I Scream

I am not a sweet person. By that I mean, of course, I am not a fan of sugary or sweet flavors. My tastes run more towards the salty, the tangy, or the sarcastic. When other people order dessert, I get an after dinner drink. This summer though, something has shifted, and I am totally enamored with ice cream.

It could have something to do with the fact that it is absolutely sweltering here in Utah, and that I do not do well in the heat. Or maybe my body is trying to tell me that there just isn't enough fat on my thighs. Whatever the reason, I find myself craving Haagen Dazs, and Ben and Jerry's, and this really good sherbet called Hola Fruta. I find myself making special trips to the grocery store when the freezer is bare. And I don't make special trips to the grocery store for anything. I am the person who saw no problem with using coffee filters for a night when we ran out of toilet paper. Yes, that is how lazy I am. But not even my laziness can stand in my way of a creamy treat. I'm lucky I even making it out of the store before I dive into the carton. And straight out of the carton is the only way to eat it. No bowl, no scooping, no dessert spoons. It makes it more intimate. Just me and the carton, and a big soup spoon. Oh, and I eat it standing up. If I sit down when I eat it I feel lazy, and like I'm eating too much. If I'm standing I can pretend I'm just having "a bite," and that the effort of supporting myself while eating will lead to the burning of more calories.

My absolute favorite, crawl through the desert to get it, ice cream is, at this moment, Haagen Dazs Fleur de Sel. It's caramel ice cream with salted caramel ribbons and chocolate covered caramel pieces. My Mom introduced me to it, which I think proves, once again, that she is evil. It is sweet without being too sweet, chunky without being filled with too much stuff, and so creamy it makes me cry. If I were Egyptian I would insist it be put in my burial chamber. That is how good it is. Tonight Ryan is up fishing, and it is all I am having for dinner. Well, maybe that and a glass of wine. I think a nice white burgundy would really compliment it.

Oh, wine and ice cream. I have just made myself dizzy with joy. I need to go lay down.

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I Guess I'm Flattered...

Last night we trekked up to Deer Valley to listen to Lucinda Williams play while indulging in wine and cheese under the stars. It was a lovely evening despite the fact that walking into the concert I slipped on wet grass, got mud all over my pants, and twisted my ankle. Considering the fact that I often do spectacular back flips when I fall that make entire crowds of people stop and say "wow that must have hurt," I wasn't really worried about it.

About half way through the concert I walked back down the hill to grab another glass of wine from the "booze tent." I was greeted by a middle aged woman with incredibly nice teeth who didn't seem to worry she was selling alcohol to a woman covered in mud with a pronounced limp. Maybe she was at Woodstock.

Her: Can I see your ID? Later in life it will flatter you.
Me: (Takes out drivers's license and hands it to her).
Her: Wow, you look a lot younger than you are.

I know she was trying to be nice, but really, she just made me feel like some freak with a genetic disorder that causes me to age backwards. Also, I wondered how much of her observation was based on my face, and how much was based on the major break out on my cheek that makes me look like I belong in a Stridex commercial. I limped back up to the blanket, my wine in hand, my ankle not hurting half as badly as my pride.

Maybe I'll stop wearing sunscreen...

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Melting

Okay, so I haven't blogged in a while. Sue me. It is currently three hundred and fifty degrees here in Utah and it is all I can do to put on pants to go to work. And don't try to make me feel better by telling me it's a "dry heat." It's still fucking hot and it still fucking sucks. Also, wouldn't you rather sit in a sauna than an oven? At least the humidity clears out your pores. My skin is so dry and starved of moisture right now that my pores look like potholes. Really, I keep change.

I am not the only one suffering either. Sally just lays under the bed, occasionally getting up to try and figure out how the ice maker on the fridge works. Sally is not half as wilted as my poor $72 dollar garden though. The heat has beaten the life out of the lettuce, and all it does is lay there like, well, lettuce. Oh, and it flowers. All of the energy it has seems to go away from making edible leaves to sending up these pathetic yellow flowers. Yes, yes, I know that's how it germinates, but I can't eat germination. The basil and oregano are fairing a bit better, but I'm not quite sure what to do with them, because there is no way I am making spaghetti sauce in this heat. So, if anyone has any ideas (other than caprese) shout them out now. Because otherwise these "herbs" are in fact just "weeds" I paid for and work tirelessly to keep alive.

The most depressing things in my garden are my tomatoes. They are the only reason I planted, and they are doing the worst of all. I have watered them, I have sung to them, I have tickled their flowers, I have given them plant food. And for all of that one small grape tomato has ripened. The rest have just stayed green until they have dropped off the vine. So sad. Thank god Salt Lake has a farmer's market so I won't totally miss out on tomato sandwiches.

After all, tomato sandwiches are very good for my pores...

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A Word of Warning

Never try to shave a cat. I do not care if the cat in question is the most kind and playful, peaceful and loving, kitten in a teacup on a calendar cat alive -- once you try to shave it that cat will turn into a miserable hellbeast that not even Satan himself will want to deal with. Trust me, I know.

Alice is, by far, not the nicest cat on the planet. Actually, he's kind of a dick. Maybe it's because I named him Alice, but that isn't important right now. He comes in when he wants to, leaves as soon as he has eaten, and gotten what attention he desires. Plus, he starts fights with anything -- no matter what it's size. Sometimes I think I only keep him around to remind me of how good I have it with Ryan, because he's exactly like all the other jerks I dated before. But, I digress. My point is, I should have known better than to try and shave Alice, especially at this time of year. You see, right now all of the fruit trees in our backyard are in full bloom, which means it's rat hunting season. I have already had to pick up three carcasses, and I'm sure there are various body parts I just haven't seen scattered about our yard. I fully expect to come out one day to find Alice wearing a rat head as a hat. Every day it doesn't happen I thank my lucky stars. Yet, knowing what a pain in the ass, natural born killer he is, I decided Alice needed a trim -- and that I was the person to do it.

Really though, I had no choice -- he was disgusting. He came into the house yesterday and his butt looked like a Rastafarian. Or, actually, it was worse. His butt looked like the head of a white kid who has started listening to Bob Marley and stopped showering. He had mats the size of may hand, probably from rolling in the rotten fruit that had fallen on the ground, or worse. Whatever had caused them, the mats had to be gone before Alice tried to lay on my brand new couch, so I grabbed the scissors.

I had gotten half way through the first of the smaller mats when Alice first drew blood. He turned around and scratched me, making sure his claw went in deep enough that I had to physically remove it. And then, I swear, he smiled. And I wished I had named him Priscilla. I then decided it was time to bring out the big guns.

This is when I am glad Ryan does not read this blog on a regular basis. You see, in order to rid Alice of his butt dreads I decided to use Ryan's beard trimmer. I figure if it could get through mess on Ryan's chin after we have been traveling the world (I have pictures) it could handle anything.

I walked up behind Alice with the trimmers stuffed in the back of my sweatpants. I didn't want him to know anything was going on. I petted him twice and then BAM! I put him in the kitty sleeper hold and started shaving. Then I started bleeding. I don't know how that little fucker did it, but suddenly claws from all four paws were sunk into my chest, arms, and legs -- and his teeth were aimed towards my jugular. It was like Alien -- only not as cute. The yowls that came from him woke the dead. I know that because the rat I had just thrown in the garbage can started yelling for us to shut up. I was determined though, and so I shaved on. The fur was piling up like cord wood -- and then Alice took his final shot. He turned his head around, looked me straight in the eyes, and purred. Little bastard.

I let him go -- and I opened a can of wet food for him to boot. That was really a bribe though. I don't want him spilling the beans about my using Ryan's shaver...

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You Know You Want Some...

These are Luke's new shoes. We picked them out together and then put them on my Mom's credit card. You should see joggers freak out when he comes up behind them...

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Vacuum Love

Vacuuming has always been my least favorite chore. I blame my Mother. When I was a kid she was all about vacuuming. Well, she was all about my sisters and me vacuuming. Every day, every room, and she had very high standards. She could come into a room and know if we had moved furniture or simply vacuumed around it. If the vacuum ran for less than 20 minutes in a single room she would yell "that wasn't long enough to do a good job." There was no just setting the running vacuum in the middle of the room either, she knew the difference in sound between a vacuum just standing there and a vacuum being pushed around the floor. Since growing up I have actually found joy in cleaning my house. I love doing dishes, folding laundry, cleaning the toilet, and even scrubbing grime off the stove. But vacuuming has always felt like drudgery. Until today. Today is the day I discovered the Dyson.

The Dyson actually belongs to my Mom, the vacuum queen. She bought it about a year ago, but it has been sitting and gathering dust for the past few months because it is too heavy for my Dad to push around with his bad knee. And my Dad does all the vacuuming. Is anyone else seeing a pattern here? But, I digress. My sister "borrowed" the Dyson from my parents, and had been raving about how incredible her carpets looked. She has four cats -- all with long hair. So, I knew there had to be something to this. Then, the other night I was looking under my coffee table for something, I think a peanut, or maybe my glass eye, when I noticed that my entire living room rug was covered with a web of cat hair. It wasn't a fine web either, it was thick, like a coat. A disgusting, hairy, slightly fetid smelling coat. I was totally grossed out. I called my sister and arranged for a transfer. A secret, midnight transfer. My Mother could never know that I was considering falling into the cult of the vacuum. Of course, now I have no choice but to let her know. My Mother has won, I will never look at vacuuming the same way again. I am in love with the Dyson.

This thing doesn't just suck up dirt and pet hair, it annihilates it. The hair seems drawn to it too. I swear I didn't have to chase a single tumbleweed of hair across the floor -- they came to the Dyson. I used it on a floor heating vent that has looked like Chewbacca for months, and that I never thought would be clean. I have tried cleaning it with rags on sticks, with the dust buster, and with Wiccan magic. Nothing has worked. Two seconds with the Dyson though, and it was done. It wasn't just miraculous on carpet either, it was magic on hard wood floors as well. And the tube attachment? Let's just say you don't want to get to close or else it will rip your arm off. I ran it under my stove and I think it picked up dirt all the way at the back.

The best part about the Dyson is the fact that the canister is clear, so I could see how clean my floors were getting. I felt an extreme sense of pride, and also disgust, kind of like the feeling of popping a huge zit. With every room the canister would get fuller and fuller, and I would examine the collection through the Plexiglas.

By the time I was done I was fascinated, but also a reticent, because I had to empty it, which would mean reaching inside the canister to pull it all out. Or so I thought. The Dyson is so wonderful all I had to do was hold it over the trash and pull a trigger. The bottom opened, and the debris fell out. Magic.

Now, I'm hooked. I'm actually worried that I might become one of those annoying people who goes door to door throwing dirt on carpet just to show housewives the magic of the Dyson -- and I won't even be selling them. That's how much I love this machine. I have to have one. The $425 price tag be damned! Ryan won't mind if we have to eat Ramen for a month, because our floors will be clean.

Of course, I could just refuse to return this one to my Mother.We could consider it payment for all of my years cleaning her house with an inferior machine...

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Bitten

I love animals with an almost Lenny-like enthusiasm. There is just something about them that causes me to lose all rational thinking, and want to get close, no matter what they are, no matter where, and with very little thought about whether or not they want me close, or what they may do to prevent it. Ryan calls me an "animal harasser." I prefer "enthusiast." I have never been seriously injured in one of my encounters with an animal, no sting ray barbs to the chest or anything, which is probably why I still go after them. No, most of my injuries have been minor, needing only a band-aid and a short lecture from Ryan.

Most of the injuries happen not because I am trying to touch the animal per se, but because I am trying to feed it. Of course, I'm giving it food so it will get close enough for me to touch it, but let's not split hairs. This pattern started very early in life, when my parents would take us to the zoo. This was in the 70's when zoos didn't care if visitors fed the animals, because it helped them cut down on food costs. Now all the animals are on the Zone diet or some shit, so giving them popcorn is out. But when I was a kid I remember skipping happily through the zoo, my popcorn in hand, just waiting to share it with my animal friends. And then I met the Emu.


I should have know that bird was evil just by it's height. But something sucked me in, maybe it's long, beautiful eyelashes, and I wanted to give it all of my popcorn. I fed it until there were only crumbs in the bottom of the bag, and then I tried to feed it the crumbs. The Emu decided it would rather have my finger. My Mother doesn't think I remember this incident clearly, but I swear the fucker held as long as it could, rolling it's eyes back in it's head and digging it's weird bird toes into the ground, trying to pull me in. This was no accidental "oops, I thought that was popcorn" bite, this Emu meant to eat me. Since that encounter I have been bitten by several animals as I tried to feed them. The iguana, the pompano (fish), and the pig were all merely trying to take food out of my hand when my fingers accidentally got in the way. But, the Emu, it was a blood thirsty menace. If I ever see Emu meat on a menu, I'm ordering it.

When I am not trying to feed an animal, I am just trying to get close to it to foster a better sense of understanding and camaraderie. Either that or I am trying to impress my friends with my non-existent animal wrangler skills. This was the case with the crab.

I guess I wasn't really bitten by the crab, I was actually pinched, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch. We were in Mexico and I was trying to show my friend Megan that there was no reason to be afraid of the thousands of crabs that were scurrying all around the house. Because you really didn't see them, but instead just heard them chattering across the floor, I thought I would catch one and show it to her in the light. I actually caught several, but most of them were too little to assuage her fear. So, I went after one of the big ones, and it went right back at me. It pinched me so hard it's claw fell off, and even after it had gotten away, the claw kept pinching. So, there I was, in pain because of the pinch, and also feeling like a royal asshole because I had caused a crab to maim itself to escape my clutches. Ryan went on and on about how the crab would now have to go through life with only one claw, and would possibly end up begging on the streets just to make ends meet. I looked it up though, and they can regenerate limbs. Still, I felt like a heel. Even worse than I felt when that lizard shed it's tail so I couldn't catch it.

My scariest animal encounters have happened under water, because there is usually no telling if something is dangerous until it's too late. Of course, some things advertise their danger, with spikes, or bright colors. But I normally don't pay attention to that stuff anyway. For instance, the appearance of the spiny sea urchin should have been enough to let me know not to touch. But, in my defense, I wasn't trying to touch the urchin, but the arrow crab hiding underneath it. Those things are cool. They clean the parasites off your fingernails if you pick one up. Better than a fish pedicure. Of course, they are also a taste treat for larger fish, so they hide anywhere they can. And this one had picked a great place.

The urchin barb hurt going into my finger, but after that it didn't really bug me. I think I was too busy watching the blood surge out of my finger and hoping it would attract sharks. I had never pet a shark before, after all. It wasn't until I got out of the water and onto the boat that my finger started to throb and I remembered the bad thing about urchin pokes -- the tip stays in your skin until it disintegrates. So, the next few weeks were a little painful, but also cool. I mean, how many other people can say the large purple mark on the tip of their finger is from a sea urchin? Not many, I'll tell you that.

I know it may seem like I am being flippant about my apparent abuse of the animals. However, I would like to think I am giving them props. They give as good as they get -- usually leave me hobbling away, sucking on my fingers and feeling slightly ashamed. I mean, not ashamed enough to avoid chasing the next squirrel I see, but almost.

Damn, I love squirrels. I wonder how hard they bite...

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More Exciting Than Me

I am really boring tonight. No, really, I am. I know some of you out there are thinking "but, Libby, you could never be boring. You have more excitement in your soul than a unicorn who loves roller coasters." Alas, dear readers, while that is normally the case, tonight I have the personality of a bowl of oatmeal. Just ask Tara. She called to talk and I think I put her to sleep. I could hear her snoring.

So, in order to spare you from my almost coma like mental state, yet not deny you a little something fun, here are a few gems I have come across on line in the past few weeks. Enjoy.

1. Michael Ian Black's Blog You may know him from The State, or Stella, or from those annoying VH1 specials recapping what happened an hour ago, but the stuff on this blog is funnier than any of that. Start with one of my favorite posts -- "Ladies, please, don't fuck the Nazis." You will spit coffee out of your nose, even if you aren't drinking coffee.

2. The Best Music Video Ever I am not going to tell you what it is, just click on the link. You won't be disappointed. It has air keyboards. I would like to dedicate this link to Murphy. He knows why.

3. Hideous Weddings There are few things that make me happier than mocking people, unless it's mocking people on one of the most important days of their lives. For that reason alone this site makes me glow with joy. It also makes me wish I had forced all of my bridesmaids to get matching tattoos along with the dresses they could never wear again.

Okay, I know I normally do lists of five, but not only am I boring tonight, but I am also lazy. So, that's all you get. I'm going to go have some hot milk, and maybe some plain wheat bread. Now, that's a party.

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Rick -- My Hero

My landscaper put me in a really bad mood. I mean, worse than normal. Usually, I will at least try being civil before I rip out someone's throat, but after last week's totally disheartening debacle with my yard I just didn't see the point any more. My belief in any kind of goodness in mankind was gone, replaced by the feeling that no one is to be trusted, not even if they look nice, calm, and clean. You know, that's how I should have known that landscaper was a fraud -- he was just too clean. I'll file that away for later. But I digress. Since last Thursday I have been walking around like a hunchback due to the giant chip I had on my shoulder. I was just waiting for someone to piss me off so I could pounce on them like a spider monkey, hissing all the while about the evil of landscapers. And today, I thought I was going to have my chance. Instead, I got back my faith in humanity.

One problem my landscaper pointed out to me was that our water problem was being made worse by a constantly running sprinkler. He said he would fix it, no charge. Of course, I forgot to remind him of his offer when I was yelling at him to get his shit out of my driveway, so now it was up to me to fix the damn thing. I was actually excited. After all, I really enjoyed fixing the leaky toilet earlier this year, and I thought this would be another notch in my tool belt. Oh, how wrong I was.

First, I replaced the sprinkler head. Nothing. Then, I read everything I could on the Internet about sprinkler systems and figured out it was probably a leaky valve. Then I went to try and figure out what was wrong with the valve and hit a stopping point: bugs. You see, the valve box for our back sprinklers is under our deck. That is also the place where every kind of creepy crawlie imaginable lives. I think they actually have put up some condo developments. So, I went back to the computer and typed in "sprinkler repair," knowing with a feeling of absolute certainty and dread that whoever I called would never be available, and would want at least a hundred bucks up front. I thought just talking to one of them would be enough to force me to under the deck and stop being such a pussy. So, I just picked the first random name that popped up on Google and dialed the number. Rick answered.

Rick, as I would come to find out, is the longest working sprinkler repair man in the valley. He's been doing it for more than 30 years. His father was in sprinkler repair. His grandfather was in sprinkler repair. And his great grandfather started the first sprinkler repair shop in the state. Rick is all about sprinklers, and he was, coincidentally, just finishing a job in my neighborhood. He said he would come by and check it out. If he could fix it in under a half an hour it would $70. If it took longer it would be a little more, but if he couldn't fix it there would be no charge. Warily, I gave him my address, thinking "how much more is more?".

It wasn't that much more. And it was totally worth it. Rick sprung into action like a man possessed. He was under the deck in a shot, checking all the valves, and finding the one that was cracked. He fixed it, but then still wasn't happy with the fact the sprinkler still looked like it could leak. The problem, he surmised, was that it was the terminal sprinkler in a sloping yard, so any drainage came up and out. He said it needed a new connection that would keep the water from building up. I saw my chance to attack. "How much will that be?" I asked, luring him into my trap and sharpening my pinchers. "Oh, about eleven dollars," he responded, "I have one in my truck." Touché.

The whole job took about 90 minutes. I did the quick calculation: 70 times 3 = 210. Plus parts. Plus the "screw over the customer" fee. I was thinking it was going to cost at least $300, and suddenly I wondered why I am so afraid of bugs. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he handed me a bill for $165. An itemized bill for $165. Every wire nut and piece of PVC pipe was detailed, and he charged me one dollar a minute for labor. Yes, that's more than most people make, but a lot less than what most contractors get. I wanted to kiss him full on the lips, but he was really dirty, and I was sure there were probably spider eggs in his hair from under the deck. Instead I just shook his hand and watched Rick ride off into the sunset, a little poorer, yet a little richer. See, meeting him even makes me drag out bad clichés!

And so, now I have a good story to tell along with the bad. A person I can actually recommends to others, instead of trying to determine how many public agencies I can report them to. His name is Rick, and he fixes sprinklers. And he's my new hero, even if the spider eggs in his hair.

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Middle of the Road

Tomorrow I start yet another attempt to eat healthy, exercise, and maybe lose a few pounds. Actually, at this point weight loss is secondary to just feeling less run down and crappy. I am not really following any plan (fuck you, Weight Watchers. Points? My ass. I work out for an hour and all I get is a slice of bread? Bite me.), instead am simply going to try and eat more whole grains, stay away from refined sugars and trans fats, and do at least 30 minutes of exercise a day, even if it's just following Sally as she sniffs her way through the neighborhood. In preparation for my new diet I have thrown away pretty much anything in the house that could derail me, including my beloved cook and eat flour tortillas, which I eat raw (hey, don't knock it until you've tried it). As I write this I am drinking the last of the last bottle of wine in my house, so unless I want to drink the corn liquor my sister gave me as a joke I will be radically cutting down on the sauce as well. Except of course, in moderation. How I hate that word.

I mean, really, when you think about it what is the good of being moderate? Who ever tells their child to be "moderate" pursuing goals? If my boss told me my work was "moderate" I would probably start looking for a new job. And yet, we are supposed to embrace moderation when it comes to anything that is even remotely fun. Paying taxes? Go all the way! Staying up and dancing naked on the couch with a beer bong? Only in moderation.

I think what people really mean when they say "moderate" is "boring." After all, who are the kings of moderation? The Swiss. And what do we know about the Swiss? They make fine, moderately priced, box like furniture. Oh, and they like meatballs. And cheese. But, the cheese must have holes in it, because eating a whole piece of cheese would be going over the top. It's moderation built right into the food.

And think about the noun form of moderation -- moderator. That's the person who doesn't get involved in a debate, but just makes sure the people actually trying to take action don't kill each other. Can you tell me who won the Nixon/Kennedy debate? Of course. Can you tell me who moderated it? Probably not without help from Google. Moderators are like referees who aren't good at sports. So, why should they be role models?

That's why I say go big or go home, especially in the things you are only supposed to do in "moderation." After all, do you really want to have just one five ounce glass of wine? Or a half cup of ice cream? NO! if you love those things, prove your love! Eat the whole carton! Drink the whole bottle! Climb every mountain! Swim every sea! Don't stop until you are well past moderation and reaching dangerously overextended! It's the only way the world will ever be changed, and it's how I plan to live my life.

Well, at least it's the way I plan to live my life once I quit this new health kick. Most likely Wednesday...

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This Is Not A Joke

Today has been a rather stressful day. After months or interviewing landscapers, arranging schedules, making concessions, and figuring budgets the guy I hired to fix the water problem in our backyard called to tell me he had grossly underestimated the job, and it was going to cost at least DOUBLE what he thought. Luckily for him, I was not at home at the time, so there was no way for me to immediately set fire to the backhoe that has been blocking my driveway for the past two days. Instead I just told him to get his shit out of my yard and send me back my deposit. It's not that I mind paying more -- I just mind being surprised by it. After all, if he can't put together a bid after coming out TWICE to see the property and go over what needs to be done, how well does he really know what he's doing?

So, now the backyard will likely not get done this summer, which was really my only goal. On the plus side, we can use that money for something else, since we'll now have time to save up again before starting the whole gut wrenching, soul crushing process of finding a landscaper next year. But what to spend that money on? A new furnace? A donation to charity? A college fund for Sally? All would be fine choices, but the first thing I'm buying? Pedicure fish.

When I saw an article about these amazing fish in Washingtonian magazine last week I figured I was probably reading the April Fools issue. But no, this is a real thing. A real thing people pay for. For fifty bucks an hour you can go to a salon, place your feet, or hands, or whatever, in a small pool of water, and have small fish nibble away the dead skin. You know, because using a buffer is such a chore. I guess the feeling of the fish is supposed to calm you, and that they have such small mouths that they can get more dead skin off than conventional methods. And also, you're feeding another life form, instead of just throwing your dead skin into a landfill, so it's more environmentally friendly. However, that doesn't make it any less obnoxious and creepy.

I mean, what kind of person has gone through so many affectations that now they need to use fish to clean up their feet? Was the tooth brushing chimp not available? I guess when you're tired of cigars, sushi, smoking jackets, absinthe, ascots, and large bamboo fans, fish eating your dead skin is the only way to show how truly unique you are. I'm sure Truman Capote would have loved it.

I'm not saying I wouldn't do it. I like being pretentious sometimes. It's why I hang out with Tara. But I just don't think it could become a regular part of my beauty routine. After all, if I started with regular fish pedicures it might cut into my appointments to have hummingbirds pluck my eyebrows.

Maybe I can have the fish attack the landscaper...

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Child's Play

I love Playmobil. I have always thought they had the coolest play sets and used to lust after their spare Swedish designs as a child. They were like the early Ikea. In the years since my childhood I have enviously watched as more "girl" sets have come been added to the line with cute, perfectly proportioned, puppies, and darling babies with drawn on, pert noses. I have to admit that there were many occasions when I thought of picking up a set, just for "kitsch" value, but then saw a much cuter Pound Puppy with a customizable tag.

Playmobil has continued to evolve, even when I wasn't paying attention. It was our friend Andrew (enough with the fake names) who pointed out their latest product: the Playmobil Security Checkpoint.

Even better than the actual toy (which is real) are some of the product reviews that some people felt they just had to post.

"I was a little disappointed when I first bought this item, because the functionality is limited. My 5 year old son pointed out that the passenger's shoes cannot be removed. Then, we placed a deadly fingernail file underneath the passenger's scarf, and neither the detector doorway nor the security wand picked it up. My son said "that's the worst security ever!". But it turned out to be okay, because when the passenger got on the Playmobil B757 and tried to hijack it, she was mobbed by a couple of other heroic passengers, who only sustained minor injuries in the scuffle, which were treated at the Playmobil Hospital.

The best thing about this product is that it teaches kids about the realities of living in a high-surveillence society. My son said he wants the Playmobil Neighborhood Surveillence System set for Christmas. I've heard that the CC TV cameras on that thing are pretty worthless in terms of quality and motion detection, so I think I'll get him the Playmobil Abu-Gharib Interogation Set instead (it comes with a cute little memo from George Bush). The best thing about this product is that it teaches kids about the realities of living in a high-surveillence society. My son said he wants the Playmobil Neighborhood Surveillence System set for Christmas. I've heard that the CC TV cameras on that thing are pretty worthless in terms of quality and motion detection, so I think I'll get him the Playmobil Abu-Gharib Interogation Set instead (it comes with a cute little memo from George Bush)."

I hate it when people try to be funny. They really should leave it to those of us who have been practicing since we were five. And anyway, what's wrong with toy companies trying to make children understand their worlds by miniaturing and marketing it? I know it would have been easier to take Luke to Disneyland if he had been aware he was going to take off his shoes beforehand.

In the same spirit, aren't fast food play sets a good thing? I mean, why make kids think that their first job will be something of any worth? Let's get them ready for life early. After all, Bratz dolls let girls know early that if they don't put out they will never be loved. I have never seen one out of the package, but I am pretty sure they have life-like labia.

I definitely plan to get Luke one of these sets -- only modified. I plan to put our big cat, Rita, at the end of the checkpoint so that the threat is real. Only Rita can stop terrorists, after all.

God bless America, and all it's disposable goods.

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There Were Monuments??!!?

Over the fourth of July Ryan and I went to Washington D.C. and saw absolutely nothing. Well, that's not entirely true -- we just didn't see any of the things you are expected to see when you head to D.C. Museums? Nope. Places George Washington slept? Nope. Places where laws are passed and massive mistakes are made? Not on your life. This trip was all about hanging with friends.

For those of you not related to me (I think there are three of you) I used to live in Washington D.C. during my young crazy days. I hung out with similarly crazy people, living in downtown apartments, going to hip bars, and generally acting as if adulthood was never going to catch up. Well, it did. I now live in Utah and am married to a Vice Principal, and those friends who still live in D.C. have all moved to sensible homes in the suburbs. It doesn't mean they are any less crazy though.

Take for example Blauren and Lill (names have been changed to protect the outwardly respectable). They now live in a nice home in northern Virginia with their beautiful daughter Claire. But while they may be in the suburbs they definitely aren't of them. Lill was still more than willing to stay up all night drinking vodka tonics, getting Ryan drunk, and telling about his chipmunk shooting adventures.

Blauren may have consented to decorating Claire's stroller for the fourth of July parade -- but only if we could use the plastic paratroopers to "show our support for the troops." Also, she had no problem plopping the tot in a large Tupperware container when we decided a kiddie pool would be fun on such a hot day, but then realized we didn't have one. And the Tupperware was great. Not too big, not to small, and Claire loved it once we got the water warm enough. She was actually upset when we tried to take her out because the water had gotten just a little too yellow... She was happy just doing her little wiggle dance and splashing around. No, Martha Stewart would not have approved, but Ryan has never smiled at Martha Stewart the way he smiled at Claire. That baby had him wrapped around her finger. Well, actually it was his beard wrapped around her fingers as she pulled, but he didn't seem to mind.

Misty and Handrew have settled a bit more into the suburban lifestyle, but they moved to Maryland, so it was kind of required by state law. However, despite the near perfect (and I mean, near perfect, these things are gorgeous) flowerbeds, and the new Lexus, they are still as goofy as ever. Handrew could not go ten minutes without wrestling with one of the dogs. And he very excitedly showed us his latest counter culture discovery, a magazine for the "modern Jew" called Heeb. He won't let Misty throw any of them out, no matter what is on the cover.

Misty has always been the most respectable of all my friends, and at the same time the most subversive. She took us to one of the nicest restaurants in Bethesda, but then pointed out all of the older men with plastic women, as well as all of the truly tragic fashion mistakes. The suburbs haven't changed her at all.

The best thing about seeing my friends is not only knowing that they haven't changed, but also that we haven't changed. We live thousands of miles apart, and see each other next to never, but we always pick up exactly where we left off. They have even welcomed Ryan in a way I never could have expected. I mean, I don't want to be too bold, but I think he and Lill have big ole' man crushes on each other. And he can't stop talking about wanting Misty and Handrew to come out and go fly fishing.

So, screw the sights. I saw all the history I wanted to see, and it makes me look ahead to a long future with good friends.

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Falling Down

My driver's license says I weigh 120 pounds. My driver's license sits on a throne of lies. However, while I am a few pounds more than my "official" weight, I never thought I weighed enough to break a chair. That is, until last night. There I was sitting on the back porch, sipping some wine, talking with friends, watching Ryan grill, when I heard a creaking sound underneath me. The chair started to move, and even though it didn't all collapse at once, I was helpless, unable to stand up or move before I was flat on the ground with the wreckage underneath me. It was like being in a slow motion car crash -- with people standing there laughing at you the whole time.

Of course, the chair was several years old, and has been sitting, uncovered, on our back porch to suffer the Utah elements since we got it. Also, after my fall (of course), it was revealed to me that earlier in the evening another person had been sitting in the chair and gotten off when he leaned back and it started cracking. However, I still think it was mostly my fault -- especially when you consider my recent history of breaking things.

My first accidental destruction of property that could have ended in injury happened just about five years ago. In the backyard of my parent's house there was an old swing hanging from a tree. No one had ever sat on it, but I pulled on it, and it felt sturdy, so I thought I would try it out. Two swings and I was flat on my back on the ground. My Dad helped me up and brushed me off. My Mother was too busy being doubled over with laughter.

It was about three years ago that I destroyed our hammock. Picture it: Ryan's 30th birthday party. A feeling of joy and love in the air. Why wouldn't we try to put as many people in a hammock as possible? We learned very quickly that three was just over the limit. Not only did the hammock go down -- it broke the stand that was CEMENTED INTO THE GROUND in half. Luckily we all had been drinking, so we all went limp. Again, much laughter ensued.

A swing, a hammock, and now a chair. The list of things I have broken by sitting on them is now almost as long as the list of animals that have bitten me on vacations. But that's another blog. Let's just say that from now on I will be very careful where I put my ass. At least until I'm back to my driver's license weight.

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Working 9 to Death

I will never again complain about having to get up at 5 o'clock in the morning. Well, actually I will, I know I will, but I will try to do it with less vigor in the future. You see, this week the noon show (which I normally produce, hence the early hours) is pre-empted by tennis, so that means I am working a day shift. A nine hour long, very little work filled, day shift.

The show that I am currently producing is the six o'clock news. It is a great show, filled with interesting stories, and headed by great anchors (there, now they won't fire me), the problem is, it doesn't really work to my strengths. It is only thirty minutes long, with four of those minutes filled by sports, three filled by weather, and eight filled by commercials. That leaves me 15 minutes to fill. On an average day I get three reporters, each filling at least ninety seconds. That means I am responsible for just over ten minutes of content. On a normal day, on the noon, I have to fill 27. So, you can see why filling the news hole (technical term) in this show takes me nowhere near nine hours. By the time the show finally airs I have read and re-read the scripts so many times that I could recite them at an outdoor theater festival. It gets to the point that any mistakes I might have made are completely glossed over, because they have started to seem correct to me. Of course, there are plenty of people to point out said mistakes.

That's the other thing about working day side. I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but I don't really know how to interact with people -- especially with people who want to tell me what to do. On my normal shift I am at work for a good four, four and a half hours before anyone who could have anything to say about my show gets here. On day side, they are here all day long. After a couple of hours it just starts to feel like I'm being constantly poked. That coupled with the feeling of twiddling my thumbs makes me very grumpy.

Oh, and I have to wear nice clothes, to match the newsroom that gets substantially nicer after 10am. Business casual clothes. Have there ever been two worse words to describe a fashion choice than "business casual?" For the past two days I have looked longingly at my jeans as I have put on a skirt. But I will not wear make-up -- they can't make me.

I guess there are some good things about this shift. I get to sleep in, and I don't have to be in bed before 10:30pm to ensure I get some sleep. But in exchange I feel like my whole life is being spent at work. I know some people who don't mind it, but I have really started to like my quality time in the afternoon. It's nice to feel like I've put in a full day's work, but then also get to spend time with Luke, or see a friend, or read a book, or take a nap. Oh, naps. How I have missed you. We will be seeing each other soon though -- I go back to my normal shift next week.

And I bet it won't feel all that early.

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