy to have such great dogs in my life.

At least until my sofa is attacked again.

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Swingers for a good cause

Ryan came home the other night and ask me if I wanted to participate in the annual "Swing for Life" event at the school to raise money for breast cancer research. I instantly agreed. I mean, what could be better than spending the afternoon on a swing? And I would probably get such a great workout that I wouldn't have to go to the gym for at least a week. I was pumped! And then he asked me if I wanted to practice. Practice swinging? I mean, I know I am not very co-ordinated, but come on. Well, it turns out that by "swinging" Ryan meant swinging a bat -- at balls being thrown near my face. My enthusiasm instantly waned. My vision of joyfully swinging the afternoon away was replaced with a vision of me standing humiliated at the plate swinging a bat with my tongue out and hitting nothing but air. Unless someone is guaranteeing my actions will cure breast cancer -- I'm not doing that.

In order to spare my pride I have resorted to my traditional way of supporting good causes -- with my checkbook. And I am encouraging others to do so as well. Ryan needs sponsors. He will stand at the plate and swing until he has hit 50 balls. And since he actually has hand eye co-ordination that will take a much shorter time than it would take me. For every ball he hits -- you make a donation. So, a quarter a ball, that's only $12.50 -- and its all tax deductible...

If you want to donate e-mail me at libby_mitchell@hotmail.com. If you want more information, to make sure I am not actually soliciting for some kind of cult, you can find it here.

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The story of my life

I am not a person who journals. I know that every self-help book in the world, and Oprah, say that journaling is good for the soul and helps you keep track of "life's journey" but I just can't bring myself to do it. I've tried, several times, to keep a written record of my life -- but most of the time it just depresses me. I'll write something that feels so profound and moving -- and then two weeks later read it and think "who is this loser?" and tear out the pages and burn them. Either that or I begin to channel Sylvia Plath and at the end of making an entry want to put my head in the oven. It's a very slippery slope from reflection to wallowing in self-pity for me. Someone told me I could avoid all these feelings by just not reading the entries once they are written -- and leaving the journals for my children to discover. Yeah, because I really want is for my kids to find my journals the day after my death and through their tears cry "who was this loser?" And for those of you smugly thinking "well, isn't your blog like a journal" the answer is no, and shut up. My blog is a carefully edited version of my life filled with witticisms and half truths. My journals were more like a boring version of "Sybil."

Before he met me Ryan used to keep journals. It's one of the many things that died when he married me. Now he just scribbles the occasional help note that he tries to sneak out on Sally's collar. All of his old journals are in the basement in a big box -- which I hadn't looked in to protect his privacy, and because I didn't actually know they were there. I should have rifled through them though -- because they are comedy gold.

Last night Ryan pulled out one journal he wrote just after college. We were talking to Lindsey and Jason about stupid youthful ideas and Ryan brought up the fact that he once rode a Greyhound bus from Salt Lake to Boston to "take the pulse of America." And luckily for us he wrote all of it down.

It started out earnest, with lots of references to lost dreams and a country in a coma suffering from a "myocardial infarction." For the first three hours everything he saw seemed to trigger a profound thought that had to be written down. Then about hour four the tone of the journal changed. I think that's when he realized he was going to be stuck on a bus for 36 hours. Instead of entries written in full sentences encapsulating whole thoughts there were instead short lists of nonsensical words, or small haiku like poems, or half thoughts about the nature of black holes. It was a record of a man slowly losing his mind. I loved it. I think I can use them if I ever want to have him commited.

I can't wait to show them to our kids.

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Sally's Nemesis

This weekend we dog sat or our friends Katie and Ben. Actually, it seems like everyone we know was dog sitting this weekend -- a kind of special Easter penance for those of us who didn't make plans to go out of town for the holiday. Our charge was Emmy, a three year old golden lab whose genial personality totally makes up for her lack of smarts and her ability to eat anything that might resemble food. Seriously. Once she ate a diaper. Emmy has always been one of my favorite dogs and was one of the reasons we got Sally. I was very excited she was coming to stay with us. I thought she and Sally would have a great time together, romping and playing in the back yard. Sally loves other dogs and the people at daycare are always commenting on how well she plays and shares with others.

Of course, none of those dogs ever come to our house and touch her stuff.

Sally was not pleased when she pulled up in the car with Ryan Friday afternoon and saw Emmy sitting on the lawn. Her look was somewhat like mine any time anyone says "staff meeting." Kind of a resigned disgust. She knew Emmy was staying -- and now she just had to grit her teeth and hope it would all be over with quickly.

Emmy looking mean

All that night I tried to get the pair used to each other, giving them the equal number of treats and head rubs, letting them sample each other's food, and making it very obvious both had fine places to sleep. But Sally wasn't having any of it. And so she did the one thing any princess would do when faced with an unjust situation -- she withdrew.

Starting Friday night Sally acted as if she couldn't bear to be in the same room with us and that dog. If I had food to offer to both of them, she let Emmy have it all. She wasn't going to stoop to sharing. If we went into the bedroom, Emmy would follow and Sally would stay in the living room. If we were in the living room lounging on the couch, she was in the dining room -- glaring. It went so far that I was sitting out on the front porch reading, Emmy was on the grass, and Sally was on the back lawn.

We thought the ice might thaw if we took them on a dog friendly outing -- fishing. But when we tried to get them both in the backseat, Sally wouldn't get in the car. Then she got in, and sat in the front seat. When I tried to push her into the backseat she became immovable -- It was like her stubbornness had glued her to the seat. Finally we settled on a compromise, she sat on the floor of the passenger seat -- I sat Indian style in it. And off we went.

When we got to the river the differences between the two dogs became even more apparent. Emmy jumped out of the car and straight into a side stream. Sally looked at her like she was nuts. Ryan said the last time he took her fishing Sally actually got in the water -- swimming out to him. Well, that breakthrough was thwarted the minute she saw Emmy get in. After all, she was working very hard to be the anti-Emmy. They both enjoyed the sticks in the area -- but whereas Emmy would bring one to be thrown, Sally mainly enjoyed putting them in a semi-organized pile. Finally Emmy settled down next to my chair, while Sally roamed through the grass, always about 20 feet away, spying on us.

The only picture with both of them in it

We finally got in the car to go home, once again with Sally in her uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous spot in the front. Emmy didn't seem to mind -- she had the whole back seat to herself. Then about halfway down the canyon a heaving noise came from the back and a noxious smell filled the car. Emmy had gotten car sick. We rolled down all the windows and tried to make the best of it while Sally looked at both of us with a "I told you so" stare on her face. I think I could hear her cluck her tongue as I cleaned out the mess later.

The rest of weekend was equally icy -- except for one moment yesterday afternoon. I walked out on the front porch to see Sally on her back, trying to get Emmy to play. It was one of those golden moments you only see in dog food commercials. I heard music. My joy was short lived though -- because of the look now on Emmy's face. It was confusion, mixed with fear, mixed with a large dose of spite. The ignoree was now the ignorer and she wasn't going to let the opportunity go by. I think I saw her toss her head and snort as she turned and walked away.

Emmy went home this afternoon, and now things are back to normal. All treats once again belong to Sally, as does all attention. Right now she is sleeping at my feet with the look of a contented queen.

Although it may take some time for her to ride in the back seat of the car again...

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Local Theater

It used to only cost a dollar.

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Crocker, Betty Crocker

Okay, okay I haven't written anything in the past few days and I'm sure that many of you think that my massive zit probably engulfed my head. Alas, nothing so horrible has happened, in fact I have had a rather fortunate change of schedule. I am now producing the noon news, which means I go in at 6 and am out of there at 2. At first I balked at the early hours -- but then I realized that I will have entire afternoons to do whatever I wanted. It means I can see my husband, or work in the yard, beat the dog, or play with Luke.

However, the adjustment has been a bit difficult, going to bed earlier and getting up with (and sometimes before) the birds. This has not been made easier by the fact that I have had a wicked head cold that has prevented me from doing pretty much everything but whining. Ryan is so pleased. I also can't hear anything so I'm sure I've agreed to things in the past few days that are only legal in some southeast Asian countries.

There is one great side effect to my new hours that seems to be shaping up. I have become increasingly domestic. Coming home in the light of day I see how dirty the house is and have to do something about it.
Coming home at dusk meant I could blame mountains of dog and cat hair on "shadows." I find myself cleaning things I never noticed before -- like the top of window moulding. I am five feet tall -- I really hadn't noticed it was up there at all. But today I had to clean it. And it was dirty, really dirty. What if Martha Stewart had come to dinner and wanted to look at it? The embarrassment.

I also find myself cooking more than before and actually following recipes. With my old shift my nights to cook usually entailed Little Cesaer's five dollar pizza and crazy bread. If I was feeling fancy I would sprinkle it with a bottle of parsley I bought in 1997. That made it elegant and historic. But this week I have made two different dinners and a second pie. And for one of the dinners I had to go out and buy special weird ingredients like saffron and cauliflower. Not only that both but dinners got rave reviews. Ryan loved my spinach crab pasta and both he and our friend Jason loved the exotic vegetable tangine. Yes, Jason picked the olives out of his, but he didn't try to hide it all in his napkin -- so I consider that a win. And the pie, while again not perfect, was better looking than the first. I actually managed to pick up a piece of dough that almost entirely covered the top. I also tried some fancy crimping and design work on the top. Impressive, huh?


Who knows what's next. Maybe I'll start making centerpieces for every holiday. Or sewing little outfits for the cats so they look like butlers to dinner guests. The possibilities are endless...

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Me vs. the Pimple

I have an enormous pimple on my chin.

I'm not exaggerating -- this thing is giant. You can see it on my face from twenty paces away. I don't think I have had a pimple this big since seventh grade and during that breakout a bitchy girl in my French class called me "pizza face." No, I have never forgotten that, Natalie.

To make matters worse this is one of those annoying pimples that hurts. It is sitting on my face, glaring out at the world with its ugly redness and causing me pain. And there's nothing I can do about it. When I noticed it last night I tried to pop it, to smush it, to force it back into my face -- but it wouldn't budge. I slathered zit cream on it twice, and then once again this morning but it still stood tall. This morning I tried to cover it with concealer and then foundation -- but then I just looked like a girl with a big pimple and lots of make-up on. So, I decided there was only one way to defeat the pimple -- flatter it.

I pointed out my large facial deformity to everyone I saw. I praised it's massive ugliness and talked about how it had defeated my efforts to eradicate it. I have turned my pimple into a dermatological celebrity. This way I know people are looking at it, but I have made them look. My pimple hasn't drawn them in -- making them discreetly look out of the corners of their eyes at the large red mound on my face, wondering if I have some biblical disease. They look and laugh and curse the pimple with me. I have won.

Now I just want the damn thing to go away.

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Oldish man and the Provo River

Ryan has taken up fly fishing. He first got the buzz last summer when a friend who shall remain nameless (Kent) took him out and showed him the glory of standing in freezing cold water and trying to trick fish into eating a fake bug you painstakingly made out of old dryer lint and cat fur. Then for several months I heard nothing except how cool fly fishing is and how Ryan would consider a fly rod a good enough present for his birthday and Christmas combined. I bought him a rod in September -- since I start my Christmas shopping freakishly early, and Ryan found out about it that afternoon -- because I took a three year old along to help me pick it out. I think Luke figured that if Ryan knew about it they could go fishing that afternoon. He was wrong.

As he counted down the days to Christmas Ryan began practicing tying knots. I figured that since he had been tying his shoes for years this wouldn't be a big deal. Oh, was I mistaken. These are special knots that you have to be able to tie one handed while standing in the middle of a river holding your pole between your teeth, blindfolded, while the fish spit water at you and laugh. Or something like that. Ryan took to carrying a spool of fishing line with him everywhere. I began thinking I was living with Rainman.

Finally, the glorious day came when I gave him the fishing pole. Tying knots gave way to casting practice on the back deck. And then the glorious day came went he finally went fishing -- and discovered he needed more stuff. Waders, a vest, special shoes -- I had no idea a new outfit was required to hang out with fish. I thought a pole and a funny hat and he would be ready to go. Of course, I also think socks are an unnecessary evil that are only tolerable if printed with monkeys.

Yesterday was Ryan's first fully outfitted day on the river -- and he invited me and Sally to go along. We packed up the car with snacks and sweaters, I brought my book, and we headed into the great outdoors. It was an absolutely stunning day. Not too warm, not too cool, a little overcast. Ryan said it was perfect conditions for fishing. I was just glad I didn't have to wear sunscreen.

The perfect day

It took Ryan, I kid you not, 30 minutes to get into his fishing gear. I had no idea it was so involved. While he was dressing Sally and I ran up and down the road, playing "Hey Cow." For those of you unfamiliar with the game you yell "hey cow" at cows until you get one to look. It's very complicated. I was beating Sally by a landslide until she caught on and started barking at them -- which made them look and run away. There was no way I could top that so we headed back to the car to find our fisherman.

Ryan gears up

Ryan was finally dressed -- so we headed to the river -- which involved breaking the law. We had to climb two fences, both posted with large "no river access" signs. Now, Ryan grew up as a hoodlum, jumping bikes off roofs and engaging in late night rotten fruit fights behind supermarkets -- but I was raised as a law abiding citizen. I expected at any moment Park Rangers would jump out of the trees and haul us off to trespassers jail. And then I would end up someone's bitch. My fears were put to rest though when we approached the river -- and there was absolutely no one there.


It was stunning.

All you could hear was the water and the wind. I am not a very poetic person, and I almost started spouting sonnets. Sally was equally impressed. Not with the scene, but with all the sticks that hadn't been chewed. Ryan waded out into the river and I settled down on the bank with my book. And then I had to pee.

Outdoor urination is one of the things I hate most about camping. There is no way to do it gracefully and cleanly. And I am all about being clean and graceful. At best you end up slightly damp and at worst you end up with pee covered shoes. However, since I didn't really have a choice I hunkered down in the bushes. At least my shoes stayed dry. Sally thought it was the coolest thing ever, like I was finally seeing the light.

While my squatting pleased Sally -- Ryan's fishing did not. You see, our dog hates water. She does not like baths, she does not like sprinklers and she especially does not like rivers. As Ryan stood in the middle of the river she looked at him with great consternation and concern. Did he know what he was doing? Twice she started into the river to pull him to safety -- but once all four feet were in the water she was just too overwhelmed. She decided to do the next best thing -- which was running up and down the riverbank barking. Finally though she decided it was Ryan's funeral and returned to her collecting of every stick in the area.

Very upset

For two hours I sat on the bank, eating cheese, reading a book, drinking wine. It was absolutely beautiful. Even more beautiful was watching Ryan. He had this weird zen-like quality that hyper manic people like me can hardly imagine, much less try to attain. Watching him walk the river, casting into holes where fish might be hiding reminded me of why I love him. He has a patience and grace that floors me and is just as at home in the middle of the river as he is in the classroom or on the beach. I decided then and there I was going fishing with him every chance I could get.

Next time though I'm bringing a chair. The rocks on the bank hurt my butt.

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