I'll Miss You, Ellen

My mother is a wonderful person. She is kind, loving, funny as shit, stubborn, smart, and generous. Oh, and she looks just like Cher.

Mom.

Cher.

I know, the resemblance is totally freaky. Yeah, they may not have the same taste in clothes (or tattoos), but you can't deny the appearance is dead on. And Mom hasn't even had any plastic surgery! I can't tell you how many times we'll be having a quiet family dinner at Olive Garden and someone will come up and ask for my Mom's autograph or ask her to sign "If I Could Turn Back Time." I guess they just assume she's having dinner with her roadies.

Oh, and if the physical similarities aren't enough, you should hear Ellen sing! She can really belt out "I Got You Babe" in a way you would never expect. She does the lip licking and the hair flipping that Cher does too. Really, if I didn't know better, sometimes I would swear Cher is in the kitchen making spaghetti.

My family isn't alone in our awe of the Ellen/Cher dichotomy. All of her students feel it too. Of course, they have to be reminded of who Cher is before they really see it, but once they understand they giggle with the sheer joy of it. One year my Mom put a picture of Cher in the yearbook instead of her picture -- and the kids claimed they got the joke -- but I think they were only clued in because my Mom had gone blonde, and Cher had brunette hair in the pic.

For years we have joked about what would happen if my Mom and Cher met. Would they meld into one, causing a time and space vortex to open? Would all the gay men in the world suddenly become straight? Would Sonny Bono rise from the grave? Well, this weekend we could find out -- Mom is heading to Vegas to challenge Cher to a Cher-off.

Yes, this weekend my Mom and her friend Linda are heading down to see Cher in concert at Cesar's Palace. They are going down Saturday, and coming back Sunday. I think if they spent any more time that close to Cher the magnetic poles of the earth might shift. I am almost certain that Cher will feel the shift though, and most likely bring my Mom up on stage.

And then I don't know what will happen.

Whatever does though, I want Ellen and Cher to know that having them in my life has been wonderful. However, I also know some things are just too special to be kept forever among us gypsies, tramps, and thieves...

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Advice From My Boys

We were making paper airplanes today, and I guess I kind of overstepped my bounds with the advice, because this is the response I got...

Yeah, real nice.

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I Was a Big Haired Teen

Today I got the invitation to my high school reunion. It really shouldn't have been much of a surprise, since I am on the damn committee planning it, but it still gave me a moment's pause. You see, up until that moment it was just an abstract thought, an imaginary construct, a cat that may or may not be dead inside a box, but once I replied "yes" and made out my check it became something different altogether. It became a reality. I am actually going to see people I went to high school with again. And that scares me in a way I don't even know how to describe.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed high school. No, I am not one of those freak shows who claims high school was the best time of my life, but I am also not one who refuses to admit they ever sat in Algebra, or ate tater tots in a cafeteria. I count people I went to high school with among my closest friends, and still see many of my classmates in passing at school events Ryan attends in official capacity (oh, yeah, Ryan works at the school where I graduated. Incestuous, huh?). When I see them in those settings it's just in passing, a co-incidence, or because we have been friends so long we have something to bind us together other than high school. At the reunion we will have none of that. All of us will have to admit we are VOLUNTARILY coming together for no other reason than we want to see each other, discuss events that happened 17 years ago, and compare lives. There will be an element of judgment that isn't there in the other dealings. See why I am a little uptight about it?

This afternoon, after getting the invitation, I am pretty sure I instantly gained ten pounds. Also, all my clothes got a little shabbier, my job got less important, and the dog got uglier. The only thing that didn't change is how wonderful my husband is, but that's because he is immune to my crazy. I started thinking about how I could do a cleanse, start running, get a new job, get a nose job, and rent a baby before May. I'm just kidding. I've always liked my nose.

I am almost positive that the night will not be as bad my anxiety in the months leading up to it. For instance, I doubt that anyone will actually pour pig's blood over my head when I walk through the door. I bet they won't give me the award for "most disappointing." Also, it is unlikely that an old administrator will show up and announce I never actually graduated, and I have to repeat all four years. Oh, and I really doubt that my first boyfriend will show up with his model wife, perfect children, and tons of money, only to laugh in my face and kick me in the shins. However, despite the impossibility of any of things happening, I will still worry about them, and many more scenarios. I won't be able to stop myself. Ryan may want to get a hotel room.

At least there will be an open bar. If there had been one of those in high school, I might have enjoyed it more...

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On Shuffle

I really have nothing new to say tonight, and I also haven't posted any pictures in a while. Put the two together and what do you get? Yep, a post of random pictures meant to keep you entertained until I can think of something clever to write. It's kind of like the blog version of jangling keys in front of a baby... Enjoy.

My latest attempt artsy highway photography. Good thing I write for a living.

Near out favorite fishing spot in Heber, Utah. Well, Ryan fishes there. I just mock the dog, read books, and drink wine.

Near the same spot in winter. Just after taking this picture we threw rocks to break the ice. I love doing that.

MAD DOG! MAD DOG!

A board meeting at my house. These guys advise me on all my decisions, which may tell you more about my life than anything I will ever write on this blog...

My parents cat, Smarty. He sought rescue in the ceiling after seeing that Luke got one of these for Christmas.

Okay, now go take a nap. I'll be back with more tomorrow...

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I Am More Than My Uterus

On Friday I expected to start the fourth round of "super ovulation" (Dun, dun, dun, da!) treatments aimed at getting me knocked up. I expected to, but I didn't. Instead, I went into the doctor, and discovered that following last month's unsuccessful cycle my ovaries decided to blow themselves up to ten times their normal size. When the doctor first saw them on the ultrasound she said "woah, that can't be comfortable." No, it wasn't, but really, I thought I was just gassy. I had no idea that I was actually experiencing an ovarian rebellion.

My ovaries are bigger -- with less Vitamin C.

My doctor said that not only would we not be able to proceed with this month's cycle, but I also shouldn't exercise, have sex, or lift anything heavy until my ovaries shrink back down. Luckily, she said drinking wine wouldn't be a problem. Despite that, I went home feeling dejected. After all, this was going to be THE cycle. I was ready to think positive, and be optimistic. I wasn't going to expect the worst. And that's why hearing the news about my ovaries was the worst thing I could have heard.

Ryan and I are trying to turn the setback into a positive though. We are taking a cue from my body, and stepping off the fertility merry-go-round. And we are going to do it for more than just this cycle. When talking on Friday night we realized that I have been taking some sort of hormone every month since October of 2006. And before that I was on birth control for almost ten years. So, we are going to give my body a break, and give it a minute to breathe. Who knows, maybe my skin will finally clear up and I'll lose some of the water weight I have come to know and tolerate. Oh, and if the hot flashes would stop, that would rock.

It isn't all about the physical, though. We are also going to take this break to try and reclaim our sanity. This weekend I have realized just how much our lives have revolved around this baby thing. We have not planned vacations, not spent money, and not made long term plans "just in case we get pregnant." Also, more and more of our conversations with friends and family have revolved around the fertility topic. We used to be interesting -- now we're a support system for a uterus. That needs to change. I'm not saying we won't talk about it, we just need to not be defined by it. A few months away from it will be just what we need. Who knows, maybe fake positivity will be replaced by the real thing... Yeah, I doubt that too...

So, stay tuned. I mean, you've stuck around this long, so let's see what happens next.

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Oscars? Eh.

I used to live for the Oscars. I would wake up early to watch the nominations, and then pore over all of the Oscar predictions made by film critics, weighing my choices for the winners. The night of the ceremony I would watch all the pre-shows, including the annoying Barbara Walters shit, and then not leave my seat during the actual Oscar broadcast. I even watched the technical, and foreign film awards. That is how much I cared. The next week I would buy all of the magazines, looking at the party pictures, and assessing all the fashion choices. The Oscars was my Superbowl, and I took it very seriously. I actually remember thinking that one of my most interesting qualities was that I could name every winner in acting and best picture categories for the last two decades in chronological order. Now that fact actually makes me a little sad.

I don't know when I stopped caring about the Oscars, but I know it didn't happen all at once. I think the first thing that happened was that I stopped buying the magazines. I told myself that I didn't care about the fashion, because it was the films that were really important to me. But then I stopped caring about seeing all of the nominated films, or knowing how all of the nominated songs played roles in their respective movies. Finally, I stopped picking my winners, and really, legitimately being disappointed when they lost. I remember when Tom Hanks lost for "Apollo 13" thinking that I really didn't understand Hollywood at all. And when Angelina Jolie won for "Girl Interrupted," beating out Cathrine Keener in "Being John Malkovich," I was actually depressed for about a week. Again, now I can't really believe I was ever like that.

I know I will end up watching tonight's ceremony, but I know I won't be watching them. Ryan will be allowed to talk, and I might even let him flip to other channels during the show. I doubt that any of the food we will eat will be Oscar themed. And if the show goes past ten? I'm going to bed. I can always find out who won the big prizes tomorrow. After all, I may not care about the Oscars any more, but that isn't stopping the rest of the world, and especially the 24 hour news networks, from worshipping the little statue like a golden calf.

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Guest Post Friday: My New Attitude

Earlier this week I wrote about my attempt to gain a positive attitude -- and I really have been trying. However, the change is not being met with the rainbows and unicorns I expected. That brings me to this week's guest posts from one of my "favorite" co-workers, Jen. Please don't hate me after reading it.

Most of my work days start with me entering the lobby of the station, walking down the hall toward the newsroom, and spotting Libby at her computer putting together the noon show. At that point I try to size up the level of attitude I am going to receive, but proceed to say “good morning” anyway. Most mornings I get a smirk and if I’m really lucky a middle finger. I think Tamara describes my interaction with Libby best -- “you’re poking a bear with a stick.” So imagine my surprise when two days ago and I entered the news room I got a huge smile and a “good morning” back.

At that moment I stopped dead in my tracks and looked around for the hidden camera. “Come again?” Libby then proceeded to tell me that she is trying out her new “positive attitude.” WTF??? Thirty four years of bad attitude and you spring this on me now? I realize I haven’t known her all 34 years, but I had gotten used to ignoring her bad attitude and having conversations with her anyway. That bad attitude has become an endearing quality for me. Kind of like your bitter great aunt that has B.O. and no teeth but you love her anyway.

I have been so stunned by the “new Libby” that for the past two days I have been quizzing her on this decision. I can’t wrap my brain around it. I actually resorted to asking her about it and got the following answers thrown my way:

“Maybe snarkiness is too popular now and I’m going against the grain.”

“I was Hair Metal now I’m Nirvana”

“Are you being Reed Cowan to my Chris Buttars?”

Look, I’m not a hater. If Libby wants this then I will support her. It’s just that my world is off kilter. There will be much love for Chris Buttars, no more worries about workplace manners, the worry lines will fade on their own and the “25 things that don’t suck” list will grow without even trying. What is the world coming to?

I just don’t know how to relate to a positive Libby. I have “poked the bear with a stick” for two days to get her to crack; and from what I can tell Libby is determined to make a change. So Libby good luck to you, however if you do find yourself returning to the dark side, I want the first middle finger you dish out.

Oh, yeah, Jen, don't worry, you'll get it...

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Chris Buttars is Invincible

I have come to the conclusion that after the apocalypse is over three things will be left: cockroaches, Twinkies, and Utah state Senator Chris Buttars. He will sit in the ruins of the state capitol building, stuffing his face with snack cakes while preaching to his insect constituency, and he will still be making racial and homophobic slurs that he thinks are perfectly okay. And somewhere, no matter if I am in heaven, or hell, if I am dust in the wind, or a reincarnated cockroach, I will be pulling my hair out.

Just once I would like to do a story about Chris Buttars that doesn't involve outrage. Disagreement? Fine. Logical opposition? Great! Just not red hot outrage over something he has said that is offensive to at least half of the population. Today people are angry at him over remarks he made to a local reporter about the gay rights bills that were being argued in the legislature. He couldn't just say he was against them. He couldn't just say he thought they would lead to legalization of gay marriage in the state. He couldn't even just go with the "it's against god" argument and leave it at that. Instead he had to completely beyond the pale and call homosexuals "probably the greatest threat to America" who engage in "pig sex."

Oh! And he didn't stop there! It wasn't enough for him to anger gay rights advocates, he had to insult members of the Muslim faith as well. He said that the gay rights movement is "just like the Muslims," claiming both have been taken over by "the radical side."

Buttars is now doing what he has done every other time he has been caught with his foot down his throat, he is saying that his words are being misconstrued, and that the reporter who did the interview is just trying to make him look bad. Um, the reporter really didn't need any help on that score. I mean, unless he had sliced the interview together so that Buttars was talking about Muslims and homosexuals riding on unicorns there is no way Buttars was getting out clean. Maybe the reporter told Buttars the camera was filled with candy. Yeah, that must be it. Because, really, that is the only way I can believe Buttars didn't have an inkling his words were going to come back to cause controversy.

And that brings me back to my original point: I am tired of Chris Buttars controversy. It isn't helping anyone, at a time when a lot of people need help. It isn't contributing to any kind of debate in a positive way. All it is is a circus sideshow that I am sick of seeing. And so, I am issuing this plea: please, everyone, let's just ignore Chris Buttars. Yes, I know he gives crazy soundbites. I know that he gives us something to squawk about, but that's all it is -- squawking. All it does is put his name in the papers, and gives those with similar views a poster boy to rally around. Maybe if we take away his soapbox his name will fade from view, and real change can finally come.

So, please, the next time you see Chris Buttars, just treat him like you would treat a crazy uncle, or a man wearing a tinfoil hat in the park: smile, pay no attention to the words coming from his mouth, and walk quickly away. The state of Utah will thank you for it.

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Workplace Manners

I have no internal filter. Or, I have one, it's just not very good, and the manufacturer's warranty ran out a long time ago. I have a hard time not saying what I am thinking, no matter where I am, or how inappropriate it may be. I like to think that it is one of my quirky, and charming qualities that makes me all the more lovable, though many have assured me that is not the case. And now, according to MSN, it just could cost me my job.

When I first clicked on the "13 things not to say in the workplace" I figured I would know exactly what it would say. After all, I learned my lesson about calling someone a "fucking idiot" years ago. But this article basically described conversations I have every day. No, some of them are not conversations I would choose to have if I had a choice, but they are conversations I have anyway.

For instance, number 2. Medical History. There is really no way I can't discuss this with certain co-workers right now. At least four days a month I have to go get ultrasounds, and, of course, those ultrasounds can only be done right in the middle of my shift. I thought about telling them I was going on drug runs, but then decided honesty was probably the best policy. I also decided I didn't want to be ashamed about my fertility issues. Am I discussing cervical mucus with them? No. Am I telling them where I am in case they need me? Hell yes. Of course, now I wonder if they are keeping secret records to send to HR. If they are maybe I could get them to chart my basal temperature too...

How about number 4? Work complaints? Sometimes I think that if my co-workers and I didn't exchange complaints we wouldn't talk at all. Does that mean we hate our jobs, and are trying to take the company down from within? Absolutely not! It means there are things we don't like, that most of the time we are trying to fix. Yes, there are some complaints that are made over and over again, but most of the time those fall away like so much noise. Honestly, I think that if we were all happy, all the time, nothing would ever get better. So, petty bitching may, in fact, be the start of all great things.

The worst though, in my opinion, is number nine. Don't talk about blogs or social networks. I would have to give up half my readership! And where am I going to make that up? And really, if I have things on my blog or my Facebook, or my Twitter that could get me fired, I should probably rethink why they are there in the first place. Because no matter how insulated anyone thinks they are on the Internet, there is always someone who can find them, and rat them out.

I understand how important it is to have a work/life boundary. I do. Once I am home from work I am home, and I rarely, if ever, see people from the office outside of the office. However, that doesn't mean that I am going to turn off my life when I go into the office, and I would hate it if anyone else did as well. If we didn't talk about our kids, or our weekends, or our families, or our passions, all we would talk about was work. And what an awful reality that would be.

See, I knew my lack of internal filter was charming...

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Worry Lines

I always looked forward to getting wrinkles. Of course, that was before I started getting them. Now they are a pain in the ass, and I am currently re-evaluating my "skin care needs" to minimize them while also getting rid of the acne that is now crowding my face. Yeah, acne and wrinkles, that's real fair, God. Depeche Mode was right about you. Okay, but back to the wrinkles.

I used to look forward to them because I read somewhere (probably an Oil of Olay ad) that you can tell the kind of life a person has had by what wrinkles are the most prominent. I always pictured myself with (light) smile lines around my eyes, and (barely visible) laugh lines near my mouth. People would look at me and envy the joy I must have experienced, and feel bad about their own lives. And that would make me smile more. Those are the wrinkles I wanted. These are the wrinkles I am getting:

Yeah, those wrinkles aren't going to make people jealous. They aren't going to make people reflect on the life of frivolity and fun I must have been living. These wrinkles are going to make people think I was a grumpy old woman before I was thirty, and that I spent my life saying "what the fuck?" And, no, I don't care if that's the truth, it's not the image I want to project.

Now, there are many things I can do to stop the wrinkles from deepening, including paying someone to inject food borne pathogens into my forehead, or spending millions of dollars of creams that contain koala foreskin. I had a friend in high school who's Mom put scotch tape between her eyes to remind her not to furrow her brow. That would only require a trip to Office Depot and my dignity. I am going to try something different though. Something more daring. Something more unexpected. I am going to be more positive.

Don't get too scared, I am not going to become Pollyana. I hated that bitch. I am just going to try not to go into situations expecting to be pissed. I am going to try and look at the positives, and not focus on the negatives -- no matter how funny they may be. Since I have no idea how to actually do this, I am following the advice of another: Schmutzie. Yes, I am going to start looking for the grace in small things.

I first head about "grace in small things" when Sarah began doing it. And she is as sarcastic a bitch as they come. I figures that if she was doing it I could do it and still feel cool and not like I was joining a cult. Its pretty easy too. Each day I will find at least five good things in my day, no matter how small, no matter how crappy the day is. And if you want to follow along, you can do so, because I will be listing them all on Twitter. I figure if I list them publicly I will be less likely to stop after three days.

Get ready world, here comes a whole new Libby. Or maybe the same Libby, just with better looking wrinkles.

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The Coolest T-shirt EVER

A gift to Ryan from our friend Lieberman...

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Super Cougar

I love my husband, no matter what he looks like. He could have a third eye, and extra finger, or that tree disease, and I would still want to get a piece of that. Okay, maybe not if he had the tree disease, but I would still give him a cuddle. My point here is that I don't care what he looks like, I love Ryan. I just prefer him with a beard. And now, the beard is gone.

I'm sure you have all seen stories on the news about school administrators who humiliate themselves if students reach a certain goal. Ryan is now one of them. He promised the kids that if they raised $750 in a week for cancer research he would shave it off -- since it is his source of all power and magic. The little bastards came through (with the help of teachers, thanks guys), and so today the clippers came out. Now it looks like I am married to a very large 12 year old.

See? For the next two weeks he's going to be ID'd to buy Diet Coke. I made him a drink tonight and shut the drapes before I let him have it so the neighbors wouldn't call Child Protective Services. Amaya and Luke tried to beat him up for his lunch money.

Well, I guess it could be worse. The other guy had to shave his head and wear a dress. Next time though I'm hoping Ryan will get off easy and just have to kiss a pig or something.

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Like a Lost Puppy

This sign was outside the restaurant where we had dinner tonight... Thank God I've never had to put up such a sign for Ryan. I mean, at least not yet...

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Wet Cat

I am not a person who thinks of her pets as her children. Mainly because I like to believe my children wouldn't be such jerks. Take this afternoon, for example, I opened the front door to discover that Alice had turned himself into some sort of swamp thing. Really, he was more mud than cat. I am assuming that he fell into the pond in our backyard. He did this several times when we first moved in, until he learned to maneuver on the stones surrounding it. I don't know if today's snow just made it slicker than normal, or if Alice decided he just hadn't been enough of an asshat lately, but today he obviously misjudged his footing.

I would have taken before pictures of the mess, but I was too busy wrapping him in every old towel I could find, and trying to contain him to the bathroom. I sopped up most of the mud, and then gave him a quick Silkwood shower, all the while trying to calm not only Alice, but Rita, who was yowling outside the bathroom door. Normally she acts like she wants to rip his lungs out, but when he seemed to be in trouble she was very concerned.

Here's a look at the aftermath:


Alice actually didn't behave too horribly during his bath. I think he was probably so wet and miserable he figured drowning was better than his current state. He even stood for it when I blew him dry, which I thought was seriously going to lead to a loss of blood for one or both of us. Now he is curled up under the bed, I'm sure thinking up the next way to annoy me. Oh, and Rita is growling at him.

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Libby's L.A. Adventure

Last weekend Ryan had a conference where he had to be locked in the school for 65 hours. I didn't really want to witness the carnage, so I decided to go to L.A. to visit Tara. It was a lovely weekend. I could go on and on about what we did, where we went, who we saw, and everything we ate, but you read this blog for entertainment -- not to cure insomnia (at least, I hope that's the case.) So, instead of a full travelogue, here is a list of five things I learned on my weekend away....

1. Frank Lloyd Wright Was Not a Great Builder. Yes, yes, FLW was a great designer and changed architecture (and museum jewelry) as we know it. However, while touring Hollyhock House it became obvious that he had flunked his engineering courses. The roof was leaking in at least a dozen places. The windows had pillars in front of them, because the builders had determined that, without them, the roof would collapse. The walls had huge cracks in them. Yes, it was beautiful, but I wouldn't have wanted to keep up with the repairs.

2. I Really Hate Sing-A-Longs I have always known I didn't like sing-a-longs, lumping them in with celebrities singing on television, and historical re-creationists as things that make me cringe. It wasn't until this Saturday though that I realized the depth of my dislike. We went to see this great group, the Chapin Sisters, in Santa Monica. I love them. And it would have been a great concert -- except for their Dad. Tom Chapin is a children's singer/folk singer who thinks every song should be a group effort. By intermission I was sung out, no matter how fabulous his daughters may have been. By the end of the night I was just embarrassed for all involved.

3. Some People Mistake Baptismal Fonts for Wishing Wells Hence this picture from the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels...
4. Tara Bakes No, really, she does. Sunday morning she made a really good applesauce spice cake. I mean, really good. She kept saying how it wasn't very pretty, but really, who cares. It was good. I had no idea she has this talent. I can't believe we've been friends for five years and I never knew this. Now nothing is unexpected. If I came home tomorrow and discovering Sally flamenco dancing, I wouldn't be surprised.

5. Airport Security is No Laughing Matter The sign below was posted at the Bob Hope Airport. I just find that sad. If there is one place jokes should be accepted, it's at an airport named for Bob Hope. I mean, at the John Wayne airport I could understand it, but this just seems ironic and sad.

I hope you've learned as much as I did from my trip to L.A. If nothing else, the fact that I really like taking pictures of warning signs. Just imagine how much we'll all learn from my upcoming trips to New York and Orlando. Maybe we'll even learn math! Yeah, probably not...

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An Open Letter to the Suleman Family

Dear Sulemans (or is it Suelmen?),

I know you are all very busy right now, what with caring for 14 children, and publicly feuding in the press, so I'll keep this short. Two words: family counseling. Two more: get some.

The fact that Nadya decided to have a litter of children, despite the fact she cannot afford them, or adequately care for them, is neither here nor there. These children are here now, and have to be cared for -- all 14 of them. Me making points about the moral ramifications of their births, or questioning if the doctors who created them were absent the day they taught ethics at medical school are neither here nor there. That goes for anyone else arguing those points right now. The important thing now is making sure these children are cared for, and, for better or for worse, you are the people who will be caring for them. And it's pretty clear that you are all batshit crazy.

Do you not know how to have conversations when reporters are not present? Nadya, you told your side of the story to NBC, claiming that you have never taken anything from anyone, and although there have been times you have "struggled," you have done just fine. Angela, you gave your interview to ABC, and basically called Nadya a pathological liar, claiming she lives in squalor that you have to pay for. You even showed them the inside of your house to prove it.

You couldn't have at least talked to the same network?

Please, for the sake of the children, start working together, and stop trying to destroy each other publicly. Yes, Nadya, we know that you had an unhappy childhood, and that such a thing is rare in America. And, yes, Angela, we know that you have had to unfairly had to shoulder the burden of your daughter's breeding. However, none of that matters now. There are 14 children that someone has to care for. Nadya, you can't do it alone, even if you "finish your schooling." And Angela, we all know you aren't going to turn your back on your grandchildren now. So, why don't the two of you stop the fighting, actually talk to each other, and move on. After all, bickering does not get you sponsorship deals from Pampers...

Best of luck,

Libby

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Chinatown

It finally stopped raining, so we are stuffing ourselves with dim sum and buying counterfeit purses. Everything is very photogenic -- even Kent and Tara.

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Sunny California

My ass...

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LibbyLogic On The Go

No, not you. Me! Yes, now I have figured out how top blog from my trusty Blackberry. Isn't technology marvelous? I may never have to have an actual conversation again.

As I type I am sitting in the aiport, waiting for my flight to Burbank for my weekend visit with Tara. I'm also wonerding if air travel makes people uglier because, damn, there are some odd looking people here. Lots of cowboy hats too. And bedazzled jackets. Maybe I'm jus sitting in a crowd of carnies and haven't realized it yet. I think carnies only travel in Winnebagos though.

I have already purchased my five dollar bottle of water, which should last me until I get on the plane. Have you ever thought the bottled water companies might be behind the whole "only tiny bottles of liquid in carry on bags" rule? Yeah, I hadn't either, but now I do. I mean, them and the toothpaste lobby.

Wow! Already time to board. It doesn't look like any of the cowboy hat crowd is on my flight, but a bunch of collagen bunnies just got in line. At least if we crash I can us their lips as a floatation device...

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25 Things That Don't Suck

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Not Stupid, Just Knocked Up

No, not me. Don't get your panties in a wad. But, if I were, I might not even know it, at least according to Clearblue Easy Pregnancy Tests. According to them, one in four women misread traditional pregnancy tests. Yep, that's right, 25 percent of us aren't smart enough to figure out if we see two lines or one, or if it's a plus or a minus sign. We shouldn't fear though, because Clearblue is here to save us all, with a digital pregnancy test. Yes, I know, these have been on the market for a while, but this is the first time they have been marketed as an educational device, as well as a pregnancy test. After all, if the person taking the test isn't smart enough to read a plus/minus test, they probably need help brushing up on their reading. Oh, and they need a course in consumerism, since these puppies cost $20 a pop, and are being sold to them by a company telling them they are stupid.

Of course, there are some of you saying "but, Libby, I misread a pregnancy test." I am so sorry. It must have been a big shock nine months later when you had the baby in a Denny's bathroom, thinking that you just had severe digestive issues going on. At least you got a TLC special out of it though with the other women who "had no idea they were pregnant." Actually, those women probably would have misread the Clearblue test as well -- "It's telling me I'm pretty."

I'm too angry to go on. At least I think I'm angry. I have peed on anything electronic to confirm it. I mean, I peed on stuff, but then I couldn't make out the result. Typical woman! Good thing I'm cute and demure. Oh, wait, I'm not. FUCK!!!

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Ryan's Secret Life

I knew that bastard was hiding something from me. First the knife catalog and now this!

I never should have let him dress up as Chuck Norris for Halloween two years ago. What's next? Country music? Chewing tobacco? A mullet? If he joins the Republican party, I swear to God I will leave him.

Of course, this all could a misunderstanding. He could just be in it for the duffel bag. I better keep an eye on him though. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions -- and free duffel bags.

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Grrrr

You don't want to hear from me today. All day I have been swimming in a vat of self-pity, sprinkled with a heavy dose of easily agitated. I have felt bad about/annoyed by about by my hair, my body, my job, my co-workers, the cleanliness of my house, the inconsistent weather, the fact my hormones are making me sweat, and that I am pretty convinced that sweat smells like cheese. It got so bad this afternoon I tried to escape myself by taking a nap, but that just made me sweat more, increasing my stress level. So, then I lit a stress relief candle, but that just made things worse, mixing the cheese smell with eucalyptus. It was like an Australian deli.

The only thing that gave me even a slight chuckle was this video, and that's only because it didn't happen during my show. I can only imagine the hell the producer is getting, if he/she even still has a job...

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