I don't know whether to laugh or cry...

This is truly one of the funniest things I have ever seen...

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Hold on tight, and have fun

This may come as a shock to some of you, but I am not an amusement park kind of person. I don't know what it is. They just all seem so sticky. And germy. The rides are not that fun, and usually are preceded by waiting in lines filled with people who think standing way too close together will somehow get them on the "Scream Mouse" or whatever faster. The food is disgusting. I mean, really. If anyone can write in and describe a truly delicious amusement park meal I will eat my hat, and it will probably taste better than the meal described. However, it really isn't the food and rides that get me though. It's the people. There is a certain kind of person that is only found at amusement parks and maybe the state fair. I don't know where they live the rest of the time, because I really only see them those two places. These are the people who think tank tops look good on men and spitting on the ground is an acceptable act at any time. People who dress their sons in camouflage and their daughters in middy shirts. They populate amusement parks and stand there smoking near the kiddie rides with their enormous stuffed animals they won after spending 30 bucks playing Whac-A-Mole. It's like being in a zombie movie, but instead of brains the zombies all seek fountain drinks in souvenir cups as big as their heads.

Despite my very well thought out and rational reasons I recently found myself on an outing to Lagoon, Utah's version of an amusement park. I am especially not fond of this park because of it's slogan: "It's where fun is." It also is the place for bad grammar apparently. However, Ryan's family is willing to overlook such crimes against the English language and each year holds a "Lagoon day." They rent a pavilion, get discount tickets and actually enjoy themselves. I have gone only once before, and the whole time I was praying for a big vat of hand sanitizer to bathe in. I was going to let Ryan go alone this year, but then he played a dirty trick on me -- he played the nieces and nephews card. How could I in good conscience pass up a chance to spend time with my favorite kids -- in particular, Luke.

Luke at an amusement park almost makes me forget all the reasons I hate it. Just watching the look of unabashed joy on his face while riding some ridiculous contraption almost melts my bitter, jaded heart. Don't get too excited, I said almost.

When we told Luke about Lagoon it was as if we had told him we were going to the moon, and there were puppies living there. He talked about it non-stop. He had never been there before, but that didn't stop him from declaring it his favorite place on earth. He didn't even mind being stuck in traffic for an hour as we crawled our way towards the park. Luke kept up a steady monologue about how cool Lagoon was and all the things he wanted to do when we got there. I kept looking at the clock figuring out how long I would have to stay until I could reasonably beg Ryan to take us home.

When we got to the park we met up with Ryan's siblings and my Mom and sister. After all, this was Luke's first time at Lagoon, so according to Mitchell family bylaws at least three adults had to be there documenting it. We were now a group of six adults and five children. Like an amoeba we moved towards the kiddie section of the park.

Little has changed at the kiddie yard since I was a child being dragged to Lagoon. Yes, they have added some rides that could be considered "safe" or "fun," but the main attractions are still the rides that are "boring" or "could maim you." Take for example the boats. Six small boats going in a oval about the size of a large rug, floating on water that most likely came from a Superfund site. Yet, kids (Luke included) were willing to stand in line for an eternity just to sit in one and ring the stupid bell. And when it was all over he wanted to do it again. And again. And again. In fact, each of our nieces and nephews had a ride they just couldn't get enough of. Amaya loved the planes. We couldn't get Ashlyn off the swings. Clint went on the log flume so many times I don't think he will ever dry out. And Shaylee would have stayed on the Merry-go-round until puberty if it had been allowed.

Round and round she goes...

The Merry-go-round is the one ride I can really get behind. There is something just so classic about climbing on a brightly painted horse (or, in my case a zebra), holding on tight, and having the wind whip past you as you run an imaginary race. If you get to ride on a horse that goes up and down it's even more awesome. Really, the only problem I have with the Merry-go-round is most are found in amusement parks. If I had one in my backyard, I might never get off.

Ryan is more of a thrill seeker than I am though, and insisted we go on at least one ride not populated with six year olds. Unfortunately, by the time we could pull ourselves from the kids all of the park people had arrived for their Friday night dates, so the lines were all so long they snaked together into a giant rats nest. We had to pick a ride that was a little less popular, but no less exciting: the Terror Ride.

The burned out E makes it even scarier.

The Terror Ride used to freak the hell out of me when I was a little kid. The front features two windows that open and shut with scary monsters peeking out. I used to walk on the other side of the fairway so that if the monsters some how came alive and jumped out at me I would at least have a head start. Of course, when I got older and went on the ride I learned the scariest thing in there were the employees who occasionally jumped out at unsuspecting riders.

Nothing has changed on the Terror Ride, except for the fact they have put clothes on the torture victims in the dungeon scene. I'm sure that is a big disappointment for 13-year old boys who have few chances to see nipples, be they real or plastic. I know Ryan was a little upset.

I actually stayed at Lagoon three hours and seventeen minutes longer than I planned. It wasn't even that painful. Of course, this doesn't mean I will be going back soon, or that I didn't shower with Clorox when I got home. I think it means I'm getting more tolerant and accepting of people, no matter what they think of as a good time. Yeah, I didn't believe that either.

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Stealing Sally's Dignity

This isn't even her full costume...

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Eating San Francisco

Calories don't mean anything on vacation. I learned this very early on from my Mother, and I have followed this rule my entire life. You can eat anything and everything you want while traveling, and it won't cause you to gain weight, raise your blood pressure, or lead to type two diabetes. Of course, this might be attributed to my Mother's other rule of travel: no where is too far to walk on vacation. As a child I remember going on what basically would be considered forced marches by the United Nations human rights committee. But it didn't matter, because at the end of every march I knew we would eat. March, eat, march, eat.

For two weeks before we went to San Francisco I scoured every corner of the Internet looking for wonderful places to eat. I mean, it is one of the great culinary cities on the planet. And I'm not talking about that bread bowl of chowder for 12 bucks on the wharf. I'm sure that has it's place -- just not in my stomach. So, I went over restaurant reviews, top ten lists, foodie blogs, gourmet websites and wrote down everything that sounded even remotely good. Then, realizing even I couldn't eat that much I narrowed it down. Yes, it sounds obsessive, but this is dining dammit. I wasn't going to leave something to chance and end up eating soggy pasta.

The restaurant I was most excited to try sadly turned out to be the one big disappointment. All of the reviews for Dosa praised it's signature dish of savory bread stuffed with delicious Indian delicacies. However, none of the reviews mentioned the bread was made from lentil flour. Yeah. Nothing should be made with lentil flour. Also, it wasn't really bread, more of a crepe. I hate crepes. Even if they aren't made of lentils. I will give them this though, the stuff inside the wrap was some of the best Indian food I have ever eaten. Of course, Salt Lake really only has one Indian restaurant, so I'm easily impressed.

We missed out on a whole day of eating because of the concert. Yes, we could have been working down my list, sampling some of the finest food in the world, but instead we subsisted on pizza, hot pretzels and a really awful ten dollar burrito. At one point Tara texted me to say she and Kent had found a wonderful Italian place and were enjoying a lovely dinner and nice bottle of wine. I've never liked her.

Sunday was all about making up for lost time. First stop: dim sum. One of the things I love about the world is that every culture has it's version of doughy goodness stuffed with something. Think about it. The burrito, the turnover, the empanada, the pirogis; all are just variations on a central theme. But no culture does it better than the Chinese. And Yank Sing does it perfectly. The minute we sat down we were surrounded by waiters pushing steam carts urging us to try buns, egg rolls, dumplings, short ribs, green beans and other assorted morsels. And all of it was delicious -- even the tofu.

\I want this cart to follow me around all day.

One of the best things we ate at Yank Sing was, surprisingly, jello. I don't know what they did to it, but this was not the jello of my childhood. It came out in wedges, in an orange peel, and had a flavor that actually tasted like fruit. Tara tried to avoid it, turning her back on her Utah roots, but I finally convinced her to try at least one bite. She didn't spit it out, so I'm assuming she liked it.

Mmmmm.. Jiggly.

We spent the rest of the morning in Golden Gate park, admiring the gardens, looking at the people, enjoying the cool weather, and waiting to eat again. Then we were off to North Beach. Time for Italian. We weren't going to eat right away. Tara and I wanted to check out the shops, Ryan wanted to go to City Lights bookstore and Kent, well Kent was just up for anything except for going to the pet boutique with the incredibly cute and ridiculously expensive collars and leashes. Luckily he was saved from this fate when a vicious sidewalk cafe jumped out and dragged us into it's chairs, forcing us to have drinks and some very tasty bruschetta. Our appetizers turned into a movable feast, and we went to a restaurant down the block for dinner. I had a pasta dish that can only be described with guttural, Homer Simpsonesque moans of pleasure. It had tomatoes, onions and bacon. I wanted to bathe in it. I actually found myself taking extremely small bites in order to savor it longer. And I never take small bites of anything.

We went to bed sated, and arose the next day ready for round two. I started things off with a small breakfast, because I really don't think it's the most important meal of the day. I mean, if it were why would it feature eggs so prominently? Eggs are only acceptable in baked goods -- end of story. After breakfast, and a stop at Pier 39 to see the sea lions, Tara and Kent left us to head back to LA. At least that's what they said. I just don't think they could eat any more. Ryan and I spent the morning climbing to Coit Tower and exploring China Town, and then it was once again time to feed.

I think, no, I know I would have eaten at The Monkey even if it hadn't been on several "best of" lists. I mean, a restaurant with monkey in the title can't be bad -- unless they are actually serving primates. This place just served some of the best Thai food I have had. Ryan and I decided to stick with appetizers, and most were fried morsels of bliss. But the best thing we ate was a salad. I have never left a meal thinking the salad was the best thing I consumed, but this was amazing. It was mangoes and onions and cilantro and coconut milk all balanced perfectly. Heaven, and good for me too. Because I enjoyed the salad so much I decided that we must have had a "light lunch" and therefore could walk over to Ghiradelli square for ice cream sundaes as big as our heads.

Ice cream -- and a Diet Coke.

The ice cream called for more than just a "normal" walk so Ryan and I hoofed it up the hill to Grace Cathedral and then over to the hotel. Yes, we may have stopped for beers along the way, but that was just to keep our strength up. And by the time we got back to our room -- I was hungry again. But little did I know I was about to have the best meal of my life.

We decided to go in search of the Italian place, Pesce, Tara had raved about on Saturday. She didn't do it justice. All of the dishes were severed in small portions so you could sample many different things, each better than the other. The best was a linguine tossed with crab, garlic, wine and butter. If it had been legal I would have divorced Ryan and married this dish. And I think he would have understood. But as soon as I had pledged my eternal love to the pasta another dish came along to steal my heart. Apricot bread pudding with vanilla bean gelato. If I left Ryan and married the linguine, I would have to cheat on the pasta with this dessert. I can only think of one thing that would have made it better, but I can't say it, because my mother reads this blog.

You would think after two days of such debauchery Ryan and I would be ready for a plate of greens and a nap. But there was still a very important part of the city to explore, and devour -- Japantown. While we were in Asia Ryan and I really enjoyed having rich noodle soups for breakfast, and we wanted to relive the experience. We found a wonderful noodle bar with reasonable prices and tucked in. It was just as good as what we ate in Tokyo. Sweet and salty broth with slippery won tons, surrounding by chewy noodle. Eating scrambled eggs to start the day seems obscene to such a feast.

After eating we started walking through the rest of the area and discovered we had violated a cardinal rule of eating on vacation: we had picked one of the first restaurants we saw. Inside a mall across the street there were rows and rows of bustling restaurants, with every kind of delicious Japanese food imaginable. Then we saw it: the sushi boat restaurant. Suddenly we knew, no matter how full we were we had to eat there, even if it meant walking all the way back to Utah.

As lunch goes floating by...

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept the sushi boat restaurant is just like a normal sushi joint, only instead of ordering you just grab plates as they float by you on a moat. Ryan and I discovered the concept on our first vacation together, and we have always been especially fond of it. This was some of the best we've had. Although we only ate a few pieces (even we have a limit) everything we ate was fresh and well sliced and delicious. It was definitely worth the bloated, uncomfortable feeling I had afterwards.

I departed San Francisco in a blissful almost dream state, and wearing my fat pants. But it doesn't matter. If I had to do it all again I would eat everything, and maybe a few more things. After all, we did skip Saturday...

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Contact High

I have always thought of myself as a free thinker. A liberal. A radical. A real bad ass. However, after this weekend I feel about as young, hip, and wild as Dick Cheney.

Believe it or not, Ryan's favorite band is Rage Against the Machine. Yes, that's right. By day he's a mild mannered, debate centered academic, but by night he's a "damn the man," fist pumping, Nader voting free thinker. Because I love this dichotomy of a man, I decided to get him tickets to the "Rock the Bells" concert in San Francisco to celebrate our anniversary. After all, what says love like a day filled with Wu Tang Clan, Cypress Hill, Public Enemy and Rage? Little did I know what I was in for.

Young people hair.

The moment we arrived at the arena I instantly aged ten years. I have been feeling rather old lately anyway, ever since a young associate producer at the station told me her mother was turning forty. She is 22. I am now closer in age to the parents of my colleagues than my colleagues themselves. And I was definitely older than the crowd at the concert. Estimating conservatively I would say the average age was 23. The average occupation? Pot smoker. I have never seen so much weed, so blatantly displayed, ever. Now, I know that I have always been naive when it comes to drugs, in college I wouldn't have know where to get pot if it was growing in my backyard. But I have always thought I was open enough to accept other people who like herbal refreshment, even if I myself do not partake. In this instance though any semblance of tolerance was washed away as I walked through the crowd with my mouth agape, wondering why none of these people were worried about getting caught. I wanted to ask each one of them if their mothers knew what they were doing. Of course, in a couple instances their mothers were there smoking grass with them. And I was older than the mothers.

This was a small joint.

Social outrage was the theme of the day. Every artist complained about something. One was angry about race, most were pissed about the war in Iraq, and one had an especially passionate hatred for 1980's soft rock. All preached a gospel of fighting the power, smoking the ganja and buying their albums. However, I got the distinct feeling the revolution has been compromised. Maybe it was the fact the social protest groups were handing out slick, two sided cards nicer than brochures for most colleges. Oh, and that those cards invited people to a "barbecue and potluck." Maybe it was the fact most of the crowd had never worked a day in their lives and their main source of income is their rich, white, upper middle class parents. Maybe it was the fact that beers were seven dollars, and bottles of water were three dollars. Or maybe, just maybe it was the fact that Rage Against the Machine t-shirts were being sold for fifty dollars. I think a shirt that expensive bearing your band name technically makes you part of the machine. I mean, unless the money goes to the Black Panthers. But I don't think it does.

Wear orange. But only if it's designer.

Despite the watered down message the music really was outstanding. Blackalicious was truly funky, Sage Francis displayed his biting wit, Flavor Flav danced around like an escaped mental patient and Rage played their songs like the world was depending on them. The crowd got a little rowdy, and I don't just mean drunk frat boy rowdy. One guy climbed the lighting tower and only came down after four security guards wrestled him down. The crowd wasn't much help, they kept yelling at him to jump, and one guy threw something at him trying to knock him down. Then a girl jumped on stage when Rage was performing. She misjudged how far it was back into the crowd though, and hit the barrier trying to escape the guards chasing her. Physics is such a bitch.

The reason we were there.

For me the best act was Ryan. He danced and sang and shouted leftist slogans with the vigor of an 18-year old philosophy major who just learned about Che Guevara. I moved my feet and did what could pass as dancing in some Amish circles, but Ryan was on fire. And it made me feel young. After all, how old can I be if I'm married to such a vibrant, angry hottie? Next time though I'm taking a lawn chair. My aching knees can't stand for 11 hours any more. And I need to wear more sunscreen. And a support girdle. And a cane to wave at those no good kids if they come into my yard.

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Signs you are not in Utah

This weekend Ryan and I met Tara and Kent in San Francisco. It is about the polar opposite of Salt Lake, which is while we probably like it. I'll write more about it later -- but for right now, just pictures.

I thought La Rocca's Corner was in his mother's basement...

Coit Licker is now Tara's favorite insult.

I don't know what Helen did, but she pissed someone off.

My favorite type of sandwich.

I don't need to say anything more.

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Tales from the Vet

Every year Ryan and I take three weeks in August and go on a trip to somewhere far, far away. We've been to Costa Rica, Belize, New Zealand, Tonga, Fiji, Japan, and this time last year we were in Vietnam. It is usually the high point of our year and fodder for boring friends with stories and pictures for months to come. However, this year for various reasons we decided to skip the big trip, go on a couple little ones and save our money. You know, like responsible adults. After a little while though we got tired of talking about our investment portfolio, not putting groceries on the Amex and having money fights in our underwear. We needed to find a way to get rid of all this extra cash. Then, we thought of it -- let's take all of the animals to the vet. Problem solved.

It all started with Sally. She goes to doggy day care and so has to be current on all her vaccinations. Since it has been a year since we got her (how time flies when your sofa is being destroyed) she needed her booster shots. And that got me to thinking about the fact the last time any of the cats had been to the vet I had a Rachel haircut. Well, not that long, but you get the idea. I have always avoided taking the cats to the vet unless absolutely necessary. And it isn't because I don't care or because I'm cheap. It's because taking a cat to the vet is a bit like putting a wild boar in a party dress. Only boars don't shed as much. However, now I was taking Sally to the vet, and I didn't want the cats to feel like I was favoring her and trying to make them die. It was decided. Shots all around.

Because Ryan and I are not total fools we decided to not take all three cats and the dog to the vet at the same time. We wanted to work man to man defense, not zone. Sally and Alice seemed to be the easier pair -- so they were up first. And they were pretty easy. Alice did make the drive to and from miserable by yowling the entire time and Sally did try to claw through the stainless steel table, but in the end neither Ryan and I were bleeding and our nerves didn't seem to be totally frayed. I began thinking my worries about the vet were unfounded. I made appointments for the other two cats and for Sally to get her teeth cleaned. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

I am such a moron.

I should have known my luck was about to change when Ryan called me at work this morning to tell me about dropping Sally off for her cleaning. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say she tried to make herself as heavy as possible and hold onto the concrete with claws. It was not pretty.

Because Ryan had taken Sally in the morning I said I would take the other two cats for their afternoon appointments and pick her up at the same time. I pulled out the cat carriers and set to work. Maggie is traditionally the slipperier of the two so I went for her first. I almost had the top closed when she popped out of the box and took off like a grey lightning bolt to her hiding spot under the bed. Knowing the jig was up I scooped up Rita and put her in her box before trying to coax Maggie out with promises of tuna and pony rides. She wasn't buying it. For minutes I lay on the floor, my head crammed under the bed as far as it would go, breathing in dust bunnies, trying to reach her. Nothing. Finally I flopped down on the bed and let out a sigh. Maggie, thinking I had forgotten all about the box nonsense decided to jump up and join me. Victory was mine.

I mentioned earlier how annoying Alice was yowling in the car. Well, that was a symphony compared to the caterwauling going on today. I don't know where it came from, but Maggie began making this guttural growling/screaming noise that sounded like Satan himself. It even scared Rita into silence. When we go to the vet I got Maggie's box out, set it on the ground and reached in to grab Rita's. It was maybe a five second span. In that time Maggie threw herself against the side of he box, tipped it over and was frantically trying to force her way out. I practically threw myself on the box like a grenade. A grenade of fury and fur.

I got to the door and I think by the look on my face the nurses knew I did not have time to wait. I needed to be seen IMMEDIATELY. The vet followed me into the examining room and opened Maggie's box. That's when she unleashed her inner ninja. She looked like a very large flying squirrel flinging herself around the room. For a moment I really thought I was just going to have to leave her there, and she could become a creature of myth, like the Sasquatch. Then an amazing thing happened. The vet stuck out his hand, grabbed her hind leg and twisted her basically into a kitty pretzel. He wasn't hurting her, but he had completely immobilized her. Two shots and back in the box. I was in awe. By this time Rita had pretty much figured out she was beaten and didn't put up much of a fight. I know, I know, this is a cat who has inspired terror in the hearts of dozens and who in some ways resembles a chupacabra. However, she is also very pragmatic. She just wanted it over.

I got the cats out into the car, started the motor and went back in to get Sally. What I found was a puddle of dog soup. They had put her under anesthetic to clean her teeth, and she was now looking like she'd had a couple of bottles of wine. She wasn't going anywhere on her own four legs. I slung her over my shoulder and carried her out to the car.

By the time we got home I just wanted to fall on the grass and pass out. I released the cats from their carriers and they bounded off to places unknown, and I carried Sally up and into her bed where she has been for the past three hours. Then I poured myself a drink the size of my head. I had planned to go yoga, but that was before the vet trip. I decided this was much more therapeutic. That and I didn't want to leave a drugged dog wandering around the house alone.

Oh, and just so you know, the price for all of this fun? Three hundred and thirty dollars. And that was with the "brave souls" discount for people who bring more than one animal in at a time. And it still isn't over! I have to take Rita and Maggie back next week to have their teeth cleaned.

Maybe I'll make Ryan do it....

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Eulogy for a Blow Dryer

After 11 years my blow dryer is on it's last legs. Now, before you begin to scoff about this post being a mindless paean to pointless consumerism, know that I have had this blow dryer longer than I have known my husband, longer than I have had any of my cats or my dog, and almost three times as long as Luke has been alive. It has moved with me across country and into several apartments as well as my first home. And through it all it has faithfully dried my hair, and not in a way that makes it look weird. And that's hard with my hair, as it prefers looking weird.

I got this blow dryer at the CVS pharmacy across from my apartment in Washington D.C. I needed it due to the fact a sister that shall not be named (Cate) had decided my blow dryer was hers when I visited home at Christmas. She may not remember it like that, but it's my blog so my memory trumps any lies she may make up. I picked this hair dryer for two reasons: it was cheap, and it blew air. I didn't have any idea it would turn into a lasting relationship.

Vaya con dios, muchacha.

There were several times I almost lost my blow dryer, the most serious right after I got my cat Rita. She sheds more than any cat on the planet, and for some reason all of the hair seemed to be sucked into the blow dryer. I almost began believing Rita was sleeping on it while I was at work. I spent several hours leaning over the blow dryer painstakingly picking fur out of the intake, turning it on and off to see if the burning cat hair smell had dissipated. After that I started wrapping it in a t-shirt when not in use, until it got it's very own drawer in our house.

I don't want you to think it's been all fun and games with my blow dryer. Like all relationships we have had our hard times. For three months I had very short bangs after it decided to suddenly go red hot, singeing everything in it's path. There were also several times it sucked my hair into the intake, creating rats nest the size of, well, rats. Like all partnerships though I forgave and forgot, and I think the blow dryer did too.

About two weeks ago the blow dryer starting doing the electronic equivalent of laying lethargically on the floor. It would only heat for small bursts, just pushing out hot air for seconds before going cold. And the hot air was scorching. It was definitely trying to overcompensate. On Sunday I told Ryan it was time. I needed a new blow dryer. He looked at me and said "then buy one." I hope he isn't so callous about any children we may have.

This afternoon I found my new blow dryer. It was marked down to $10.72 cents at our local grocery store, due to a damaged box. I find that an auspicious start, being that economy was the driving force that brought my current blow dryer into my life. However, I still can't take it out of the box. I almost feel I don't want the other one to see it. I want my current blow dryer to still feel like top dog. I mean, at least until it coughs it's last spasm of red hot air, burns a bald spot on my head and dies victoriously. Then I will bury it at midnight in the backyard. Or throw it away, I haven't decided yet.

One thing is certain though, it will always have a special place in my heart. Right next to the toaster. But I still get too emotional to talk about that....

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River Rat

Utah has a long and illustrious history of people setting out to conquer the mighty rivers that snake through the west. John Wesley Powell is obviously the most famous, having tied himself to a pole on a raft and taken off in a syphilitic frenzy down the Colorado. Then of course there were General William Ashley, Haldane "Buzz" Holmstrom and Amos Burg (really, I looked them up). And now there is another name to add to their midst -- Libby Mitchell. This Sunday I took on, and successfully conquered the might Provo river. And I did it all with a beer in one hand.

I have to admit the expedition was not my idea. The man with the plan was my friend Burk. He had assembled a rag tag group of adventurers earlier in the summer to tackle the river and wanted to do it again. So, he called on the bravest, and least busy souls among us to join his crew, which ended up being me, Ryan and Jason.


We got up early in the morning, setting out to find crafts worthy of taking on the rapids. I wanted to hew a boat out of one of the trees in Liberty Park, but Ryan suggested getting inner tubes at Big 5 instead. I also found an excellent river running hat, which I will not be posting a picture of here. I was worried about supplies and wanted to stock up on freeze dried foods and water purification tablets, but Ryan insisted all we would need was beer for an hour and a half river trip. Turned out he was right. I married a very smart man.

All the way to the river Jason and Burk talked about how cold the water was going to be when we got in. At least, I think that's what they talked about, we were in separate cars. I do know they were talking about it a lot before we left, and that I really thought I was going to have to listen to griping about cold penises the entire time.

Ready to float.

The water turned out to be fine. Actually a little on the warmish side. And our crafts were quite water worthy. Ryan and I decided to float int he venerable "River Rats," while Burk had a small Coleman raft and Jason rigged a contraption of a water chair and river rat foot stool. He looked very comfortable. We floated and talked and drank beer and stared at the trees and mountains and the bright blue sky. It was so relaxing that I didn't even see the rock in front of me until it was halfway into my hip. I now have a bruise on my ass the size of a cantaloupe. I won't be posting a picture of that either.

Like all great expeditions our eventually had to come to an end. The Other End. That's the bar in Heber where we went for burgers after we were done conquering the river. A perfect end to a perfect day.

Next time I'm floating it blindfolded.

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My birthday

My birthday was perfect, and not just because I didn't have to go into work.

Ryan and I got up about 9am and started the day with presents. I think every day should be started with presents. It just makes things so much more pleasant. I got a lovely new Ann Taylor outfit, sunglasses with sparkles on the sides, a new shirt, a yoga ball and some fabulous cheesy romantic movies on DVD. Ryan spoils me. Then we headed to my favorite breakfast spot to meet my folks. They haven't seen me on my birthday in four years, so they were kind of making a big deal of seeing me this year on the actual day. Really, who can blame them? I rock. My mother insisted I start the meal with a cupcake, and I try not to argue with my mother when it comes to eating sweets. After all, this is the woman who tried to pass off saltines as cookies during my childhood. If she says I can have sugar, I jump at the chance.

After breakfast my birthday glow made me feel like I could take on the world, so I decided to do the impossible. I gave Sally a bath. Getting her into the tub only took about ten minutes. Then she stood frozen and shaking while I tried to clean off the layers of stink that have been clinging to her for weeks. She looked up at me with disdain in her eyes. "I will remember this later," she seemed to be saying. But the torture was over soon enough, and after a brisk towel dry she was done. I was victorious. Oh, and then I walked outside and saw my very clean dog rolling in mud. I think she was even flipping me off as she did it.

After Sally was (sort of) re-cleaned I headed off to the spa. Let me just start by saying this: I am a no touch monkey. I do not like massages and prefer it is people around me keep their hands where I can see them. But this was a truly wonderful experience. Ryan got me a facial, which was like the best parts of massage, coupled with good great smelling products and a promise of smaller pores. Then, I got a pedicure, which is one of my favorite things in the world. My feet normally resemble those of Bilbo Baggins, but when my toenails are painted I look a little less hobbitesque. And Ryan had gotten me the super fantastic flip over backwards in the air naked pedicure (that's actually what they call it) so not only did they make sure my feet were exfoliated, but they gave them a mud mask and wax treatment as well. My feet are now the nicest part of my body.

I came home from the spa and was greeted by a wonderful sight: Ryan, Luke and a half gallon of cherries jubilee ice cream. It's what I imagine my first glimpse of heaven will look like. We sat on the porch and ate ice cream, with Luke making sure he got a fair share of cherries from everyone's bowl. He then decided being sprayed by the hose was an excellent idea, and Ryan and I were all too happy to oblige, until he declared himself "totally freezing and hungry" and we stopped to eat slices of turkey (we were out of bread).

After that the night starts to get a little fuzzy. I know Ryan and I went to sushi and then stopped by my book club to say hello to the wonderful women I am lucky enough to have in my lifeand eat more cupcakes. But, during these events I had a bottle of white wine hooked into my vein, so I might not have all the details straight. I still went to work today though -- sometimes you gotta play hurt.

All in all it was a perfect day. And it doesn't even matter that I am now officially in my mid-thirties.

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33 trips around the sun

Today is my 33rd birthday and I have nothing profound to say. I should probably be thoughtfully looking back on all I've learned in the past three point three decades, thinking about what I want to do in the future, questioning my existence and wondering what it is I want to accomplish in the world. Or, I could go the opposite route, crying and gnashing my teeth against the cruelty of time. But really I just feel fine. Maybe a little sleepy.

So, I'm going to take the rest of the day off. I'll let you all know about my fabulous birthday adventures tomorrow. Oh, and if you want to get me a present -- just tell three people about how fabulous Libby Logic is and how reading it will change their lives...

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And they don't even live in Utah...

A couple in Arkansas is getting national and international attention this week, because they have welcomed their 17th child. Yes, you read that correctly. In the past 19 years Jim Bob (how perfect is that name) and Michelle Duggar have popped out 17 kids, and only four of them have come out in convenient twin sets. I don't think I have to tell you I believe these people to be insane. I would think that after four they would figure out how it was happening and do something to stop it! I mean really, how are they raising these children? They could spend just over an hour with each of them a day, and that's if they gave up sleep. But even then they probably couldn't because they are too busy making more children!

Think of the toll this has taken on the body of that poor woman. I'm betting you could drive a truck through her vagina. And not a compact truck, a full size with a hemi. If she nursed all 17 of them she has most likely produced more meals than McDonanlds. I betting she doesn't wear a bra any more, just a belt. And how could sex even be enjoyable any more? I would start chasing my husband out of the bedroom with a flame-thrower.

But wait, it gets worse. Not only do the Duggars have 17 children -- all of them have J names. I think it's to remind Mom Michelle that she is not a real member of the family -- just a means of creating more Duggars for king Jim Bob. Joshua, John David, Janna, Jill, Jessa, Jinger, Joseph, Josiah, Joy-Anna, Jedidiah, Jeremiah, Jason, James, Justin, Jackson, Johannah, and Jennifer. Jinger? That is just giving that girl a reason to be pissed. Not only will her name always be misspelled, but she will never be able to find personalized pencils. But at least she won't have to change it when she starts her inevitable career as a stripper. But what happens if they have more children? Is there eventually going to be a Jingle, a Jet, a Jumper, a Jesus, a Jeronimo (I know, it's misspelled, but I don't think they care), or maybe even a Jester?

Here's what I think needs to be done. We must raise funds to get Michelle Duggar fixed. She's like the neighborhood cat who just keeps spewing out kittens until one eventually gets hit by a car and a sympathetic neighbor gets it spayed. Let's do it now before a Duggar ends up flattened in the street.

Really, it's for the children.

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Ouch

I like how he runs in the air like it's going to help him...

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I'm really very funny...

Last night Ryan and I were waiting for the news to come on and I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Sally followed me in, and I decided it would be amusing to wrap her head in toilet paper and make her look like a wounded Civil War soldier. Sally obviously thought it was amusing also, because she didn't try to get it off. I then went into the living room, and with my minty fresh mouth said to Ryan "I think Sally's hurt." He looked up at me with a slight worry in his eyes, until Sally appeared in the archway. Then he just smirked. I said "Don't you think that's funny?" He replied "only because it's our last roll." Ouch.

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