McCain is a DiMera!

Unless you have been hiding under a log this week (and I know there are a few of you out there) then you know that this week is the Democratic National Convention. There are thousands of party members gathered in Denver, and seven members of the press for each one of them. We have a crew there, along with every other self-respecting, self deprecating, self lo thing, and inadvertently self parodying news organization that has ever walked the face of the earth. They are all there to "get the story," which they all think is Barack Obama, but I know is Dr. Marlena Evans. She is out of her coma, and she is voting Democrat. Keri, the producer sent by our station has seen her, and sent me photographic proof.

When Keri first sent me a text message telling me Marlena was there I was in shock. After all, we all know she has been in a coma, arguing with the spirit of her dead sister Samantha about whether or not she should give John Black another chance. I texted Keri back that I didn't believe her, and that she was toying with my emotions. Then, I got a text that read "I'm here, I'm fine. Where are you? Deidre." Now, I don't know who this "Deidre" person is, but I am guessing she is some sort of double agent set up by Stefano to trick unsuspecting news producers. I texted I was in Utah, but my heart was in Salem. I didn't want to give too much away and fall into an evil Dimera plot.

The next text contained the following picture...

I almost fainted. She looks so good. If the Democrats can bring her out of a coma, and make her look that incredible, imagine what they can do for the country...

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Fortuitous Find

Tara's birthday is next week, and I have been having a really hard time trying to figure out what to get her. Clothing? Our tastes are very different. Jewelry? We're not dating -- no matter what Ryan thinks. Socks? She's not my Mom.

Then today I was sitting at McDonalds when I saw the perfect gift, sitting right there in front of me, staring at me from the back of a Happy Meal....


Simple, yet sincere. Heartfelt, yet cheap. And if she wants, Tara can hang it around her neck using dental floss. I think I'll have to start going through trash for gifts more often...

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Olympic Malaise

I have never been so glad to get up at 5am in my life.

After two weeks of Olympics caused schedule madness I am back to my own show, and I cannot tell you how happy I am. I missed the silence of the news room in the early morning, the stale smell of food left by the shift before, and, yes, I even missed the people, snarky and sunlight deprived as they are. Really, I think some of them have rickets. However, no matter how happy I am to be back in my own environs, the end of the Olympics is really less about what I missed, and more about the things I am glad to see go. So, here, in no particular order, are the five reasons the Olympics sucked.

1. I Gained Weight. Well, this wasn't directly the fault of the Olympics, but I'm still unhappy about it. I work in a television newsroom. As anyone who has ever worked in a television newsroom can tell you, it's like pulling up a chair to the feeding trough. Now, since I work off hours I often miss the feeding frenzies, but being there during normal business hours meant I was in the thick of it. On two days a restaurant sent us free sandwiches trying to get us to pimp their product on air. Three times there were various treats to celebrate birthdays. At least four times people brought in fruit from their yards about to go bad, or various chips and sweets left over from family parties. If you set food down in the newsroom, it will get eaten. And I figured it would be rude not to at least sample the offerings. Thank God I have pants with elastic waists.

2. Luke was Pissed. I have spent a lot of time, effort, and money trying to stay on the good side of this five year old. And now the Olympics have blown that all to hell. Because I had to work all day we did not have any time to play, go to lunch, or buy things at Toys R Us. One day he was driving with my Mom when he said to her "Is Libby back on the noon?" She replied that I was doing a later show because of the Olympics. "well, I'm mad at the Olympics," he replied. Amen, Luke, amen.

3. They Made My Writing Boring. Twice during the Olympics I had to produce an all Olympics show called, fittingly, "The Olympic Zone." It was the most trying show I have ever had to do. I mean, really, how many ways can you say "going for the gold"? Not many. I found myself coming up with odd phrases to make it sound just a little different. "On the Olympic train to gold town," is one that sticks out in my mind. Don't worry, it didn't make air. The anchor took it out and then asked if I was feeling okay. I said no, I had the Olympic flu. He asked if that was like Olympic fever. I said yes, but with more vomiting.

4. I Stayed Up Too Late. I didn't have to be to work until nine because of the games, but even with that time to sleep in I still found myself dragging, because I had stayed up until midnight the night before to see Michael Phelps swim, or some pocket sized gymnast hurl herself through the air. Also, I found myself watching television during the day, which I never do on my normal schedule, because I wanted to see events like rhythmic gymnastics and trampoline that just weren't good enough for prime time. I'm telling you, if I were 15 years younger, eight inches taller, one hundred pounds lighter, and had no bones, I would totally get into rhythmic gymnastics.

5. Days of Our Lives. I have a television that sits on my desk at work. In the mornings it's tuned the "Today Show" so that I can at least pretend I'm watching the news. However, in the afternoons, that insidious menace known as "Days of Our Lives" comes on. Previously when I worked days I was totally sucked into it. I couldn't even pretend I wasn't interested in the sagas of John and Marlena, of Sammi and EJ. That dissipated the moment I started my new shift, and wasn't chained to a desk the hour a day it is on. But during these two weeks I found myself once again hooked. I actually spent evenings looking up plot lines to try and figure out what had happened in the past two years. The only thing that was still the same was Marlena was in a coma. I think it was a different coma, but still...

It will be two years before I have to deal with another Olympics. Perhaps in that time I can learn patience, and find a way to tolerate, and even enjoy the games and the changes they bring. Of course, on the off chance that doesn't happen, maybe I could find a place that will place me in a medically induced coma for two weeks. I think that might be better for all of us...

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Citizen's Cane

My Father is rapidly recovering from his knee injury. In fact, he is doing so well that he has now gone from using crutches to using a cane. And I have to say, the cane is awesome. Honestly, why don't we all use these things? Canes may be the coolest accessory ever. Think of all the things you can do with them! For instance, say the urge to dance hits you on a busy street; ordinarily you would look pretty stupid just busting out in the old soft shoe. However, add a cane and suddenly you're a colorful busker in the style of Fred Astaire. People would actually stop to watch, and, perhaps, applaud when you were done. And it would all be because of the cane.

Canes aren't just for entertaining either. Say you had to point to something off in the distance, but your arm was tired and didn't want to lift that high. The cane could do it, and with panache! Or, what if there was something on a high shelf that you just couldn't reach? Well, as long as it wasn't breakable or alive, you could knock it into your waiting arms with ease. It would be just like having very long, stiff arms. People would be amazed at how handy you are, and invite you to all of their parties! Oh, yeah, it can be used for self defense as well. Check out the picture I found on Google! Why didn't I think of that immediately?

Don't mock his ponytail...

The "business end" of the cane isn't the only worthwhile part, either. The curved handle could come in handy when trying to snag an item at the far end of a table, or stopping hooligans by grabbing their collars as they run by. The handle also serves as an inconspicuous back scratcher.

I have tried to tell my Father about all of these uses for his cane, but he seems to prefer using it only for walking, and for trying to smack me when I bring up other uses for his cane. For instance, the other day he was taking inventory of equipment at the office when I happened to mention he could count things by pointing his cane at them. One, two, three, four, four portable edit decks. I thought it would help him better keep track, and make the task more fun. He thought I was being mocking. Mocking? Moi?

I would never mock something as wonderful as a cane. Yes, I might get him a top hat, and perhaps a monocle to go with it, but I will be buying those items with utter sincerity. And I will be awaiting the moment when he can walk unaided -- so the cane will be mine.

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Mom

Today is my Mother's birthday. What did I get her? Socks. Yep, this is the woman who fed and clothed me, who taught me to drive a stick, and who, for better or worse, gave me my sense of humor. I got her flat ass too, but I have forgiven her for that.

I should have found a better present to honor such a great woman who has impacted my life so much, and God knows I tried. When she first said she wanted socks for her birthday earlier this month I thought "I can do better than that." I started right away trying to think of innovative gifts, mining the past for gifts stemming from precious family memories, and looking through catalogs and websites for clothing, books, or knick knacks that just screamed "Mom." I came up with nothing. I went to cute little boutiques, chain stores, and department stores. Nada. I did find some darling pants for me, but nothing for Mom. The pants are really cool though -- check 'em out...


I know, they're awesome. Monkeys rule. I actually love them so much I thought for a moment of just giving my Mom a card telling her how supremely happy I am I found them and that she made it all possible, but not even I could truly justify that. So, the hunt continued.

It ended just after seven last night when I just went out and bought the damn socks. I have to admit though, they are pretty cute, and she can wear them with almost anything, even sandals, even though she shouldn't. Still, I feel like I should be giving her something more. So, here it is, the five things that I love most about my Mom.

1. She is funny as hell. Actually, she might be funnier than hell. Sometimes her humor is outlandish, and sometimes it is very subtle. No matter what, it's always smart. For instance, whenever we go to the Spaghetti Factory (Luke loves it) she tells the hostess our last name is Donner. Then when they call "Donner, party of eight" she goes up and says "thanks, we were really hungry." Hilarity.

2. What you see is what you get. My Mom does not try to pretend she is anything but what she is. Take it or leave it, love or hate her, she is what she is. And because of that you never have to worry that she is lying to you, or trying to steal your wallet. I mean, she'll steal your wallet, but she'll tell you she's doing it.

3. We have similar tastes in clothes, and are roughly the same size. This comes in especially handy when I spill something on my shirt (roughly every day) and need something to change into, but am close to her house than mine. I always leave the soiled shirt behind as a trade, but she never wants to keep it. So sometimes I end up with both. Yeah!

4. She has lived a pretty interesting life. If you asked her my Mom would say her life was boring. That she was born, got married, had kids and became a teacher. Not so. She been to amazing places, seen and taken part in amazing things, and has some of the most riveting and laugh out loud stories you have ever heard. I am hoping to eventually start featuring some of those stories on this blog -- once she has the injunction lifted.

5. She loves without bounds. Even when my Mom is really mad at me, I know she loves me. And when she's being a pain in the ass? I know she's doing it because she loves me. That's how she is with everyone in her life, and she isn't afraid to show it. That's nice.

I know there is a lot more I could write about my Mom, like the fact she grammar checks everything, that she always says she is a year older than she really is, and that she always has gum, but I have to go wrap her present. So, I'll just end by saying, Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you, and I hope you like your socks.

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You Can't Spell Class Without A-S-S

There are few things more satisfying than a good demolition derby. Holding a cold Coors Light, surrounded by men with not a lot of teeth but a whole bunch of sex appeal, and screaming for drivers to crash harder is one of the best ways I can think of to spend a summer evening. Luckily, I have friends that share my passion, and we have turned into a pretty motley derby crew. We've already been to one this year, where we had the added bonus of standing on metal bleachers in a thunderstorm to watch the melee. The possibility of imminent death caused in large part by our own stupidity made the experience that much sweeter. Only one thing would have made it better: and that is if my birthday gift from Lieberman had arrived in time.


Isn't it a beauty? Of course, I will have to make some alterations before it is truly derby ready. The neck and the sleeves (obviously) have to go. Actually, I'm surprised that any company called "Derby Shirts" sells clothing with sleeves at all. They have to know their customers just cut them off and throw them away -- or use them as tube tops for toddlers. Oh, that would be so cute!

Once the standard alterations are done I plan to really make this shirt my own. Maybe I'll slit the bottom into several sections, and put cute little beads on them. or I could bedazzle my name on it. Of course, whatever I do will have to involve some sort of sparkle -- I need to hold onto my femininity.

I just hope it's all done by the State Fair Derby in September. That would be like showing up to Ascot without a hat...

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Olympic Sperm

What do you see here? I don 't think I'm seeing what Google wants me to see...

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Angst in a Short Skirt and Long Jacket

Today I found out that I didn't get a job that I didn't apply for, and didn't want. And I feel really bad about it. You see, I should have wanted this job. It would have been a step up (a management position), and it would have been more money. It also would have meant seeing my husband less due to horrible hours, dealing with matters I have no interest in dealing with, and increasing the number of meetings in my daily life by tenfold. I hate meetings with a red hot passion that burns like the sun. I have no doubt that if I gotten said position I would become an even bigger misanthropic nightmare of a person than I currently am, and would begin to hate a job I really love. Yet, I feel like a failure for not going for it. I blame Lee Iacoca.

Well, not Lee Iacoca, but what I have always thought he represented (I don't know him personally). You know, you always have to want to move forward, want more money and more responsibility, want to be a part of the all American corporate ladder dream, with all of the business suits and corporate expense accounts that come with it. I could not want anything less, but I feel bad for not wanting it.

I guess it would be better if I hadn't chosen to be in a corporate environment. If I had chosen to be involved in holistic medicine or something that blatantly eschews the typical American business structure. But I didn't. So, if I chose to be a part of the corporate jungle, shouldn't I want to be the top lion? Or does being happy as a monkey in a tree make me something less? I know Ayn Rand would be disappointed.

I think beyond the "American Ideal" problem is the fact that I have always wanted to be recognized as being among the best at something, and that has never really happened. Part of the reason is that I don't think I've found the thing that would really make me want to be the best, and part of me thinks I quit too easily when things get difficult. By not applying for this job (which I do not even know if I would have gotten) am I just thwarting myself because it might have been a bit harder than my current job? Actually, scratch this entire argument. I mean, it's a valid argument and it's something I think about all the time, but if television news turned out to be what I am really good at, my raison d’être, I would have to shoot myself.

Maybe it's not too late to go to clown college. I bet their management meetings are at least interesting...

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Death Wears a Clown Suit

This weekend Ryan and I had to travel to Pocatello to attend an engagement party, which necessitated staying at a Rodeway Inn. It made the hotel where we stayed in St. George seem nice. I won't go on and on about it, but I made Ryan drape a towel over the back of the chair before he sat there due to a very suspect stain.

So, last night I was taking a shower in this crummy motel room, and had the shower curtain slightly open so that Ryan and I could carry on a conversation while he brushed his teeth. When I turned off the shower I noticed there was a large amount of water on the floor, which brought to mind how horrible it would be to step out of the shower, slip, hit my head, and die on the bathroom floor of the Rodeway Inn. Now, many of you may be asking ourselves "why would water on the floor of a bathroom of a Rodeway Inn make you think of horrible ways to die"? Well, dear readers, it's because I think about such things all the time. I blame a can of Diet Pepsi.

It was seven years ago. It was August. It was hot. The Pepsi had been sitting in my car, unopened, for about a week. I got in, sat down, started the car, and the can exploded. It flew around the car, splattering hot soda everywhere and scaring the day lights out of me. And then I realized, if it had killed me, that would be my legacy -- being killed by a can of Diet Pepsi. All of my experiences, all of my accomplishments, all of my personality traits -- none of that would be remembered. I would forever be the woman killed by a can of Diet Pepsi. My obituary would appear on the "Obscure Store" and other blogs with snarky commentary about how nutritionists always warned about the dangers of diet soda. At that moment I vowed to avoid such a fate at all costs. Of course, I am not quite ready to wrap myself in bubble wrap just to ensure a dignified death. I like to experience things, like scuba diving, feeding random animals, and hot air balloon rides. So, instead of not doing things I just imagine how they could kill me. I figure if I do that it will stop such scenarios from ever coming true.

I have since pictured myself being impaled on a four poster bed, slipping on cat food and falling down the stairs into the basement, tripping over my Crocs on a rain slicked street, and being crushed under the weight of my Health Rider while trying to carry it into the living room. Just looking around this room right now I can see at least five ways to die ludicrously, including being killed by an exploding television set, or being crushed and dismembered at the same time by a falling ceiling fan.

I don't just think about ways to die, either. I've also, at times, branched out into how I could be seriously injured in bizarre ways, which would not only result in the embarrassing blog posts, but also the indignity of being alive to read them. I imagine what would be written if I lost an eye to a broken wine glass, or cut off my hand while attempting to fix the vacuum. I think I could consider my fears of death and maiming a hobby, if I weren't almost positive it's a sign of some kind of mental disorder. OHMIGOD! I could die of some brain disease that first manifests itself if with random, narcissistic, fears of death. And because I would be the first to have it, they would name if after me. People would forever fear getting "Libby's Syndrome."

I think I have now found something worse than being killed by a can of Diet Pepsi...

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Medicinal Rodent: Updated

This morning I went to see the fertility doc, and the nurse gave me a new list of procedures and prices. One item on the list caught my eye...

There are so many jokes to make, and so little time. I just wonder how they sterilize it, and if the procedure is only taught at the Richard Gere school of medicine...

UPDATE: I asked one of the nurses about the "Hamster Penetration Assay." It is actually a test to see how well sperm penetrate an egg using, you guessed it, eggs from hamsters. I asked what happened to the fertilized hamster eggs. "Mansters," she replied.

I gotta get one...

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Take A Shot

As part of my fertility treatments in the next 24 to 48 hours I am going to have to have a giant (think two and an half inches) needle stabbed into my ass. This job will likely fall to Ryan, since he married me, and will mostly likely be the man to impregnate me. However, this evening I was talking to my friend Meghan, who's partner, Andrew, is a doctor, and I happened to mention that if Ryan couldn't bring himself to stab me in the ass with a giant needle, we might need some help. Then, from over my shoulder came Ryan's voice -- "Andrew will have to get in line. Do you know many people would like to stab you in the ass? We could raffle off the opportunity and buy an island."

I was instantly offended and called my sisters and Tara for comfort. They all said they would take part. Tara even said it would be worth $40 bucks a ticket.

Now I don't know whether to be offended, or take them up on it. The nurse has already drawn a target -- so it couldn't be too bad. Could it?

That's my lower back, not some weirdly inverted ass crack.

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The Gift That Keeps on Snarking

For my birthday I received many lovely gifts -- most of them monkey related. I got wonderful monkey gift cards, a monkey wooden puzzle, and even a monkey sling shot that I will post video of later. I love torturing Sally with it... Tara, of course, had to be just a bit different and get me something I never would have though of: a lemon tree.

Now, there are two things that make this an odd gift -- the fact that Utah is possibly the worst climate in the world for citrus trees, and the fact that I kill anything green that I touch (witness my 72 dollar garden). However, I was willing to look past both those things, just because the tree is so lovely. Also, Tara has turned me on to other things I wasn't so sure about but ended up loving later -- like Sangrita, and shirts that aren't one size fits all. I actually found myself getting kind of teary eyed that Tara would send such a thoughtful gift, that would grow over the years with our friendship, and bear fruit like our eventual children and other accomplishments.

Then, the next day, I got the card, and I was totally snapped out of my bucolic friendship reverie and back into reality. You have to see it yourself to believe it...

Thank God for that card. I was really worried that our friendship was going deeper than sarcasm and petty bitching... I just don't have the energy for that, especially since now I have to keep this damn tree alive.

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Up, Up, And Away!

I am a late sleeper on the weekends. I figure that I get up at five every morning during the week -- so on the weekend I should be able to stay in bed as late as I want. I get highly annoyed when people call before 10. But, last weekend, I got up at 5:30 on a Saturday -- and it was totally worth it. Ryan took me on a hot air balloon ride for my birthday.

The experience actually left me speechless, which, as most of you know, is quite a feat. Once the basket lifted off the ground all I could really do was squeal, and repeat "thank you Ryan, I love this, I love you, thank you," over and over again. Even sitting here three days later I can't really put the flight into words. Luckily I took pictures...
The basket and un-inflated balloon weigh about 1700 pounds, and take about 30 minutes to set up before flight. Ryan helped with the "cold inflation" holding the balloon open while enormous fans blew in air.
Then, they turned up the heat, and it was time to take to the skies...
I didn't realize how high we were until we were really high. Even then it didn't sink in until I looked down and saw something almost indistinguishable on the ground -- and then realized it was a person...

There were five other balloons in the sky with us, which only served to make the scene that much more beautiful and amazing. Oh, and there were three other people having birthdays in our basket, and one had brought treats to share. I'm telling you, maybe anything tastes good in the open air at three thousand feet, but these brownies were amazing.
When it was time to land we had to go up and down several times, looking for just the right air current to push us towards a place to land. All of the movement really freaked out some cows below.

Chasing cows was almost the best part of the experience. So, was sharing a champagne toast and a prayer with our fellow riders after it was all over. But, the thing I loved the most, and the memory that will pop into my head whenever I hear the words "hot air balloon," is floating above the earth with the man that I love, and knowing that he was trying to give it all to me. Yeah, mushy, but true. I'm glad that no matter time I wake up, I get to do it next to him.

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State of Anxiety

I have tons to write about my birthday -- the fabulous plans cooked up by my husband, the bizarre gifts and cards only my friends and family could have thought of -- but right now I can't really focus on any of that because I find myself in the midst of a two days long anxiety attack.

As I type this I am repeating to myself "it's just anxiety, I am in control," trying to make it go away by identifying it and owning it. Usually that works, but this time it hasn't been doing the trick. I have talked it out with all my usual sounding boards -- Ryan, my Mom, and Tara -- in the hopes that making the anxiety known to other people will make it go away. It hasn't. I have taken so many deep breaths that I feel I must be depriving others of oxygen, and I have drank so much water I should be wearing a catheter, but still nothing.

There are people all around me in the newsroom, and I'm pretty sure none of them have any idea that there are alarm bells and sirens going off in my head. That's probably for the best since most of them already think I'm pretty crazy. What I really want to do is stand up and scream "DOES ANYONE KNOW HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW?" I think that would probably be frowned upon though, since we are broadcasting live. Maybe I'll wait for a commercial.

It's weird how anxiety always seems to express itself in the same way, yet it always feels surprising when it hits. I feel slightly electrified, and constantly on the verge of tears. Then, when it starts to peak, I'll just feel so angry, or so sad that my skin seems to be about to rip, or my fists are about to fly out on their own, or my legs are about to start running until I am a safe distance away. Oh, and I feel hot, like I'm having a menopausal flash. But while all of this is going on inside of me I'm also eerily calm. I never spell check better than when I am in the middle of an episode.

The fact that I know exactly what caused this attack, and that it has nothing do with me and everything to do with physical factors beyond my control, I think makes it worse. At least when it's just my mind messing with me I feel I have some control. We've done battle enough that I know how to deal with it. But I'm 34 years old and still not quite at home in my skin.

And poor Ryan. If this post makes you feel sorry for anyone, feel sorry for him. He gets the brunt of it. Last night I exploded because he fell asleep on the couch while we were watching a movie. We had had a long weekend, and he was tired, but I still took it as a personal affront. If this doesn't end soon he might need the name of a good shelter and a bus ticket.

I guess it could be worse. I could be this lady... I do like puppies though.

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Hidden Picture

Getting a slow start to the week after the mega birthday mayhem weekend. So, I thought I would treat yo, my 47 readers, to a puzzle on this Monday morning. In the picture below there is a dog. First person to find it gets, I don't know, a kitten made of candy. Think of it as "Highlights for Hungover Grown-ups"...

Did you find her?

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34 Years Later

Tomorrow I turn 34. I won't have time to blog then because Ryan is whisking me away for a birthday surprise. If you haven't heard from me by Wednesday, please send for help.

I really don't feel that bad about turning 34, mainly because I've been telling people that's my age for almost eight months now. I think it won't really sink in until I make myself turn 35 in January. Then I'll have to drown my sorrows in a bottle of gin and a bag of chocolate chips. But I won't being doing it on my birthday, so it won't be as pathetic.

So, what have I learned in the most recent year of my life? Not a whole hell of a lot. How to repair sprinklers, and toilets. That's about it. But while I haven't discovered many new things, I like to think that I have developed a deeper appreciation and understanding of the things I do know. I would list them all here, but at this moment I can't think of a damn thing.

I think I've gotten more honest this year. Or maybe I've just gotten to be more a curmudgeon. I just don't see the point in skirting issues, talking behind people's backs, or trying to come up with a passive aggressive solution. I've taken to actually telling people when something is bothering me, or when I have an opinion on something. It takes so much less energy than the way I have being doing things, and I find I am much happier with the outcome of most situations. For instance, now I say where I want to go to dinner if I have a definite opinion on the matter, and if I don't want to do something, I say I don't want to do it. Sometimes my opinion doesn't matter, and I end up going to dinner at Chuck A Rama, or actually having to go to work, but at least then I can pout openly because I didn't get my way, rather than pretending I am having a good time.

There are some things I wish I had done by now. Writing a book is one of them. So is having a child. I also haven't learned discipline as well as I would like. I've chosen discipline as a goal because this year I finally accepted that patience is too far out of my reach. At least with discipline I can pretend I'm patient. Or, I could just chuck the whole thing and brush up on my deceitfulness. But, then that would kind of negate the honesty thing I've been trying, and also make baby Jesus cry.

I hope this next year is as happy, if not happier than the ones that came before. When I look into the future I often only see the bad things that are waiting -- deaths, aging, another Harry Potter movie.
I need to remember that there are nice surprises around every corner, and that those are the things that count. A sleepy dog, a really good everything bagel, a phone call from Luke saying "this is for tomorrow, happy birthday," or a big hug from Ryan when I need it the most. Those things outweigh the bad a million times over.

Okay, enough blabbing. I have to get ready for the big day. After all, the Chinese are going all out for it...

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I Prefer Crocs

Me: I need to get back to the gym.
Tara: Me too. I was at the beach yesterday and had the feeling of a sea fairing mammal.
Me: Yeah, I'm wearing heels today and with every step I can feel my hips juggling.
Tara: YOU'RE WEARING HEELS?
Me: Yeah, but that's not the point. I think I just need to tone up.
Tara: Real heels?
Me: Yeah.
Tara: Like what?
Me: Two inches. Black with ankle straps.
Tara: Are you okay?
Me: Yes. I have walked in heels before.
Tara: Not very well. I just can't believe this.
Me: I'm a giant.
Tara: Well, maybe to actual dwarfs.

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Short Takes

Ryan and I have spent the past few days with the kids in our lives, taking them to various amusement parks and events. It has been a whirlwind, ending in a collapse of exhaustion at the end of every day, but so worth it, if only to hear the things that come out of their mouths...

On Friday we took Luke and his friend Cooper to "Cherry Hills" a water/recreation park up north. It's ads tout it as the "greatest fun spot you'll ever know." Well, I guess if I had grown up in a Skinner box that would be the case, but I didn't, and it wasn't. The boys had a good time though, because they enjoy any place that they can laugh manically at the top of their lungs. Towards the end of the evening we were sitting having sandwiches made by teens who, let's just say, came from the shallow end of the gene pool. I have never seen two people move slower, and with less certainty. It's a good thing they have no natural predators. While we were eating I looked over to see Copper voraciously spitting on the ground.

"Cooper," I said, "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," he replied.
"You're spitting."
"No, I'm not."

At this point, Cooper's Mom Jen looked over to see what was going on...

"Cooper," she said "What are you doing?"
"I am practicing my spitting," he replied. His tone inferred she had just asked the stupidest question ever, but at least she got him to admit to spitting.
"Why are you practicing spitting?"
"So, that I can spit like Daddy when I grow up."

Jen's husband, Mark was sitting about five feet away from this conversation, and as the words came out of Cooper's mouth his ears perked up. Before Jen could even comment he said "yeah, I heard it."

Well, at least Mark hadn't been peeing outside. They frown on that at "Cherry Hills."

***

Last night I took Luke to a "cultural exchange" night at a nearby garden park. It was Scottish night, so we packed our own food. We settled down on the grass with our picnic to listen to a bagpipes. Luke was enthralled. He just stood there staring, turning his head this way and that, trying to figure out how the music was being made. He then started walking around, going behind the pipers, looking at every angle to determine how they were put together. After he had gotten a pretty good idea of how the pipes worked, and how the players were making the different sounds he came and plopped down next to me. "Libby," he said, "I have to get one of those bad boys."

I wonder if he knows that every bagpipe comes with a very itchy skirt...

***

Our niece Amaya is a burgeoning cynic. I actually told her last week I was going to start calling her "Contrary Mary" since she has to contradict everything anyone says. She informed me her name is not Mary. I informed her I would be happy to call her "Contraya Amaya."

A few weeks ago we went to the big park downtown, which is home to a series of crumbling carnival rides that not even the state fair wants. Amaya wanted to go on them. I informed her that they weren't safe, and were being run by the kids who couldn't get jobs making sandwiches at Cherry Hills. She was nonplussed.

"They are safe," she insisted.
"No, they aren't," I replied. I could not believe I was arguing with a seven year old. Again.
"I know that they're safe," she said.
"When did you get your degree in engineering?" I asked.

Silence. I had won, at least for a moment. But she wasn't ready to give up yet. When I saw her this weekend she had regrouped.

"My Dad says your crazy." That was the first thing she said to me.
"Well, consider the source," I said. "Why does he think I'm crazy?"
"He says those rides at the park are safe, and he works on cars, so he knows." It was an argument backed up by expert witness testimony. She had me on the run.
"Your Dad also used to jump his bike off the roof of his house," I was desperate, and looking for any retort I could find.
"That's beside the point," she was smug in her response.

Game, set, match: Amaya. But I'm still not taking her on those damn rides.

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Locked Out

If anyone out there in Internet-land has any idea where my keys are, please let me know. I last saw them yesterday when I went out to get something out of the truck, and now they have disappeared. I think the fact that Ryan and I were babysitting two children under the age of three at the time may have had something to do with it. Maybe the chaos from trying to get the kids bathed, fed, and in bed opened a vortex to another dimension and the keys were sucked through. It's really the only thing that makes sense. I have looked all through the house, under the furniture, in the drawers, in the trash, in the car, in the garden, in the mailbox, and up my butt (that was Tara's suggestion).

I really can't think of anything more annoying than losing my keys, especially since I lost them at home. Yes, I can just go get copies of Ryan's made, but now I'm all worried that someone has my keys, knows where I live and one day soon will come, burglarize my home, and then steal both my cars. Oh, and then they'll find my Mom's address, realize I probably have keys to her house and car on my key ring, and go burglarize her house and steal her cars. And I will NEVER hear the end of that.

Also, I had a key fob to a local grocery store that accessed my "pet club" account, which was just dollars a day from getting me a nine dollar coupon on kibble. Now that's gone with the wind. And before you say "well, just give them your phone number and they can access the account that way," know that I never sent in the card to attach the key fob to my identity because that takes effort. I hate effort.

My Mom suggested that I try asking her friend Ruth to help me find my keys. Ruth has been dead for more than two decades, but she's still pretty helpful in this arena. I cannot tell you how many times I have lost something, had a short conversation with Ruth (she doesn't talk back after all), and instantly found what I was looking for. I asked though, and I've gotten nothing. So, either Ruth can't see my keys, or she has them and doesn't want to give them back, which brings me back to the whole key sucking vortex theory.

Maybe this is just Ryan's way of getting rid of me without having to change the locks...

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