Good Bloggie

Today it came to my attention that Martha Stewart's dogs have their own blog. I would give you the link, but then you might leave this page and go to that one, and I am not giving those little bitches any help. The fact that these dogs have their own blog upsets me for many reasons, but two rise above the rest as especially annoying -- the fact that those dogs get more hits a day than I have ever gotten in the history of this blog, and the fact that if any dog should have a blog, it's Sally.

1. Sally is the Real Deal I know I haven't mentioned this before, but Sally can type. No, it's true. Her weird sixth toe makes it totally possible. She actually types faster than I do, and with fewer mistakes. That means she could actually write her own blogs. I have a sneaking suspicion that Martha's dogs use a ghost writer. After all, everyone knows dogs can't watch Bill O'Reilly. His voice makes their heads explode.

2. Sally Would Tackle the Issues Let's face it, very few blogs talk about serious problems, and look for real solutions. Hell, if I start typing something meaningful Blogger instantly shuts down and this message pops up: "Error 405. Potentially serious content detected. Please go back to bitching about television and your period." Sally wouldn't put up with that shit though. She would find a way to post her critique of the current auto industry bailout using Derrida's deconstructionist theories. She's just that kind of dog.

3. No Vanity Pics First of all, Sally hates having her picture taken. She thinks it objectifies her. Second, she prefers the feeling of impressionist painting. You would never see her riding an alligator to get cheap laughs.

4. Sally Would Respond to Comments Sally is less of a stand up comic-type, and more a conversation facilitator. In the backyard, she puts all of her "babies" in an Algonquin round table formation before deciding which one will have it's limbs ripped off that day. I think she would do the same with her blog. She wouldn't want to just have people consumer her words, she would want them to respond, and respond to their responses. I mean, unless they start defending George W. Bush. Not even she has time for that shit.

5. Sally Doesn't Drink It may make her a buzzkill at parties, but it will guarantee readers won't have to put up with any bullshit random posts that seem really funny after half a bottle of Savignon Blanc. You know, like what kind of blog the cats would write. Oh, and she would never use stupid puns in the title of a post...

Of course, all of this is conjecture (except for the typing part, someone had to do my taxes). Sally and I have never actually talked about her doing a blog. I mean, I tried, but she just shook her head and went back to reading the latest Saramago book. In Spanish. And I went and got another drink...

Eh, Who Cares

Making "to do" lists always makes me feel like a loser. Also, they make me a lot less likely to do something. I can tell you right now that on my current "to do" list are at least four things that have been there since I started it, and will be there until I get rid of the list because looking at it is too depressing.

"To do" lists are really big in self-help literature, but they aren’t just normal "to do" lists, but lifetime "to do" lists. Talk about setting someone up for failure. After reading a few of those books in college there was only one thing left on my lifetime "to do" list, and that was to write a self help book and make a million dollars by selling it to suckers like myself. Of course, since I put it on a "to do" list, that book still hasn’t been written.

Since surfing the web and reading random crap is easy, I do it often, and that is how I came across my new favorite thing – the anti "to do" list – the "fuck it" list. Yep, that’s right, a list of things that don’t have to be done before death. In fact, it would be better if they weren’t. It is the brain child of comedian Michael Ian Black, and I am so grateful that I would send him a check for all the money I spent on self help books in college, if I hadn’t already spent it on self help books in college.

So, since I know you are all dying to know what is on my "fuck it" list, I won’t keep you waiting. I’m sure that there are more, but finishing the "fuck it" list is actually on my "to do" list, so you can see my dilemma.

Libby’s "Fuck It" (rhymes with bucket, as in that crappy Jack Nicolson movie) List

• This is pretty obvious, but I never want to run a marathon. Or a half marathon. Or a 10k. Or any kind of k.
• I will never actively seek “abs of steel.” If they happen naturally, great, but I’m not going out of my way.
• I never want to be known for “Libby’s Old Fashioned” anything. Not even porn.
• No leather skirts. Or pants. Or pretty much anything other than shoes. And not just because of my allergy. Wait. Maybe my allergy is actually to tacky animal skin clothing.
• I have no desire to read another Michael Critchton, John Grisham, J.K. Rowling, or that guy who wrote “The DaVinci Code” book. And if I forget the ones I have already read? No big loss.
• I never want to go on a “raw food” diet. Nor should anyone else.
• Voting Republican is obviously out.
• Oh, so is buying a Celine Dion CD. Not just because no one buys CDs any more, either.
• If I never see carnival in Rio, I will be okay. I will also probably save money on antibiotics for the treatment of STIs.

Those are some of mine. What are some of yours? Oh, and they better be funny, because otherwise they’re just sad. If I wanted to be sad I would just look over my old "to do" lists...

After the Tone

There are many reasons I need a personal assistant. "To do" lists, grocery shopping, ironing, house cleaning, dog walking, toe nail clipping, and pretending to be me in situations I don't want to be in are just the ones I can think of right now off the top of my head. The number one reason I need a personal assistant, though, above all others? The reason I would pay someone a million dollars a year if I had it? Voice mail. I hate voice mail. I hate everything about it. I hate leaving it. I hate receiving it. And, most of all, I hate listening to it.

Now, I know there are a lot of you out there thinking “but, Libby, voicemail is useful. It allows us to get information we need when we can’t answer the phone.” What information is that? That someone called you and wants you to call back? That’s what caller ID is for. You look at it, you see someone as called, and you call back. And that is what the majority of voice mail messages are: “Hi, it’s me, call me back.” Yes, some of them are from people you don’t know, who’s numbers you don’t recognize, and in those cases I would say that if they really want to talk to you, they will call back. And if they don’t, fuck ‘em, they were probably trying to sell you something anyway.

Oh, and even worse than the “call me back” messages are the ones that are four hours long and contain lots and lots of details. Who really is ever sitting next to a pad and pen when they are listening to voice mail? That was a rhetorical question for those of you who are. You’re Tupperware cabinet is probably well organized too. I hate you almost as much as I hate the long message leavers. Oh, and then when you talk to them later they get mad if you can’t repeat the message word for word! Look, if it wasn’t important enough for you to want to talk to me, it probably isn’t important enough for me to memorize, okay?

I think I pretty much have most of my friends trained when it comes to voice mail. They know the drill, and don’t expect me to have listened to anything past the first ten seconds of a message. I know, that probably makes me sound like a jerk, but I like to think of it as very freeing for them. After all, they can say anything they want after that first ten seconds, and know I won’t be hurt or offended. And since not listening to my messages is probably one of the least jerky things that I do, those forgotten messages have probably saved several friendships.

Of course, there are people who don’t know me well, who still leave voice mail. I cannot tell you how much agita I feel when I hear the ping of my voice mail go off. And then every time I look at the screen I have to see that little voice mail icon, reminding me that there is a message waiting. It is supposed to look like a tape (which, really, where is this voice mail located, 1982?), but all it looks like to me is a stern frown. I am thinking of getting a little piece of light blue tape to put over it, but getting a personal assistant to check it and give me a rundown would be easier.

Boiling With Rage II: Electric Bugaloo

DAMN THE MAN! FIGHT THE POWER!

You’ll have to excuse me if I seem a little hyped up today, it’s just that I feel better than Norma Rae did after she defeated Apollo Creed. You see, last night, in the darkest hours of my water heater drama, when I was feeling like the peon of big business, I mustered my courage, girded my cojones, and took a stand. And then I fired Sears.

When we last left off, I was quickly becoming a tornado of rage, waiting for the Sears installer to come and put in our new water heater. At that time he was more than an hour and a half late for our scheduled 3pm to 5pm window, and my patience had quit. I called, again, only to be told that things had been pushed back once more, and that he would probably be there about 8pm. Two thoughts sprung to my mind. The first was that this poor installer needed to join a union, and insist that Sears hire more than one person to do every job in the valley. The second was that I was going to kill someone – but I wasn’t going to do it until the new water heater was installed. Just out of curiosity, I asked the dispatcher how long the installation would take. An hour to ninety minutes she replied, depending on if everything goes smoothly. Now, I am not the wisest person in the world, but I know one thing to be true – nothing ever goes smoothly. So, by my estimation, if this guy showed up at the new and improved arrival time, he wasn’t going to be out of there until at least ten. Um, no. So, in my nicest Libby voice, I told the dispatcher that would not work, and that I needed to have him come the next day. She started to say, “well, we are really busy” before my growl cut her off. We set a window of between ten and noon. No, it wasn’t going to be installed within 24 hours like Sears promised, and yes, I was going to have to leave work early, but I just wanted it fucking done.

I guess I could have left well enough alone. I knew the guy was coming the next day, and I damn sure knew he would be on time. But there was something gnawing at me, something that I couldn’t let go of – and that was the feeling of injustice. I was getting walked all over, and I was paying for the privilege. So I made one more phone call, and that is when it all exploded…

The young man who answered the Sears installation help line was nice enough, asking me about my evening, and how I was doing. When I responded not well, that I had been in water heater installation hell for the last five hours, he wasn’t surprised at all. In fact, he had already heard about my day, from the dispatcher, who had e-mailed to let them know that I had been rude.

Wait for it.

RUDE??? UM, WHAT? YOU WANT TO SEE RUDE, SWEETHEART? I WILL SHOW YOU RUDE. I CAN BE THE RUDEST MOTHERFUCKER YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. I CAN OUT RUDE RUDY HUXTABLE! YOU MUST HAVE BEEN RAISED BY MEERKATS TO THINK THAT WHAT I WAS SAYING WAS RUDE. DIRECT? YES. A LITTLE PISSY? DEFINITELY. BUT RUDE? I THINK NOT.

That’s what was going on in my head. What came out of my mouth though was “I want to cancel this order.” The young man asked if there was anything he could do to change my mind. I said he could knock money off the installation. He countered with a gift card offer. I was going to tell him where to stick his gift card sideways – but I didn’t want to be rude.

There is a happy ending to this story though. Minutes after I posted my blog about water heater problems people started calling and e-mailing offering to help. Within hours our friends Emily and Justin were at our house helping us make a list of all the things we would need at the hardware store to install the water heater ourselves. And as I write this? Luke’s Dad Jeremy is in the basement hooking up said water heater. In total it will cost me almost half of what I was going to pay Sears – plus a couple of beers. Totally worth it.

DAMN THE MAN! FIGHT THE POWER!

Boiling With Rage

I am sitting here waiting for Sears to come and install a new water heater. A $700 water heater that we had to buy this weekend, even though we don't have $700 dollars at this particular juncture. A $700 dollar water heater needed because, on Saturday, after a long discussion about how we spent all of our money on travel and would have to live on ramen for the next two weeks, I walked into the basement to find our current water heater sitting in a growing puddle of water. It could have been worse, I guess. I mean, that's what I keep telling myself so that I don't set the house on fire and run screaming from the scene.

Of course, the water heater itself wasn't $700. I didn't go for the bling encrusted Lil' Jon model. The actual water heater was just $400. So, what, pray tell, is the other $300 for? A tip to Sears for being so great? Why, no. The extra money was spent to actually get the damn thing installed before the current one completely gives up the ghost and floods the basement. Of course, the way things are going right now that might not happen. You see, when I bought the damn water heater on Saturday, I was told they could install it Monday afternoon. This morning they called Ryan to say they would be here between three and five. Three came, no water heater. Four came, no water heater. Five thirty came, no water heater. I checked my phone, and my temper, to make sure both were working. Then I called to see what the hell was going on. I was told that the installers have had to make a number of "emergency" installations today, and that some customers have been pushed back because of it. Um, isn't my basement slowly filling with water an emergency? There better be some people with Titanic like situations on their hands right now if mine is considered "normal." I was told that the installer will be here at around 6:30. I asked if the phones had been broken, or when someone was going to call to tell me they were running 90 MINUTES LATE. I think the disaptcher understood that question was strictly rhetorical. Or maybe not, I couldn't hear what she was saying over the bulging vein in my forehead.

So, now, here I sit. It is, at this moment, 6:36. I am hoping this damn thing is installed by midnight. I am also wondering if tomorrow when the noon news is supposed to start I can just put up a sign that says "Numerous emergency newscasts have forced us to push yours back to 2:00pm. Or 3:00pm. We don't know yet." I really hope this installer gets his news from the noon show. That'll teach him...

On Shuffle, Take 3

Tomorrow I go back to real life. After two weeks of travel, interspersed with short visits to the real world, I can no longer say I am going on, currently experiencing, or just getting back from vacation. That means I can no longer put things off because "I won't be in town." The house can't be left a mess because "we won't be here anyway." And I won't be able to ignore things that have been causing me stress because "I'm taking a vacation from my problems." The vacation is over, it's back to reality. I have one more night though, and I am going to make the most of it. So, tomorrow I will go back to my pithy commentary on life and love, to my funny stories, and tales of wisdom, but tonight I am phoning it in. Enjoy the pretty pictures, and relive some of my favorite vacation moments with me.

Even the statues in New York don't mind their own business.

I can't tell you how hard it was to get Ryan out of here. Or maybe it was the other way around...
I seem to remember someone screaming "I married the wrong Ryan." That might have been me.

I can't believe a spot like this exists in the middle of New York City. Luke was truly entranced.

Even pigeons look charming at Bethesda Fountain.

I couldn't fit the license plate in the picture. It read "tourist."

The shuttle launch. Really, it was. Unfortunately, in the three seconds it took me
to get my camera out, the space craft had left the atmosphere.

A charming southern picture. There are not very many of these left though,
since Florida is like the rest of America, covered with mini malls and freeways.

No clue about the name of this flower. Probably something like "alligator plume."

Those are cormorants. I mean, the birds are.
The balls are Christmas ornaments no one has taken down yet.

The really love their crosses in Florida. This wasn't even the biggest one we saw.

The most awesome t-shirt ever. EVER.

I am off now to enjoy my remaining hours in my vacation haze. Tomorrow food will have calories, alcohol will make me seem stupid instead of charming, and money will no longer grow on trees. Damn it.

Walkin' the Beach

I really love the ocean. There is something about it that just fills my soul with song, and makes me want to use really corny phrases to describe my emotions. During our visit to Florida we went to Sarasota where I got to glimpse the Gulf of Mexico for the first time. It was truly a sight to behold. Even better though were the people who packed the sugar sand beach lining it...

Most of the people brought ridiculous set-ups, that showed they had no intention of going in the water.

Some were just there for a nap.

This is me and Ryan in 50 years.

Even hippie freaks retire to Florida.

This is called skin cancer waiting to happen. There were many. many crispy fried people on the beach.

And then some people were wearing all the covering they could to avoid getting burned.

When a kid is wearing a bigger bathing suit, it might be time to rethink your attire.

I am pretty sure this was some sort of cult suicide, but I didn't get close enough to confirm my suspicions.

This guy was the best. He ran up and down the beach, weaving in and out of the people,
looking like he was about to collapse at any moment, carrying an orange.

Really, this was almost more entertaining than Gatorland. If the running orange guy had let me sit on his back that would made the day perfect...

The Real Magic Kingdom

Two years ago our friends Stan and Lana moved their family to Florida and I figured that was the last we would see of them. It wasn't that I thought we would lose touch, I just assumed that they would all be eaten by alligators. As everyone knows, gators are everywhere in Florida, and they are sneaky killing machines. I always figured the only reason there are any people in Florida is because occasionally alligators get full. There are few things that scare me, but gators and Ann Coulter top the list. The possibly they could breed (both are cold blooded reptiles) keeps me up at night, but I digress. A few months ago Ryan talked me into planning a trip to Orlando to see Stan and Lana, using the rationalization that they had lived there quite a while and they, their kids, and their pets are all still alive, and have lost nary a finger or toe. I said yes, but on the condition that we go to one place: Gatorland. I knew it was time to face my fear. And this weekend, I did.

Gatorland is a classic theme park in every sense of the word. Visitors are greeted by a large gator sign, and walk past a concrete gator mouth to get to the ticket booths. You can buy gator t-shirts, gator hats, and gator glasses. Gator bites, gator ribs, and Gatorade are all sold at the snack bars. And, since they are the namesake, there are gators of every shape and size almost everywhere you look. For the most part they are in enclosures, safely kept behind fences, and moats, and glass. That wasn't good enough for me though, and the entire time we were at the park I had the chills. It didn't help matters that all of the warning signs features attempts at humor like "those who throw litter into the animal enclosures will be asked to retrieve it." Yeah, great, make it look like the alligators have a sense of humor. After all, prey is easier to attack when it's doubled over with laughter.
Ryan, thinking he was being a good guy, decided to buy me the "junior wrangler" package at the park, which featured a pack of hot dogs to feed to the gators, a ride on the train, and a chance to have my picture taken on the back of a gator. When he told me that I thought for sure he had to be kidding. Had someone at this park lost their mind? And why the hot dogs? Weren't the tourists doing their "rides" enough for the gators to eat? Stan and Lana's kids thought this was hilarious. Yes, they were laughing at my probable death. "That's something for the little kids to do," Cody cackled. Well, I guess kids would be the logical food choice, since they have smaller bones. Josie assured me that it was safe, that they taped the mouth of the gators, and that she had done it before -- when she was nine. I still was not convinced.

For the next few hours we wandered around the park, and I gave myself a mental pep talk. I knew that alligators have no mouth strength once their jaws are closed. Tape would keep the mouth shut. Of course, if it didn't then the gator would just be really pissed because it's mouth had been taped shut, and would probably want to take it out on the person next to him. And that would be me. I worried about the headlines, and how everything else I had ever done would be forgotten, as the only thing that anyone would remember was that I was eaten by an alligator. I wondered if Alanis Morisette would write a song about me misusing a common vocabulary word. And then it was time to face the gator. I wish I could tell you what was going through my head, but I don't remember anything but panic. Lucky for you, and less so for me, Ryan had the video camera.

Well, at least the people watching me seemed to enjoy themselves. Oh, wait, it gets better though. There was a photographer taking pictures that were (of course) for sale. Oh, and you could get the picture printed onto a t-shirt! I think you see where this is going...

Ryan calls it the most awesome t-shirt ever. I call it exhibit A in our divorce proceedings. At least now I am not afraid of alligators any more. Not because I touched one though, but because now I have a bigger fear: Ryan wearing that shirt in public. Oh, or Ryan wearing tat t-shirt in public and then running into Ann Coulter... Now I'm scared.

True Misery

I really shouldn't let Ryan go to the bookstore by himself. Every time I do he gets sucked into the bargain book section, where he ends up buying one or forty of them "for use at school." The story was no different when he went to Barnes and Noble on Monday to pick up a gift for our friends Meghan and Andrew who watched Sally while we were in New York. Well, I guess it was a little different, because this time he found a bargain book just for me.

Yeah. Some women get books about romance or puppies from their husbands, but I get this. What can I say, he knows me. I started to thumb through it, ready for a laugh, or the discovery of something new to complain about, but instead, this book actually made me miserable, for five very good reasons.

1. Someone got paid for this shit Yes, someone actually got to claim income on their taxes for sitting around and making a list of random things that suck. And they get to call themselves authors! Authors! Most people who make lists like this are called stoners and the biggest reward they get is a bag of cheetos.

2. It is not organized well If these jackasses are going to make money off this, the least they could have done is number the complaints, and maybe put them in some kind of order. Yes, I know, my OCD is kicking in, but how do we know there are actually 11,002 things in the book? And that some aren't repeated? There aren't even page numbers! For all we know these jerks could only come up with 5501 things and repeated each of them twice. I told Ryan I was going to go through the book page by page to make sure that wasn't the case, and he said I was kind of missing the point.

3. Not all of these things are miserable I enjoy being miserable, and can turn pretty much any situation into a bad time. Today I was told the morning show is starting a segment called "Sunny Side Up" featuring good news and I said I wanted to counter program it with a segment in my show called "Kill 'em All." I'm just that way. However, not even I think many of the things in this book are really "miserable." Hallmark cards? Tourists in Florence? Velvet Elvis Paintings? Yes, all of these things are annoying, but do they really make people miserable? I mean, people who aren't pussies? I don't think so.

4. Ryan spent money on this book that he could have spent on a moderately priced bottle of wine This book retails for $10.95. Ryan says he bought it for $6.50. Either one of those amounts could have gotten him a not too shabby bottle of fume blanc, which would have done wonders in making me far from miserable.

5. I had to apologize to Ryan after I came up with #4 Yeah, because he reminded me he was stopping at the book store after going to the wine store to buy me a moderately priced bottle of fume blanc. Well, he could bought two.

I'm going to start on a book now: "500 Books That Shouldn't Have Been Written." I'm only going to come up with 125 though. No one will read past that anyway...

Walkin' the Bridge

Every year my parents go to New York to celebrate their anniversary, and every year they walk the Brooklyn Bridge. I think there is some sort of symbolism to it, but I haven't asked, so I don't know. This year the whole family went to New York, and Ryan and I decided to do the bridge walk with them. I, of course, brought my camera, because I don't think there are enough pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge out there. And I took a lot. But then I got bored. I mean, that's a mile and a half long walk, and the photo opportunities don't really change. There are cables, there are towers, there are views of the city, and view of Brooklyn. That's it. I still wanted to take pictures though, because I have a short attention span, so I just starting snapping pictures of the other people on the bridge with us. I think it's an interesting slice of humanity, but then again, I also am reading Tony Curtis's biography and enjoying it.

Some people looked like they were walking the bridge out of spite.

I wasn't sure if this woman was scared of the bridge, or allergic to it.

Best bridge outfit EVER.

These kids were just begging to be mugged.

This guy was just begging to be tripped.

You do NOT want to get in the way of bicyclists on the bridge. They will run you down.
I almost found that out the hard way.

These ladies were trying so hard to look like New Yorkers I am almost positive they were from Scranton.

I was amazed by how packed the bridge was in places.

You cannot escape gross, necking (is that still a term?) teenagers, no matter where you are.

These guys are the only ones who noticed I was taking their picture.

Of course, that may have been because everyone else was busy taking pictures of the bridge.

I Made It There, and Back

We are back in the sleepy city after being in the city that never sleeps. Yeah, that was lame, I know, but I'm tired today, so bear with me. Our trip to New York was glorious, filled with eating, and walking, and looking, and eating, and pointing, and walking, and even more eating. We didn't stop moving for all four days we were there, and still only saw maybe a third of what the city has to offer. Oh, and we only ate at a twentieth of all the places I wanted to stuff my face. Really, I cannot decide if I would be really fat if I lived in New York because of all the great food, or really skinny because of all the walking. Maybe I would have really great calves, and a gigantic gut. Yeah, I know, I'm digressing, so I'll just stop talking, and show you some pictures.

We started our trip by heading to Times Square, where Ryan and my brother in law Dave were disappointed by the lack of whores, and people selling ninja stars. Damn Giuliani. Luke, of course, was drawn like a tractor beam to the enormous Toys R Us on the corner of 44th street. when we stepped in the door he said "we have to come here tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next." So we did. He was pretty well restrained though, getting just one toy a day. I saw people walking out of that place with bags that were bigger than their children, and the kids were still throwing a fit that they didn't get everything they wanted.

The theme of ill behaved children was continued when we hit the U-S-S Intrepid on the second day of our trip. The place was swarming with boy scouts, and all of them were half crazed. Even better than watching the scouts run wild was watching their parents try to control them. One woman started by screaming just her son's first name: Joshua. Then she added his second name: David. Then she delivered the best line I heard the entire time I was in New York: "Joshua David Anderson. Three names. Do you have any idea how much trouble that means you're in?" For the rest of the weekend I used the same line on Ryan, occasionally adding in a fourth, made up name when I felt he had really crossed a line.

We, of course, went on the Staten Island ferry, which is good because it is free, and you can buy beer on it. I love raising a cold one to Lady Liberty while the wind whips my hair, and seagulls try to poop on my head. I also love to walk around the decks and see just how many tourists are humming "Coming to America" under their breaths. There are always at least two. I didn't catch my Mom doing it, but I'm sure she did at some point.

My favorite thing that we did was take Luke to central park. Ryan and I both love the park anyway, and seeing it with a kid who had never experienced it before was fantastic. What wasn't all that great was how absolutely filthy he got. I swear, the kid picked up half the dirt in the place, and would have brought how a six foot long "walking stick" he found had not convinced him it was against TSA regulations. He and Ryan hunted dragons all throughout the ramble, searched for gold at Belvedere Castle, climbed almost every rock they saw, and raced in the dry fountain at Bethesda. I really worried that one or both of them would refuse to come home. I was finally able to lure them both out with promises of pizza and cannolis. Those two, and Dave, really bonded over their love for cheese filled pastries.

On the way back from the park Luke was tired and crabby, and complaining that his feet hurt, but he was also elated. We were going home that afternoon, and you could see him reviewing the trip in his head as we rode on the subway. "You know what," he finally said, "I really like New York." I couldn't have said it better myself. And I have the blistered on the bottom of my feet, and the resturant credit card slips to prove it.

Sucks

Three months ago, when my parents first announced they had bought tickets for the whole family to go to New York, I sent ticket requests to all of the "cool kid" destinations. Colbert and Stewart instantly turned me down, since they only do a four day work week -- like most pussies. "Saturday Night Live" didn't even write me back, but later my Dad told me that in order to get tickets to that show audience members had to apply six years in advance, and blow Lorne Michaels -- even in the Anthony Michael Hall year. That left Letterman, and I never thought in a million years we would get tickets.

We almost did.

On Monday I got a call from the Letterman office. They asked if I was Libby. I am. They asked if I wanted tickets to the "Late Show with David Letterman" on Thursday. I did. They asked if I could be there by 2pm. No, I couldn't. Our plane doesn't get in until 3. And then the booker hung up.

I wasn't feeling that bad until Ryan and I were watching Letterman last night. It was then we realize that U2 are their musical guests all week.

Well, maybe we can catch U2 performing in Times Square...

Libby is Tired of Facebook

When I first found Facebook I thought it was the best thing ever. I could reconnect with friends, stalk old boyfriends and enemies to see how fat they had gotten, look at pictures, and challenge people to stupid word games -- ALL ON THE SAME SITE! I became a junkie almost instantly, loading the application onto my Blackberry, and checking for updates every chance I got. I think Ryan started looking at divorce laws in the state to see if obsession with a website is grounds for divorce, but I can't be sure. Now, it doesn't matter though, because the love affair is over.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but it definitely was over the past month. It used to be (and I am a bit ashamed to admit this) that I would check Facebook on my Blackberry as I drove to work. Then I would check it when I got to work. To make that fact even more pathetic? I get to work at 6am. Over the course of the day I probably would check it ten more times -- at least. Each time I would look at updates, check for new pictures, see what people were saying, and maybe add new friends. I justified it by saying I was being more social than I have been in years, and that everyone is doing it. I didn't realize just how sick I was.

It was last Tuesday that I realized the magic was gone. I was walking out of work, checking my e-mail on my Blackberry, and saw I had a message from Facebook. And I realized I hadn't checked it ALL DAY. In the early, halcyon days of my Facebook experience that would have sent me into a tizzy. However, on that day, I just slipped my Blackberry back in my pocket and went to lunch.

I think what happened is what happens in most unsuccessful relationships: I grew, but Facebook didn't. After a while I was willing to move on, try new things, look at new ways to explore the world, and meet new people, but Facebook just wasn't. It just kept showing me the same people, and the same stupid games, and fewer and fewer new pictures. Also, it started trying to introduce me to people I had no interest in meeting. People I had met before, and never wanted to again. That's when I stopped returning it's calls.

Now, Facebook and I still see each other, and it's friendly, but not like it used to be. I'll check in when I'm bored, it will send me a message when something is going on that might interest me, and we keep in cordial. Sometimes, Facebook will even do me a favor and help me get a message out, and I'll click on an ad to say thank you. It's times like that when I think back to how it used to be, and kind of get a little nostalgic, and think about going back. But then I realize I would just be trying to recapture a magic that is long gone.

I'm sure that one day Facebook and I won't even see each other, and I'll laugh when I hear it's name mentioned at parties, while secretly feeling pity and wondering how it can keep hanging out with kids. Is that how it always goes?

I don't know. Maybe my Mother was right. Maybe I should have picked My Space...

Finally...

The Today Show is doing a parenting segment I think people can actually use...

Next week's feature is "forcing your kids to make up for your unfulfilled dreams."

Morning News: Harder Than It Looks

For a number of years, I worked on the morning show while pursuing my Masters in Education. Yes, I have a Masters in Education, and it looks quite lovely in the drawer where I keep it, but that is a story for another time. Working the morning show was perfect for being a student, because it meant I was there from 11 o'clock at night until 7 in the morning, leaving me time to go to school. However, it also meant that I wasn't firing on all cylinders all the time. I think that anyone who has ever worked the morning show shift will tell you it happens to everyone. Spelling mistakes that you normally wouldn't make, say in the word cat for instance, are made and not caught, because, in a sleep deprived state, spelling it cayt looks proper. Also, any sense of humor or irony is lost. One has to be very careful about sources to make sure they are accurate, and not completely coming from the minds of baked college students who are experts at photoshop. Of course, occasionally, something slips by:

I am sure many of you are thinking "that can't be real." However, my first thought was "it's very easy to fool someone who has only had two hours of sleep in the past four weeks." Poor bastard. Probably still looking at the screen and not quite getting it. Once he or she is put on a later shift though, and starts getting a full eight hours at night, they are going to be so embarrassed...

On Shuffle, Again

I thought I had some stuff to blog about, but Ryan said that most of my ideas fell under the heading of "too much information." Yeah, it's nice to have an external filter, since we all know I don't have an internal one... So, here are some more pics, falling under the heading of "vacation" since I am getting ready for a trip to New York, and trying to psyche myself up. All of these were taken in LA during my visit with Tara last month.

This is what happens to dragons who don't obey the code.

The entrance of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. I appreciated that the angel wasn't of the golden curly hair, rosy cheeked variety.

And I thought my childhood was tough. At least my parents didn't literally make me sing for my supper. Or wear stupid hats.

My attempt at an artsy photo of the moon from the window of the plane. Yeah, I'm Ansel Adams.

Now I am off to try on all the pants in my closet to see if any fit. If they don't I will have to wear jeans every day while I am in New York, and I am sure there will be pointing and laughing from the locals. That will probably happen anyway, since I am sure they can smell people from west of the Mississippi.

I will try to blog more before I head off, if I can think of anything that doesn't make Ryan cringe. So, maybe not.