An Open Lettter to the Mother of Octuplets

Dear Ma'am,

Congratulations on your puppies, er, I mean babies. They are truly a medical miracle, just like the guy who had an ear grafted onto his arm. Well, not just like it, your babies are probably less freaky looking, but they both fall into the category of things medical science can do, but probably shouldn't.

Don't get me wrong, I am not judging you! Who am I do judge? I am likely taking the exact same fertility drugs you took in order to get your brood. The only difference is that my doctor is responsible, um, I mean, a buzzkill. He actually monitors me, and adjusts my medications to make sure that I don't end up turning my uterus into a clown car. Actually, I think most fertility doctors are like that, damn them. Something about some kind of oath. Of course, you have not confirmed if you used fertility drugs to have your babies, so it could be that nature, and not a doctor handing out Follistim like it was roofies at a rave is responsible for your births. If that is the case, I would suggest tracing your family roots, since you are likely part Schnauzer.

I have to admit that I was a little concerned for your well being when I first heard about the births, but now I see that you are an old pro at this motherhood stuff, having given birth to six other children previously. Those kids are so lucky! They won't have to worry about parental oversight at all. I mean, unless you get a TLC show and then they have cameras following them around every day. I don't think they'll have to worry about that though, because even Jon and Kate will likely lose their development deal once their kids start getting acne and bad attitudes. Their teenage years will be free!! Really, only the Duggars have figured out the way around this whole "older kids are non-telegenic" conundrum. They just keep having one at a time, mixing the new in with the old. Wow, actually, you may have both families beat. After all, you have the older kids, and then you have the extreme multiple birth. Yours might be a show that surpasses basic cable and goes straight to prime time. Good for you!

Let me know if I can help with anything. I mean, on the off chance that you decide you don't want all eight babies, I would be happy to take one off your hands. I'll even take the ugly one. Of course, from what I have read, you are planing to keep all of them, and even breastfeed all of them. In that case, let me offer you my service as lackey, since you are going to need lots of Gatorade and smoothies to keep up with that amount of milk output. You probably won't have time to eat real food, since you will always be feeding one of them. I mean, unless that Schnauzer thing is true and you have multiple nipples...

Best of luck,

Libby

Caving In

There is a virus going around Facebook. No, it isn't the kind of virus that makes your computer crash, or makes it necessary to get a prescription for antibiotics; it is much, much worse. It is the "25 Random Things About You" virus, and people keep trying to give it to me. If you are on Facebook (and who isn't) I am sure you have seen it, and maybe even filled it out and sent it on to friends. Basically it is a list of 25 things about yourself that no one may know, for all of Facebook to see. Now, there are a lot of things about me that no one, or few people, know about, but that actually makes me less likely to want to share them on Facebook. After all, I work with some of the people on Facebook, and I still care about the opinions of others.

Today was the fourth time I have been sent the "25 things" tag. This time it was sent by Susanne, which is sad, because I used to really like her. Unfortunately, now I have to dedicate the rest of my life to ruining her, because hers is the straw that has broken the camel's back -- I am finally going to fill this damn thing out. However, I am not doing it happily, and I am going to get a fucking blog post out of it.

1. I can fit my whole fist in my mouth.
2. I have two degrees, one in Theater, and one in Education. I use neither in my day to day life.
3. I am very afraid of alligators.
4. I make some of the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. Really.
5. I like eating raw pie dough.
6. I listen to sad Phil Collins songs when I am feeling pitiful.
7. I have webbed toes, but not as webbed as my Mom or my sisters. I have always been jealous of them because of that.
8. I have only been in love twice in my life, though I have tried to convince myself otherwise many times. The first one broke my heart, the second one I married.
9. I dance like no one is watching, when no one is watching. If I didn't, I could hurt someone.
10. I don't like socks.
11. I love naps.
12. When I don't want to dust, but I feel the house is too dirty I just try to blow the dirt away.

Okay, that's it. I thought I could get to 25, but I couldn't, I'm too bored. Aren't you bored? Yeah, I bet I lost you at number 9. But now I can say I attempted it, and I failed, and I am done.

I just hope no one else tags me with this thing. I am too busy forwarding e-mails about leprechauns do my fondest wish will come true in 12 hours. I mean, if I don't my head will explode. It's true -- a Nigerian prince told me.

Why I Love Him More Than Anyone Else

Ryan and I have been looking for a class to take together so that all of our nights aren't spent on the couch, throwing things at the dog. We have discussed a writing workshop, or language lessons, or taking tennis, or ballroom dancing. Nothing has really tickled the fancy of both of us yet though, and really, what is the point if only one fancy is tickled?

Yesterday, we were in the car when I noticed a pottery studio with a sign out front advertising classes. I have always loved pottery, and my mother has all off the lopsided bowls to prove it.

"Hey, babe, what about a pottery class," I said.
Silence.
"That place right there is offering pottery classes," I knew where this was going, but I had to keep prodding.
"Why don't you take a pottery class," finally came his response.
"Because that isn't the point. We should take it together. Just think, we could re-enact that scene in Ghost."
"You mean the scene where the little black things come out of the woodwork and drag you off?"

I guess he doesn't need a comedic timing workshop...

Making Science Fun

Last week my 10-year old nephew Clint called to ask Ryan and me if we would help him with his science fair project. My first response was no, but we could probably hire someone to do it. Ryan looked at me like I was worse than Hitler, told him we would be delighted to help, and asked what kind of project Clint wanted to do. He said he wanted to make a model volcano that really erupted. I rolled my eyes at the bush leaguedness (it's a word) of that suggestion. After all, if I am going to be involved, it has to be something better than just baking soda, vinegar, and red food coloring. I mean, unless we are making someone swallow those three ingredients to see what happens -- that would be cool.

For the past few days I have been searching the Interwebs, looking for something that would rock the science fair. I didn't want to search for a project, I just wanted to shoot down the suggestions Ryan and Clint came up with, but then Ryan said something about "being a part of the solutions" and "crushing dreams." So, I went to my friend Dr. Google and started searching. And then I found this...

Perfect. Clint has a cat, and if he doesn't feel comfortable using it, he can borrow one of ours. It's low cost, has simple steps, and a lot of showmanship. Now, I know some of you are thinking "but that's cruel, Libby." Is it though? If it is done in the name of science is it really cruel? Wait, don't answer that. Instead, answer this -- if it is done in the name of comedy masquerading in the name of science is it cruel? I thought not.

Of course, there is the problem that this little girl has already done the experiment, and posted it all over the Interwebs. Or at least, she is pretending she did, to cover up for parents who did the work for her. I think we'll just have to go a step further. Maybe we'll look into whether or not giving a cat a cigarette before attaching them to the battery makes them any less adverse to the shock. Or see if Josh Groban records bore them into a trace that makes them impervious to the electricity.

This is going to be great. I feel some kind of Nobel prize coming on. Either that or some kind of animal and/or child cruelty arrest. They both pretty much go hand in hand, don't they?

Pizza Face

I have started another round of hormone shots as part of yet another attempt to have a child I can love and scold. The latest drugs haven't made me gain any weight, which is good as the previous two each packed an extra ten pounds onto my frame. If this one had done the same I would legally be required to wear a "wide load" sign if I ever decide to go jogging. Don't worry though, for while I haven't gained weight on this new hormone, it is not without side effects -- and the primary one can be seen all over my face. Yes, that's right folks, I am 34 years old, and I am battling acne.

Don't get me wrong, my skin is not porcelain and dewy at all other times. I suffer from the occasional break out, and often think that my pores are big enough to carry spare change. But the skin problems I deal with on a day to day basis are nothing compared to what happens once these drugs are in my system. Now, I have never met a leper, but I am betting that even a leper would look at me and gasp "dear god, what is wrong with your face?" Every pore along my chin and jaw becomes inflamed, and sore, and bumpy. The skin around them turns bright red and scaly. And all of it hurts.

The first time it happened I assumed that the dry winter air was just causing problems as it had occasionally in the past, so I began a program of super moisturizing. Big mistake. That was like throwing cow dung on a tomato patch (I love classy metaphors). Small zits became bigger zits. Bigger zits became mondo zits. My chin started looking like Eric Stoltz in "Mask." I thought about wearing a surgical mask to cover the horror. Then I went off the hormones, and it all stopped.

Everything had pretty much healed by the second round of the drugs. Once again, my face exploded. This time I blamed the facial wax I had used to take off my moustache, and wondered if being hairless was really worth it if all I was doing was revealing the zits below. I steamed my face multiple times, trying to draw out any wax that might be clogging pores. Nothing worked though, except going off the drugs.

This time I am ready. Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and, after a little bit of crying, perused the acne care aisle. I cannot believe how much more shit there is now than there was during my last big breakout. I was expecting to pick up some Persa Gel and Sea Breeze and be on my way. But no! I had a selection of masks, pads, scrubs, and gels to choose from. In the end I still stuck with the Persa Gel, but got some "oil absorbing wipes" instead of Sea Breeze -- although I will miss that delicious sting only Sea Breeze has.

I tried the Persa Gel last night, and the smell sent me into a nostalgic panic attack. How did any of us get laid with this stuff on our faces? It smells like a chemical attack. I actually kind of walked around before getting in bed so Ryan wouldn't be overcome by the fumes. And it feels like wearing glue. Once it dried my skin was pulled tighter than Joan Rivers. I worried about smiling because I thought my face would crack. If it works though, it will all be worth it.

I'm just hoping this is the last drug I have to try, and the last side effect I have to endure, because, really, I can only imagine what's next. Chest hair? Baldness? Tooth loss? Testicles? Reverse puberty? I find it stunning that all the drugs that are supposed to help me get pregnant also are making me less and less attractive. Ryan says I'm crazy, but he's nice like that. He does want to do it with the lights out more often, though...

Guest Post Friday: The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword

Today we start a new feature here on LibbyLogic that may or may not catch on: Guest Post Friday. Our first guest poster is Candice Madsen, whom I work with in the world of television. Candice recently discovered one of my darkest secrets -- I steal pens. Really, I do. If you are missing a pen right now I probably have it. I'll let Candice explain how she discovered this little known fact about me...

I need to disclose a little known fact about our dear friend Libby Mitchell. She steals pens. Yes, you heard me correctly. Yesterday alone, there were had two separate incidents. Luckily, I stumbled across her antics by accident and brought her office supplies pilfering to an end.

It all started when I arrived a little bit late to our morning meeting (OK, since I'm outing Libby I should confess I'm always late.) Anyway, I couldn't find a pen, so I asked Libby for one. She hesitated and then produced a rather nice looking pen from her purse. I grabbed the pen and slipped into the meeting. As I began doodling away, I noticed the pen is labeled "Bell Havens." I couldn't believe the coincidence -- four years ago I stayed at a Bell Havens Time Share in Cabo. I ran to tell Libby.

"Libby I didn't know you went to Bell Havens."

"What are you talking about?" (Just picture the classy Libby look and tone.)

"The pen, you got it from the Time Share."

"I've never heard of Bell Havens."

Then it hits us both. Libby stole my pen!

Getting caught apparently prompted Libby to come clean. After the meeting, she admitted she had stolen a pen from the news director, and gave it back. Stealing from the boss, now that takes guts.

"Thanks Libby. I was looking for that," he replied thinking she has merely found his pen. He then explained how the pen fit in this nifty little holder he got from marketing. "Do you want me to get you one?"

See Libby, all you had to do was ask. I left a box of Bics on your desk. I hope it gets you through the winter!

Um, there were no Bics on my desk. So, I may steal pens, but Candice is a liar. If you would like to guest post here on LibbyLogic, just leave a note in the comments. I'll get back to you...

Gunk

Salt Lake City is totally gross right now. Actually, it isn't just Salt Lake. Provo, Ogden, and pretty much all of the valley areas are covered in a greenish brown soup of pollution. It happens every year, and there is even a name for it: the inversion. When it starts every year we run stories about how the hot air and the cold air form strata, keeping pollution in valley areas. We remind people that it is a yearly occurance, and not to go outside due to the fact the air will coat their lungs with pollution like fried chicken batter. We let people know that it will end with the next storm, and that they should just hold on, and not lose all hope. None of this helps though, because at the heart of the matter is the fact the inversion really sucks.

People walk the streets during the inversion like peasants in fantasy movies. It's like no one can stand up straight. All outfits look like rags through the haze. No beauty treatment works, since all beauty has been swathed in grime. Everyone looks like Pigpen from "Peanuts." Personality goes out the window during the inversion too. Grunts are considered greetings, and no one is insulted if you yawn in the middle of a conversation, because they understand you just aren't getting enough oxygen. No one really wants to talk anyway.

This is nothing... You should see it now.

You can taste the air during the inversion. It has a metallic tang, and light undercurrents of depression and death. No food or drink tastes as good during these times due to the pollution coating the palate. That does make it easier to eat things like broccoli, since it tastes like inversion every day.

The only places not affected by the inversion are the mountains. Everyone heads to the hills when things get bad. Sundance may be good for Park City's economy, but it is nothing compared to the money they must make from inversion refugees. I know Ryan and I don't really look at the bill when we are up there during the inversion -- we are too busy breathing deep and looking at the blue sky in wonder.

There is supposed to be a storm coming on Sunday to knock this gunk out of the valley. I'm not too hopeful though. This is probably just Mother Nature messing with us. We will probably never see the sun again, and if it does we will all likely burst into flame, or cower like morlocks.

Did I mention the inversion sucks all sense of hope? Yeah, it does...

How They Roll

This is what happens every night in our house. Ryan comes home and lets our cat, Alice, in. Sally comes in from rolling in the backyard, and lays on the couch. Alice lays on the cushion above her. Sally sulks.

I would love to say this picture is better in the summer, but it isn't. It just happens on the back porch. No matter where Sally is Alice has to remind her that he is the boss. Yeah, he's kind of a dick... It's probably because we named him Alice.

Trading Spaces

The Obamas now live in the White House. All of their stuff was moved in today during a six hour period while they were at the swearing-in ceremony, and the parade. By the time the new first family arrived this afternoon, it looked as if they had lived there for years, even though this morning George and Laura were in residence. Tonight Mr. Obama is probably showering where Mr. Bush hosed off this morning. That got me thinking, just how much of the stuff is actually changed, and how much is left the same?

It isn't like moving into a new house, where the only things the same are the walls, the floors, and the fixtures. The Obamas didn't bring their own furniture, so they have to share some things. Beds for instance. I'm sure the White House staff changed the sheets, but what about the mattresses? Are those changed? And will Mr. Obama be resting his head on the same pillows used by President Bush? That just seems unsanitary, since I am almost positive Bush was a big sleep drooler.

Lincoln slept here. Maybe on the same sheets.

Okay, Ryan seems to think that they put in all new mattresses, and bedding, just leaving the bed frames. Actually, when I asked him about it he looked at me like I had just asked if he though Bush and Obama used the same toothbrush. Now, though, I have another question; what happens to all of the old mattresses, and bedding left behind by old Presidents? Is it thrown out? Put in the Smithsonian? Given to a homeless shelter? Could someone made homeless by the Bush administration end of sleeping on the mattress where George once slept? I hope that doesn't happen. The weight of the irony could open a huge rip in the time space continuum.

I just hope the Obamas don't mind that the house is haunted. I mean, it has to be. If there is such a thing as a ghost there has to be at least one hanging out there. I doubt it's a past President though, they probably have better things to do. It's probably some disgruntled member of the press corps you never got to see the inside of the mansion, and is still pissed. Or, maybe it's a new ghost. Maybe ghosts are like mattresses, and a new one shows up for each new President. Oooh, maybe Obama's ghost will be Cheney. Nah, the Bush Administration will haunt him enough everywhere else. They can leave him alone at home.

Mr. Obama

In my line of work, I have learned to change my writing style often. I figure, I am writing for people who are going to read what I write on television. If there is something wrong with it, they are the ones who look stupid, even if I am the one who gets fired. So, I have found it best to write to their styles, so they don't end up tripping over their tongues and saying something stupid like "today in Salt Lake City three men were arrested today." There have only been a couple of cases where I have refused to write to an anchors whims, and I will assure I was right in every instance. No, really.

A couple years back I was writing for a man with opinions who differed from mine in every way. He taught me a lot, but I hated him while he did it. One of his biggest things was that I could not refer to refer to President Bush as simply "Bush." He was asking me to overlook a common news usage. Previously I had been taught that after referring to a person by their title, first and last names, I could use their last name only, no matter who they were. However, this particular anchor had a problem with me doing this when it came to the President, since he had "earned respect." He wanted me to use the term "Mister" when referring to Bush if I was not using his office title. I found it a bit ridiculous, after all, I had worked for Brit Hume (I was young and drunk), and he had demanded no such thing -- and he had a poster of Bush wearing a crown on his office wall.

I did it anyway. I figured I wasn't going to win this argument with "but he's a jackass." Bush was President, and if I didn't put the "Mister" in this anchor would do it himself, and then chastise me for it later. Every time I wrote "Mr. Bush" I would grit my teeth and count down the days until January 20th 2009.

Our President.

Now, that day is here. And I get to write "Mr. Obama." I started doing it on November 5th. The first time I typed it, it felt good. Since then it has just felt better, and better. Now I make sure anyone writing for my show knows my rule -- first referral, full name and title; second referral, Mr. Obama. He deserves that respect. After all, it is the same respect he shows to us.

How nice to have that back in the White House. Thank you Mr. Obama.

Not Funny

Why must the good things always be mocked? I love my Slanket, and I don't care what anyone else says!



Now, if you don't mind I am going to read a book, have a snack, and pain my nails, all while wrapped in polyester coziness.

Please, Go Away

Tonight President George W. Bush made his last national televised address. I did not watch because I have had enough of him for the rest of this lifetime, and any other lifetimes that may come after that. And really, it isn't like he was going to say anything that would have changed my mind about him. I wasn't going to watch his speech and suddenly decide he's been right about everything, and that the Democratic party and all grammarians are agents of Satan. I mean, Cheney might be able to deliver a speech like that, but not Bush. So, I left my television off, choosing to keep my blood pressure under control. Then I stumbled upon the interview Sarah Palin in the latest edition of Esquire magazine -- and all bets were off.

I was actually surprised that Palin agreed to be interviewed by Esquire -- I always thought that she was more of a Maxim chick. Obviously though, Esquire promised to pander and let her say whatever crazy shit she wanted, and so she agreed. From what they have posted online it doesn't even look like they asked her questions, but instead just let her vent. The first thing she goes off about are "bored, anonymous, pathetic bloggers who lie." Look, I may be pathetic, and I may lie, but I put my name on this blog every day. There is nothing anonymous about me. Actually, I don't really have issue with this quote, since it impresses me she even knows what a blog is...

You will be happy to known that Palin is still beating the "I can see Russia from my house" horse, even though it's in full rigor. In the Esquire interview she takes issue with the press making fun of her for the comment -- because it's true. Yeah, well, candy is sweet, and Jagermeister is disgusting, but neither one of those true facts make Palin qualified to be Vice President. Neither did being able to spot Russia from her porch.

The only cover she belongs on. Well, this and Salmon Canning Monthly...

My favorite part of the Esquire interview is when Palin talks about the advice she would give herself if she could travel back in time to the beginning of the campaign. She says she would advised herself to call more of the shots of the campaign and "Let them know that you're the CEO of a state, you're forty-four years old, you've got a lot of great life experience that can be put to good use as a candidate." First of all, making moose jerky and changing the oil in a snowmobile are not life skills helpful in a presidential campaign. Second, what does your age have to do with it? The age argument is one made by teens who want to stay up past curfew, not people running for public office. And lastly, CEO of the state? Ooooh! I bet she forgot the word "Governor."

The media needs to leave Palin alone now. The more they humor her, the more she thinks she's relevant -- and she's not. She's a passing fad that was cute at first, kitschy for a while, and now just annoying. Sarah Palin is the political macarena. And we need to stop dancing.

Please, Sarah Palin, take a cue from President Bush, and make this public appearance your last.

Cat-astrophe

I have been fighting the battle against cat hair for 12 years, and now I think it is time to give up the fight. Ever since I got my first cat I have vacuumed and swept to avoid tumbleweeds of fur on the floor, kept numerous lint rollers on hand to “de-fuzz” before leaving the house, and picked out furniture and bedding based on how well it would hide black and white hair. I have spent hundreds of dollars on combs and brushes and special cat foods “guaranteed” to stop shedding. Now, though, I have seen the light, and it shown to me by this woman…

No longer will I see cat fur as an endless hassle solved only by a bottle of Valium and a shaver. Now I will see it as an endless source of raw material for my creative knitting projects. Never again will I have to spend money on yarn, or worry about finding the “perfect gift.” Yes, everything I make will be gray, and possibly toxic for people with allergies, but who cares! I will be making the world a better place by recycling what I otherwise would have thrown away. I will be an environmental hero – pushing the mantel of “crazy cat lady” to the side. Oh, the glory!

Now if I could just figure out what to do Sally’s toenail clippings…

Nemesis Needed

I am bored. I don’t know how it happened, but little by little my life has become one big snoozefest. I work. I come home. I exercise. I blog. I make out with my husband. I sleep. When people ask me what I have been up to I really have nothing to say except “you know, the same.” I guess I could go through the list, but then I would just be spreading my boredom like some kind of boring disease. I need some excitement in my life, and so, I have decided to start a feud.

The feud idea wasn’t mine to start, it actually came from the girl who cuts my hair. She is in a local rock band, and had been looking up a way to drum up publicity, other than constantly posting on the band’s My Space page about how great they are. So, she asked another band if they wanted to start a feud. Now the band is getting lots of publicity, as the group of small, but loyal, Salt Lake music scenesters hash it out on message boards across the Internet.

I, obviously, don’t have a band, but I am not going to let that stop me. I just need to figure out a reason for the feud, and the identity of my nemesis. Of course, the first potential nemesis I thought of was Tara, but then I realized that I would be lonely if I did that, since she is pretty much the only person who talks to me. Also, she knows too much about me, and wouldn’t be afraid to hit below the belt when the feud got rough. So, I asked her to join the feud with me, since it will be best to have her on my side. Of course, now we have to find TWO people to feud with, or else otherwise it will be an unfair fight, and I am finding that is a much harder prospect than it appears.

We are very mean...

You see, there is no social networking site for setting up feuds. No “Feudbook,” if you will. Also, you can’t just put up a sign in the grocery store with phone number tabs on it. I don’t want to say how I know, but creepy people call when you do that. And I don’t even want to consider the weirdos that would come out of the woodwork on Craigslist. I want a feud, not a horror movie.

Now I am just waiting for a feud opportunity to present itself. I am trying to be overly sensitive and easily insulted, but people are actually being nicer than usual. It’s almost as if they know. I’m sure it will happen soon though, and then BAM!, feud is on. Oh, and if anyone wants to recommend a feud to me, I am open for suggestions. I just hope they don’t piss me off… Or maybe that would be a good thing.

One Last Lie

My young niece and nephew are becoming liars. They don't do it mean spiritedly, most of the time they are just trying to make a story better, or win an argument they otherwise would lose. For instance, the other day the two of them were talking about places they had been. My niece Amaya said she had been to Mexico. My nephew, Luke, not to be outdone, said he had been to Australia. Now, granted, I do not spend every minute of the day with Luke, but I spend enough time that I would have noticed if he had gone to Australia. I made him admit he was telling a lie, and we had a short exchange about telling the truth. He said he understood, and said he was just being "silly." I wish I could have a similar conversation with George W. Bush.

This morning the President held his final (woo hoo) press conference. He admitted that putting up a banner saying “Mission Accomplished” just one hundred days into the Iraq war probably sent the “wrong message.” He talked about how disappointed he was there weren’t any actual weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. He joked with the White House press corps about how they “misunderestimated” him. And then he pissed me off by trying to rewrite history one last time.

You see, Mr. Bush couldn’t avoid questions about the economy, it being in he crapper and all, so he tried to use the old “it was broken when I got here” line to avoid accepting any blame. He claimed that while he may be leaving President-elect Obama with a country in a recession, he inherited a country in a recession from President Clinton, and just did the best he could. At that point I screamed at my television “just because you say it doesn’t mean it’s true!”

Even the bunny knows he is full of shit...

I don’t think I have to explain to you that there was no recession when Clinton left office. If you were alive, over the age of eight and not in a coma in the year 2000, you already know that. In fact, things were going so well that one of President Bush’s first acts was to cut taxes, and give a refund. I remember getting my check – I called it my “booby prize.” But now President Bush wants to pretend that never happened, and that the checks were actually some kind of early economic stimulus. But they weren’t, and we all know it.

I really wanted someone in the press corps to stand up and call the President on this last bit of revisionism he was trying to spread. They didn’t though, and all afternoon that sound bite has been played again and again, with no commentary on its lack of truth. That’s probably why the President thinks, and has thought, he could get away with it. He says it, no one calls him on it, and so it must be true.

I’m just Luke will come of age after President Bush is out of office. Otherwise we would never hear the end of stories about his Australian adventures.

Next Up: Circus Tent

My absolutely favorite thing to wear in the world are long sleeve v-neck t-shirts from Eddie Bauer, preferably in white, black, gray, or, if I am feeling very adventurous, brown. I like to wear them big, because I think everything is more comfortable the deeper you can burrow into it, and so I have always bought them in size large. Yes, I could wear a medium and have more definition, but since that definition could also be seen as outlines of back fat, I haven't bothered.

For Christmas I asked for my traditional supply of new t-shirts, and was given them -- in size XL. My mother explained that when she saw them in the store they looked smaller than normal, so she just assumed that the store had changed the sizing, and that I would want XL. They didn't, and when I held up one shirt to my figure it fell almost to my knees. I sighed, and assumed I would have to take it back. Then I put it on, and my world changed. Now, my once fine large t-shirts feel confining, and all I want is the billowy comfort of the XL. I try to make sure to wash at least one a day, and have already spent many mornings dancing outside the dryer waiting for my shirt to be done. I especially like the fact I can wear them without pants around the house, and not worry about having all the blinds drawn. I think Ryan is a bit concerned I might start going out like that, but he doesn't need to worry. Well, at least not yet, it's winter, I would freeze.

I wonder how comfortable the 2X are...

No, I'm Serious

I have decided to get Botox. Not because I am worried about wrinkles, I mean, I am, it’s just that right now I am more worried about acne, which really isn’t fair. I really think that once you start making a house payment and paying taxes acne should automatically go away. That’s another post though, so back to Botox. I am not going to get it to keep my face unlined, but rather to take my sarcasm to a whole new level.

You see, while I am good at thinking up sarcastic bon mots, my face sometimes gives me away. My brow will wrinkle, or I will start to smirk slightly. My eyes will slightly crinkle into part of a sardonic smile. Just imagine how confused people will be when they can’t read my facial expressions to see if I am kidding or not.

There is only one problem with my plan that I can think of -- drooling. Getting enough Botox in my face to completely mask emotion could stop my lips from holding enough tension to keep my saliva in my mouth. While that would make eating soup with people I don’t know more interesting, it would make day to day interactions uncomfortable. Of course, the limp lips would give me a very interesting speech pattern that would mess with people’s minds even more than the sarcasm would. I mean, as long as I don’t drool, then people would just think I had a stroke. And we all know there is nothing funny about strokes. I say that with a straight face – which will be much straighter later…

Hallmark Moment

The economy has hit the television industry -- hard. Almost every news and entertainment agency has had some kind of layoffs, and this week the trend hit my work place. Eight people lost their jobs while the rest of us ducked for cover. Today a co-worker began circulating sympathy cards for the two people in our department who fell victim to the cuts. When presented with them to sign -- I drew a blank. I wanted to make sure I said exactly the right thing, you know, sympathetic without being placating, remorseful without seeming disloyal to the company that still employs me (I love you guys!). I came up with these possibilities:

1. Sorry you lost your job. Glad I still have mine.
2. You lost your job, and all we got you was this lousy card.
3. I never really liked you, but I still feel bad you got canned.
4. I would say see you around, but the only place I ever saw you was work.
5. The industry is going in the crapper anyway, and we'll probably all be dead soon.

In the end I decided not to sign the cards at all. I think that was the best idea for everyone involved...

Update: What Is This?

Ryan and I came upon this trailer the other day while taking Sally for a walk. We know it's a trailer because of the hitch. We just can't figure out what it is built to transport. He thinks that it could be used for a sailboat, I think it's clearly built for space shuttle smuggling...

Thoughts? I may even give a prize for the person with the most plausible or most creative answer. I have Christmas gift cards I have no intention of using, so come on, wow me.

UPDATE: According to Seth, this is, in fact, a trailer for a sail plane. Yes, someone in my neighborhood owns a plane. I feel so ritzy that I don't care it has no motor and it's wings come off. So, Seth wins one of the gift cards, to Olive Garden, I think. All of the other submissions were too funny for me to pick, so I asked Ryan to pick a number between one and seven (since there were seven other comments), and he picked five. That makes the winner Lorrie Veasey. She gets a Starbucks gift card. I hope they have those in New York...

Shooting the Cat

There are lots of reasons people have pets. Some want the companionship. Some want help with pest control. Still others feel the need to have a poor creature to humiliate for their own enjoyment. And then there is our cat Rita. We keep her around because we are pretty sure she will kill us if we don’t.

Actually, that characterization of Rita is not exactly fair. Yes, she is mean. Yes, she has no qualms about causing bodily harm. However, she doesn’t dole out her wrath indiscriminately. It isn’t that she doesn’t like other living things – she just doesn’t like them too close to her. I have to respect her for that. Take, for instance, a typical interchange between Rita and myself. I am, undoubtedly, her favorite person on the planet. She seeks me out when we are home together, and normally will just sit about five feet away, enjoying my company (I am told that is the best way to enjoy it). When she wants attention she will come up and rub against my legs until I pet her, and then, when she has had enough (about two minutes), she will walk away. If I try to stop her she will try to take my arm off. If I weren’t her favorite person in the world I’m sure she would try harder to do so.

I tell you all this about Rita so you will understand the gravity of what happened this week: she was diagnosed with diabetes. Yes, Rita’s pancreas has stopped working, and therefore we will be giving her insulin shots twice a day, every day, for the rest of her life -- and she is so mean I have a feeling that will be a while.

When the vet gave me the news about her diagnosis his tone implied I might be heading to my death. I swear his assistant was weeping silently in the corner, while holding a bandaged hand close to her heart. I guess she had to do the blood draw for the tests. The vet asked me if was sure I felt I was able to deal with a chronically ill animal. When I said yes he asked if I felt I was able to care for this chronically ill animal. After I convinced him, and signed some kind of waiver, he showed me what I had to do.

Actually, it really isn’t that bad. The worst part of it is actually getting Rita to sit close enough to me to give her the shot. If I approach her she balks. I have to do it very slowly, and very sneakily, which isn’t easy for me since I am not exactly a Ninja. For right now I am bribing her by giving her treats. My vet said that isn’t actually a bad idea since I need to make sure she has eaten something before she has the insulin. Of course, Rita not eating is like Carrot Top not shooting steroids, it ain’t going to happen.

The shots themselves are actually pretty easy. The needle is so thin she doesn’t feel them, and I think she is feeling better. She isn’t as thirsty, and she isn’t peeing as much. She isn’t any nicer, either… And thank God for that.

A Pregnant Pause

My friend Katie is about 72 weeks pregnant. No really, she is. Two weeks ago her doctor told her to start carrying towels around in her car, just in case, because delivery could be that imminent. And then, nothing happened. She has tried eating spicy food, taking long walks, and talking loudly about how everyone is playing with the baby’s toys without her, but still, nothing.

We’ve all tried to be supportive of Katie during this time, but really, it’s getting boring. All the cooing, all the concern, all of the “feeling the baby move,” is getting old, and we are, actually, starting to feel kind of duped. Some of us, and I am not naming names (Ryan) are beginning to float theories about Katie’s “pregnancy.” Now, I am not saying I agree that she is part of some type of monkey smuggling ring, but I am starting to give the theory more credence. It doesn’t help that she is starting to taunt us, sending out messages like this one I received tonight:

“I am never having this baby. It appears God or one of his cronies has played a cruel trick on me… Probably as punishment for being your friend.”

The person suffering the most through all of this is (I mean, besides Katie) is her husband Ben. Being a lawyer he has made such helpful suggestions as shoving a tiny subpoena up Katie’s vagina to get the kid out. He (thankfully) gave up that suggestion when reminded the baby probably didn’t know how to read just yet. Ben then decided to stop thinking like a lawyer, and start thinking like a sports fan. Hence, the baby beard:

Ben says he is not shaving until the baby comes out. I don’t think he realizes this kid is never coming out. Actually, I don’t think he realizes much right now. Do you note the crazy look in his eye? That is the look of a man who has lost all common sense, and believes facial hair can bring on labor. If you see him on the street, please be kind.

Maybe Katie is just holding out for a show on TLC. After all, the “family with way too many kids” concept is tired out, but the “couple slowly going crazy due to a child that won’t be born” could be the next new hit. I mean, especially if Ben keeps up with the beard… I just hope I get a development credit.

Boobs on Facebook

Let me just start off by saying I support breast-feeding. I think it is the best way to give new babies nutrition, and that it helps mother and child bond. When and if I ever have children I plan to breast feed them until they are demanding chicken nuggets instead of my nipples, and then I will make them feel bad about that choice. That being said, I really don’t want to see it on Facebook.

A few weeks ago a woman from Provo was asked to take down a picture of her breastfeeding. The Facebook muckity mucks deemed it “obscene.” Now she has started a group on the site demanding Facebook reverse their position, and encouraging members to post their own breastfeeding pictures. Oh, and they have. There are more boobs on that page than there are in the audience of a Sean Hannity appearance. But while these women are waging the good fight, they are forgetting something very important – not everyone wants to see their boobs.

Now, I know, these aren’t “sexualized breasts” being featured, but rather “feeding breasts.” I don’t care, they are still breasts. In our society breasts have been sexualized, for better or for worse, and it makes some people uncomfortable to see them, no matter how “beautiful and natural” the process they are involved in happens to be. I like to think of it like smoking. If you wanted to light up in a crowd, you would ask first if anyone minded. Now, I know breasts aren’t cancer causing, but they do make some people cough just the same. A casual “would you mind if I pulled out my boob, my baby is hungry,” is just the polite thing to do. Since Facebook is basically a large conversation, the same consideration should be shown.

One other thing these women should think about when taking part in their “boob crusade” on Facebook is just how many boobs they want to see on the site. Yes, their boobs are involved in feeding. But if the site allows their topless pictures, then where is the line drawn. Only if an infant is attached? Only in a non-sexual context? Only when a pole is not involved? Once the boob battle starts they will have to answer all these questions. Trust me, there is always some jerk waiting to push a legitimate question to its ridiculous termination. In fact, some would probably say I am doing that right now.

Of course, this whole “controversy” is pretty much moot now. While Facebook asked the woman in question to take down her individual picture, they have had no problem with the thousands of pictures posted by her group. And one of these women was breastfeeding a child so old I thought it was a midget.

I am just begging them, please no crotch shots, even if it they are posted in the name of the beauty of childbirth…