Do As I Say

Luke has become a puppet master. And his puppets? All of the adults who love him, take care of him, and basically cater to his every whim. If a conversation isn't going the way he wants? He'll instruct one of his minions exactly what to say, and to whom to say it. For instance, last night at dinner my Mother was instructed to say "Libby" in an annoyed tone of voice when I would not let Luke eat an entire tub of butter. Or on several occasions people (such as myself) have been instructed to ask him fascinating questions like "what's your favorite Transformer, Lucas?" when the conversation up to that point has been about gardening. And he doesn't just provide questions -- he also has all the answers. Just today he told me to say "yes, Lucas" when he asked if he could have an ice cream bar. Oh, and when he is writing these scripts for us? He is always "Lucas." The uses of the name "Luke" is not acceptable and will result in having to start the entire script over. There is no improvisation. It's like working with the strictest director ever, who will threaten not to be your friend any more if you don't do it right.

The string pulling goes beyond putting words in our mouths as well. Last night we all played a game where Luke would pop an Edamame bean out of it's shell, and then it had to be passed from person to person until it arrived back at him so he could eat it. No one could eat it, or pretend to eat it, or play with it, it just had to be passed hand to hand.

Now, I know what those of you who have any experience with children are thinking -- "sounds like Luke is a little OCD." Well, duh. Is this your first time reading this blog? If he wasn't OCD we would be looking for the cabbage leaf he crawled out from under. Every person in my family has a unique, and strangely endearing quirk. My Dad? Rolls tape between his fingers. My Mom? Her house is as clean and organized as a museum. My sister Cate? Well, she has more Barbies in their original packaging than Mattel. Even threatening to open one sends her into fits. My sister Amanda? She has no fingernails, and can tell you every '80's goth song ever recorded, by whom, and what they were wearing. And me? I'm perfectly normal. I just have to repeat certain sentences until I get the right response, and on certain occasions have almost balded my eyebrows pulling them out while thinking. And when I was a kid? I had a script my parents had to say to me every night before I could go to bed. One deviation and they had to start over again. Sound familiar? Yep, one happy crazy family -- and Lucas fits right in. Honestly, I think that if he didn't have this little puppet master thing going on we would be concerned, and would probably try to force some weird habit on him. After all, we don't have an insect collector... Maybe I'll start working on Ryan, but I'll have to check with Luke first.

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Fight the Faux Hawk!

Who the hell invented this hairstyle? Really, it had to be a joke. I'm sure some smart-ass hairstylist was sick of dealing with over an overly difficult client and thought "what can I do to really make him look like a penis?" Voila, the faux hawk was born. And now it has taken over the world.

Everywhere you look there is someone with one of these pointy monstrosities. "Look at me," they seem to say, "I'm dangerous! I mean, unless I'm in a situation where I shouldn't be, and then I have a safe bowl cut." The faux hawk is on television, in movies, in magazines, on the streets, and filling our schools. Ryan says the hallways at the middle school are teeming with faux hawks. It must look like a living box of slightly dull pencils.

Something needs to be done! We must warn this generation of the abject horror they will feel when looking back at their "faux hawk" years. Does no one remember the mullet? The male anchor on my show had one -- and now we torture him mercilessly with a picture of it. We've even put it on air. Do we really want the children to suffer such psychological torture later on? Aren't we supposed to be making the world a better place for them to live. I mean, fuck global warming, let's get Al Gore on this! I can see it now-- "An Unfortunate Haircut: The 73 Minute Power Point Presentation."

I am really beginning to worry that there is only one way to stop this menace -- and that is for me to get a faux hawk. You see, I have this strange ability of killing trends. Do you miss grunge? Yeah, so do I. I had just stocked up on flannel shirts when as the final nails were being put into the coffin. Remember claw bangs? The minute I finally figured out how to use a round brush the whole trend deflated. And acid washed jeans? Don't even get me started. So, unless this faux hawk fury disappears soon, I might just have to take one for the team. But I really, really, hope it doesn't come to that.

So, please, for the good of my hair, stop the madness. Shave a faux hawk. It may result in an assault charge, but it will save the world.

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Damn the Man!

There are many reasons that I hate Wal-mart, and believe it is evil -- it's unfair trading policies, it's treatment of part time workers, and the fact that it's stores are so large they reminds me of the living room of the death star are just a few of them. But now I have a new one -- Debbie Shank.

Debbie is a Missouri woman who was badly brain damaged in a traffic incident eight years ago. She now has no sort term memory, and will be in a care center for the rest of her life. Now Wal-mart did not cause the accident (that I can prove) but they were her employer at the time, and like any decent employer that gives health benefits, they paid out money for her injures. But of course, we all know Wal-mart isn't decent.

Debbie's family won a one million dollar lawsuit against the trucking company blamed for the accident. After paying all of the various legal and other fees the family was left with little over 4-hundred thousand dollars. Now Wal-mart wants it all -- and then some. They say that the health plan Debbie was on allows them to recoup money paid out in claims, and a judge has said the only way they can do that is through Debbie's trust fund.

What really bugs me about all this is that Wal-mart is legally in the right! Not only that, but I slightly agree with them that making an exception in this case could cause problems for the company later on when other people start trying to abuse system. Damn the man!

Luckily, there is a way to cut Wal-mart out of the equation completely and just leave them counting their piles of gold in their underground caves -- we could all help Debbie. An organization called Wal-mart watch is raising funds for her care, and will match every dollar donated. So, your $25 donation becomes $50. Not only that, but it becomes a sign that all of man kind doesn't suck. So, give to the fund, and give Wal-mart the finger. Let them drown in their own crapulence and low quality plastic products.

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Not a Pretty Cat

Several changes have happened in our house since Maggie died. The first is that Ryan and I can now get through a full night of sleep without a cat inserting one razor sharp claw into the soft tissue under our arms. Oh, good times. Luckily for me, Ryan was usually the primary target of that game. Also, I can now eat cheese without feeling like I am taking my life into my own hands. Really, Maggie would get airborne for a good piece of cheddar. But the biggest change has taken place in our other cats -- Rita in particular.

Maggie's primary domain was our bed. She ruled it like a queen and was quick to knock anyone down who tried to lie there without her permission. Since her death the bed has become open country, where Sally, Alice and Rita roam freely. Now, both Sally and Alice were regulars on the bed before, risking Maggie's wrath, however, Rita had never risked it, and I was actually surprised when she hauled her girth onto the bed for the first time. And I was even more shocked when she was began to act affectionate and sweet, because if there is one thing Rita is not, it's sweet.

You see, Rita is a North Carolina barn cat who would rather shred your arm to ribbons than look at you. She is very picky about who she allows to even be around her, and it took Ryan years before he was allowed to touch her. Now he can pet her for minutes at a time, although he is still pretty uneasy about it. My mother claims Rita once cornered her in my apartment, and if restraining orders could be filed against cats, most of my family would have one against her. She is a super bitch -- which is why I like her. So, you can understand why her recent change in attitude has shocked me. I feel like if she is softening, maybe I should too. Maybe I should ask a co-worker how their day is going, help and old lady across the street, or not trip any more mimes. My world is shaken, or at least, almost was...

Today, Rita got up on the bed while I was reading. She pushed her head under my book so I could pet her. I scratched behind her ears and rubbed her head, and then tried to pet under her chin. She almost took my hand off, hissing like a snake on the head of Medusa, but much, much bigger. I have never been happier in my life while risking amputation. The bitch is still in there, lurking. She just needs a little love once in a while. But not too much, or else she'll cut you. Just like me.

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Gotta See It

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Five Things Salt Lake City Needs

I love Salt Lake City. I know, I know, it is the punchline of many a joke, and some of them are actually pretty funny, but it really is a great place to live. It's pretty, just cosmopolitan enough, not too expensive, close to the mountains and the desert, and most of the people don't take themselves too seriously. However, I do have to admit that there are some things Salt Lake lacks, so, with no further ado, here is the list of five things that would elevate Salt Lake from being "pretty great" to "fucking awesome." Oh, and they almost all have nothing to do with alcohol, because you really can get a drink here.

Five Things Salt Lake Needs

1. Trader Joe's Some people plan their vacations around attractions, natural wonders, or loved one -- I plan mine around Trader Joe's. I love a store that only sells cocktail party food. Wonderful cheeses, delicious ravioli, every kind of nut done every way imaginable, and really cheap wine. It is what I imagine heaven must look like -- but without the Tiki decor. And it isn't that expensive! On my last journey to the promised land I picked up three really good things of cheese, four different types of fresh pasta, pasta sauce, cashews, korma sauce, and ten bottles of wine -- all for under one hundred dollars. Yeah, some of the wine turned out to be not that great, but who cares! It was from Trader Joe's! Actually, it's probably a good thing there isn't one here. We'd be broke.

2. Scuba Diving Ryan and I love to dive. We have gone all over the world and basically count the months between dive trips. It would be wonderful if there were place here where we could dive and it wouldn't suck. You see, the places that there are to dive here are pretty much just big pits of muck. I could get the same effect by dumping sand in my bathtub and sticking my face in, and I wouldn't have to squeeze into a wet suit.

3. Cuban Food Have you ever had a really good Cuban sandwich? They are beyond extraordinary. Ham, cheese, pickles, and mustard on a bread specifically invented for this sandwich. And it's grilled so it gets all hot and gooey. Of course, I must only dream of true Cuban sandwiches, because there is no place to get one here. Yes, some restaurants say they serve Cuban sandwiches, but it's really just a toasted ham and cheese hoagie. It's like asking for Champagne and getting served that Martinelli's crap. Very disappointing.

4. A Responsible Legislature Have you ever watched a nature video where the Lions attack a Gazelle, tearing it apart with just one swipe? That's what it like watching Republicans and Democrats interface in Utah. Occasionally the gazelle gets away, triumphant, but that doesn't happen very often. And when they aren't busy beating up on Democrats the controlling Republicans really like beating any common sense out of their legislative dealings. A bill ensuring health care for the poor? Later. A bill banning use of the word gay and all of it's homonyms? Excellent! And get rid of that word homonyms too! It's the only way to protect freedom. Just once I would like to open the paper during the legislative session and not be embarrassed to live here.

5. More than One Art Museum Really, there is only one art museum in Salt Lake, and it's on the grounds of the University, so parking is always a bitch. There are galleries, but whenever I go into one I feel like I have to buy something, or else they'll think I'm casing the joint. A museum with a sculpture garden would be perfect, like the Getty, only without the creepy mad scientist vibe. Just somewhere to go and sit and be surrounded by beautiful things.

That's pretty much it. Salt Lake actually has everything else I need, and a lot of things that I don't. Like, I know that I will probably never need a colonic therapist, still, it's nice to know that there is not just one, but SIX available. And people say all we have are polygamists and Sundance... Pshaw...

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The Ice Cream Man Cometh

Today I took Luke and Cooper to the park for a lovely spring outing at a place neither of them could break anything. Both of them had way too much energy, and as we walked to the park they informed me of certain things they assumed I didn't know. Things like, you shouldn't eat a pine cone, and that ducks are birds, not animals. It was very educational. When we arrived at the playground they exploded like rockets, running from one end to the other, going down every slide, telling kids why they shouldn't throw wood chips and basically having a fabulous time. I thought that they would run until they dropped and then I would have to load them onto my shoulders and carry them home like sacks of potatoes. But, then, the ice cream man arrived.

The first strains of "Jimmy Cracked Corn" could not be heard by any adult on the playground, though the ears of every child pricked up. Soon they were all standing there like Meerkats, waiting to see which direction they would have to run once the truck finally became visible. Finally it turned the corner and headed into the park. By the time the parents heard the synthesized carillon bells there was a full fledged stampede going on, and Luke and Cooper were right in front.

When I was a kid I loved the ice cream man, but I could never understand why my parents looked at him with dread. I get it now. Suddenly, any allegiance Cooper or Luke had for me was totally shifted to a stranger hawking sugar that they had never met. They had to have the ice cream, and if I wouldn't help them get it, well, that would probably ruin their lives.

Of course, I gave in. Once I saw that brightly colored display of sugar coated happiness I was brainwashed. Well, that and I like to buy the love of children, and for only four bucks I was suddenly a hero. Luke and Cooper devoured their bars like they were manna from heaven -- very sticky manna, but still good.

After the ice cream was gone we looked for a place to wash hands, but while it's warm enough for the ice cream man, it isn't for the parks to turn on the water. So, 45 minutes later I walked home with two boys who looked like they had been tarred and wood chipped. Only, under all the mess there was a shine, giant smiles of boys who had just gotten their first taste of summer.

Now, if only we could get the ice cream trucks to play Modest Mouse.

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Cute, Fuzzy, and Evil

I hate cute cat things. I am not one who chuckles at "Can I Has Cheezburger" or "Hang in There, Baby." I think it is because I have been around cats my whole life, and understand how truly evil they are. That's why I love the two following cartoons. If you don't you might want to see a doctor, your soul is missing...

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Five Things You Need While Camping

Ryan and I have just returned from a long weekend in the Nevada desert. We both really needed some time off to just recharge our batteries, while letting the batteries on our cell phones and computers die. So, for those of you who thought I had quit blogging because I finally overdosed on rageahol and had to be admitted to a mental institution -- sorry, not yet.

I have tons to write about our trip, and a lot of pictures to post that could alienate my friends forever, but right now it's time for this week's edition of five things...

Five Things You Need on Any Camping Trip

1. Good Friends Now, this may seem self explanatory, since who really wants to head off into the wilderness with people they hate, but I have heard of it happening more than once. Someone gets talked into a trip by a sort of friend, and then ends up sharing a campfire with ten of his former frat brothers who just got out of AA, or prison. So, I think it is important that before packing up your sleeping bag you make sure you can stand every person heading out with you, and ask yourself "if we were the last two people left on earth, would death seem like a good alternative?" If the answer is yes, stay home. Luckily, Ryan and I went with some of our favorite people in the world -- Chris and Jacqueline joined us from Vegas and Kent, Tara and Sam hauled their cookies all the way from LA. We also had some wonderful new people joined us in the form of Heather and Art. All of us together led to an evening around the fire that can only be described as riotous, and probably illegal in Tennessee.

2. Wet Wipes I hate being dirty, which is, unfortunately, one of the key parts of camping. I can last until about the first morning before feeling like I need to be dipped in Lysol, and would likely go screaming into the closest RV park or Motel 6 if it weren't for the wonder of Wet Wipes. I have gotten to the part where I can give myself a full bath with just six of them -- not counting the special ones I use to clean my face. After all, just because I'm on vacation doesn't mean I have time to neglect my pores. Once I'm done with my little outdoor bath I feel fresh as a daisy -- as long as I am wearing a hat.

3. A Camera There is really no way to take a bad picture of red rocks and blue sky. There are a million photo opportunities around every corner, and even more if your friends haven't washed their hair in a couple of days.

4. Wine and Firewood This may seem like an odd pairing, but you really shouldn't bring one and not the other. After all, burning stuff is fun, and drinking stuff is fun, so put them together and it's the perfect combination. The only thing better would be bottle rockets, which most recreation areas frown upon -- except in West Virginia, where that is the only acceptable way to fish.

5. Sunscreen Again, this would seem pretty obvious, but right now I am sitting here looking at a very (not very, he says) burnt red headed husband. And he has known for years that he bursts into flame at the mere sight of the sun. If you are going to be outside for hours, put on sunscreen, and then put it on a gain. Actually, every time you think "hey, there's the sun," reapply. It will save you from feeling like your skin is falling off in the short run, and reduce your chances of looking like luggage later.

My parents still can't believe I went camping this weekend. My Dad called Sunday when we were in a rare spot of cell phone reception to tell me they wanted to have my DNA tested, because to them camping is a hotel without room service. I bet they wouldn't feel that way though with a big supply of wet wipes in their backpacks...

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She Should Have Ended Up With Duckie

Last night Ryan and I were flipping through the channels playing our favorite game of "let's find something to watch that won't annoy either of us" when we can upon a hidden treat: A John Hughes movie marathon. And the movie playing at that moment was, in my humble opinion, the best one of the series: Pretty in Pink. You know, rich boy, poor but really talented and hip girl overcoming the stigmas of society to find true love, all set to a brilliant New Wave soundtrack. A masterpiece. The greatest romantic depiction of my generation. Oh, and complete and utter bullshit. You see, as I was watching it I realized I was no longer 13, or even 26. I was seeing it through the yes of a 33 year old who has lived long past high school and realized that that time in life really wasn't a candy coated dreamworld filled with never ending romances, or, for that matter, people you would ever talk to again after graduation. Watching this movie with those eyes made it into the most absurd and melodramatic thing I had ever seen.

Let's just look at the central event of which Pretty in Pink revolves: the prom. Everyone in this movie talks as it is the biggest event that could ever happen in their lives -- EVEN THE ADULTS. Andie is elated when Blaine (yes, that was his name) asks her to go with him, and then thrown into the pit of despair when he cancels due to peer pressure. That leads to tears, and a fiery Scarlett O'Hara like determination to go to the prom without him. She even sews her own dress just to show him, and his friends that "they didn't break [her]." And, oh yes, those are exactly the words she used. Luckily, the prom is redeemed though when Blaine tells Andie that she just "didn't believe in him" and that he would love her "always." Now, I'm guessing what he really meant was "I'll love you until I go off to Princeton and you stay here at vocational school, but I'd like to get laid now," but whatever it meant it had Andie running straight into his arms, and had every frizzy haired, big sweatshirt wearing girl squealing in delight.

Oh, and the surrounding characters! Steff? Blaine's preppy friend? How did anyone not notice that James Spader was 30 years old when offering him that part? And the accent he used was pure Mr. Howell from Gilligan's Island. And the blatant smoking on school grounds? Actually though, I guess that was pretty accurate, since most of the teachers must have assumed he was a parent. Then there was Iona, the hipster, cool/mentor for Andie. Owner of a record shop and dater of a pet shop owner. And her best friend is 16. As if anyone past the age of 16 wants to hang out with 16 year olds. I don't even like talking to them when they're filling my order at a drive thru. Oh, and let's not forget Harry Dean Stanton as Andie's poor, alcoholic, heartbroken father. Actually, I don't even think Harry Dean knows he was in this movie. It just so happened they were shooting it in his house and he wandered into some shots.

Really, the only redeeming thing I can find in this movie any more is Duckie. Dear, sweet Duckie. Andie's friend and official torch carrier. The only one who loves her no matter what, and the person she treats like a mentally disabled seven year old. I wish that there was a sequel showing Duckie after meeting that hot blonde at the prom Duckie ditching Andie and walking like a man, not even bothering to pick up the phone when she called to complain about Blaine's new Princeton study buddy Buffy. It would end with him going to a trailer park to collect Andie's rent check, and telling her that her pink mumu made her look "frumpy."

I guess trying to watch movies of my childhood is like trying to play with Barbies again. It's amusing, and kitschy, but it never has the same pizazz. It's a good thing I figured this out though before trying to watch St. Elmo's Fire, because if I ruined that legend I don't think I could live with myself. I mean, don't all just out of college newspaper writers score a front page op-ed piece on the meaning of life in the Washington Post? Oh, no, my world is melting!!!

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Five Things You Didn't Know About Me

For the past few weeks I have been thinking of different features I could add to LibbyLogic.com. Rice-a-Roni and refried beans recipes? Too intense for most people. Celebrities that look like chimps? Been done. Bar tending tips? I think I've had enough hang overs. Then it came to me -- random lists of five. I like lists, and writing briefer min pieces may be appreciated by my readers fort whom a whole post is just too much. After all, America is getting dumber. After I decided on the whole "five things" idea my friend Ellen posted this on her blog. So, for the inaugural "LibbyLogic Five Things You Should Know" post I give you five things you probably don't know about me. I mean, unless you're Ryan, or a stalker, or Ryan's stalker...

1. I hate chocolate and peanut butter mixed together. Yes, I know, it's like a national obsession and every thing and anything comes in chocolate and peanut butter flavor --- but I think it tastes like feet. And I am not going to tell you how I know what feet taste like, I'm past that chapter of my life and I'm not reliving it for your enjoyment. I can't even have them as elements of a larger thing. Those "Take 5" bars? With the pretzels? Totally ruined by the presence of peanut butter. I have nothing against peanut butter, it just better stay the fuck away from my chocolate.

2. If I could have any job in the world it would be as a continuity editor for television and films. You know how you'll be watching a movie and suddenly the character that wasn't wearing a ring in the last shot is wearing two? That's bad continuity. And it drives me nuts. I would love to be the person who watches out for that stuff and makes sure everything is perfect in every shot. It appeals to my obsessive nature for picayune things. The job also entails finding era clothing and props for period pieces. There is nothing better than combing through antique stores looking for old soda bottles and so forth. It's like shopping, but I don't have to worry that anything I am buying will make my ass look fat. Unfortunately, to have such a job I would have to live in LA. I would rather eat chocolate and peanut butter.

3. I crochet. I'm not like, crazy insanely good at it, but I can do a good straight stitch and make warm, pretty blankets, scarves, and anything else that only requires a series of lines. I find it very relaxing to just sit and do the same thing over and over again. And people are always surprised when I saw I made something for them.


4. I like all animals -- except horses. Growing up I divided girls I knew into two categories -- those who liked Barbies, and those who liked horses. The horse girls always seemed a little odd to me. Maybe it was their healthy body images, but I think it was because their minds were warped by evil horses. I have two experiences that succinctly describe my experiences with horses: the first was in high school, I was a senior on the worst senior trip of all -- at a ranch in Antimony, Utah. We went for a horse back ride, and, as we were leaving, my horse laid down, trapping my leg. Oh, and she wasn't getting up any time soon. The second happened right after I started dating Ryan. We went out to his Dad's, where I discovered he had three horses in his backyard. Ryan took some carrots and we went out to feed them. All was well, I was happy, having a good time, feeling better about the mangy beasts, when one sneezed, blowing carrot gunk all over me. I was going to have to meet Ryan's family covered in horse snot and chewed carrot. I know that bitch was laughing at me. Let the French eat them.

5. If I ever disappear without a trace, you will most likely find me in Hanoi. Going to Vietnam was the most intense, most wonderful experience of my life. And Hanoi was the best partas busy, and messy, and religious, and inane, and the food was fucking amazing. Honestly, I don't know how to accurately describe it. Being there just resonated with my soul. I am dying to go back, and I know I will.

So, there are five things you might not know about me. Maybe next time I'll write about my vestigial tail... But that's almost as painful as the feet tasting thing, so probably not.

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What a Fu*@%!ng Joke

I love to swear. It is truly one of my favorite things in the world. And I like to think I'm good at it. I can replace nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositional phrases -- you name it, I can figure out how to make it obscene. My mother claims I once told the Vice Principal of my Junior High that swearing was my hobby and that I tried to use "at least one new obscene and offensive word a day." I think she's making that up though, because if I had really said that I probably would have added "Got a problem with that, Fuckface?"

I think people who can't, or won't, swear are probably either psychologically frigid, or just not that imaginative. So, you can imagine my reaction when I read that the city of South Pasadena has decided to make the first week of March "no swearing week." Oh, but they call it cussing, because they are all seven year old girls. This was, of course, started by a middle schooler, and, instead of beating him senseless as they should have done, quickly gained ground with the city council, obviously anxious for national attention, no matter how ridiculous. They say by declaring the first week of March each year (yeah, this isn't the one time type of stupidity) they are restoring "civility" to their city. They are encouraging people to use expressions such as "oh, fudge" and "darn it." Now, I live in the swear substitution capitol of the world, and I have to tell you, there is nothing civil about"oh, fudge" if it's said correctly. Actually, I think it's even ruder, because the person letting you have it doesn't care to give you 100 percent.

So, in response to South Pasadena's crusade against my favorite things, I would like to encourage all readers of Libby Logic, far and wide, obscene and timid, to let their mouths go. Really give it to the world. Help your mailman out when his bag looks "damn heavy." Tell your friends that they are "all your bitches." And don't forget to tell your mother that you "fucking love her." Mom, I fucking love you, man. See, wasn't that heart warming? South Pasadena just doesn't understand that kind of love. How shitty.

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Almost Perfect

Tara sent me the link to this necklace... I was going to buy it until I realized that's an "s" on the end and not an "e".

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In Defense of Goodness

I was just sitting here talking to my lovely husband Ryan, wondering what in the world I should blog about tonight. Global warming? Overdone. The fact Luke has begun to roll his eyes like a zombie when he doesn't want to answer a question? Not enough raw material. The fact that high waist pants are coming back in style? Too depressing. Then Ryan pulled out a new book -- Good to Great, about how being good enough keeps everyone and everything from reaching nirvana. "Why don't you write about this" he said. He thought I was joking when I said okay.

I can already tell that he author of this book is an asshole by the first two sentences -- "Good is the enemy of great. And that is why we have had so little that becomes great. " Well, thanks, Captain Bring Down, I'm sure your kids love having motivational talks with you. Come home with an A-? That means chopping firewood while Hugo the one eyed gimp watches from the corner. And don't even ask what happens if you come home with a B.

Really, what does this guy know about being great? Right now his book is number 47 on Amazon. Yes, they sell millions of books, but if it was really great wouldn't it be number one? Also, how great is his author photo? Couldn't he have found a better expression than that of a total tool? Really, I think I could beat this guy up, and I'm not even a "good" fighter, much less a "great" one.

Also, don't we need the "good" to really recognize the "great"? If everyone was "great" we'd all just be "average"? I mean, until someone learned how to be invisible and start fires with their eyes. Maybe that would make Jim Collins happy. Yeah, his name's Jim Collins. I guess that's a good name, but it's not great, like Ron Mantooth, Bravery Bearkiller, or Barry Manilow.

This guy looks like he's a fan of Ryan's favorite psychological torture, I mean, test. You give a kid one cookie and tell them that if they don't eat it for five minutes they can have two cookies. He says it shows patience and coping mechanisms. I say that if I ever find our future children sitting there with one cookie in front of them Ryan will have to learn what it really is to wait -- in the backyard for several days. I mean, what's next, putting a Skinner Box on our baby registry?

I could go on, but I think that's good enough for now. Bite me, Collins.




P.S. I just read this to Ryan -- he says it's good, but not great. I guess Sally gets more room on the bed tonight. She'll think that's "great."

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Thoughts on Adulthood

Being an adult sucks.

Today my parents had to have the family dog, Coco, put to sleep. He was 19 years old. He first came to live with us when I was in college. He was young and spritely, and, at times, and absolute terror. We got along perfectly. In his final days Coco was deaf, blind, didn't want to eat, smelled horrible, and often fell over. I am not quite to that point, but I am definitely older. I pay bills, I go to work, I have a husband, and every day I notice something else that shows me I am not 25 any more. And that pisses me off.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be a kid again. People who remember high school fondly freak me out. And I would rather attend a Carrot Top show with an audience of full of snakes than be in my 20's again. I don't want to have to go through all the learning experiences again, I just don't want to feel old now that I've figured them all out.

Like last night, I was really thinking how nice it would be to go to a bar and have a drink with a friend. You know, just one, to relax. In my 20's I would have had ten and then called in sick to work the next day because of a hang over, but now, I know not to do that. However, now all of my friends have mates, and some have kids, and most just want to have a quiet glass of wine at home. Hell, that's what I want to do most of the time. If we do go out we have dinner and drinks, and make an evening of it. The people we know who do hang out in bars after work are our friends are trying to avoid something that we pity. Still, the idea sounded nice, until I remembered it is an idea relegated to the land of the young people.

Another thing that made me feel old this weekend was the search to find something to wear to a wedding. There was NOTHING out there. Now, yes, I know that it is between seasons and new stuff will be coming in soon, but it seemed like everything out there fell into two categories: prom or mother of the bride. There was also the large selection of dresses I will just call ugly, but those just made me sad. I finally thought maybe I should just wear something I already have, but then I remembered that while fancy clothes I own still fit, thanks to the ten pounds I have gained in the past year all of them just look lumpy and highlight my back fat. That led me to consider something up until now unthinkable -- I almost bought a girdle. Not control top pantyhose, not Spanx, but an honest to God, one piece, old lady, suck it all in girdle. I was actually in line at the cash register when I convinced myself it's not to late to do crunches and save myself from serious foundation undergarments -- at least for the next five years.

I think that what really gets me though is the fact that I don't feel any different since I was young. I mean, I'm smarter -- I don't drink Jägermeister mixed with orange juice, and I don't sleep with men just because they pay me a compliment -- but other than that I feel the exact same way I did when I was in college. The only thing that has changed is how people view me. Now, I am the older producer, the senior alumni, and the school administrator's wife. I will never be considered a prodigy, or be talked to about my "amazing potential" again. I use Oil of Olay, but my main concern is still breaking out. I am in a good place financially, but there is still a part of me that wants to spend an inordinate amount on cute picture frames and kitschy home decor at Ikea and Archie McPhee.

Okay, I know I am sounding like I am having a crisis, mid-life or otherwise. I don't think that's it though, or if it is I can totally understand why such crises are not that uncommon. Why are the first 30 years of our lives considered the only good ones? Why if anyone achieves anything over that age does it require a human interest piece on their "amazing endurance"? Why can't potential be boundless and appreciated honestly no matter what the age of the person? Why should anyone have everything in their life figured out before 35 without the disdain of the general public?

Yeah, I'm nuts. I'm talking like someone on The View. Luckily, I have adult health insurance in case I go off the deep end. So, if you see me walking down the street wearing clothes from Wet Seal and telling people how hip I am because I have a blog just like the other young people -- please call my responsible husband and have him guide me back in to Eddie Bauer. I'll be just fine.

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