Cate

This afternoon I was having a hard time thinking of something to blog about, so I sent out a plea for topics to the universe (i.e. Twitter). The universe said nothing. Then I got one response saying I should blog about food. That just made me hungry, and considering that I am oozing out of my jeans like Jabba the Hutt as off late, that was not a good thing. So, I waited. I thought about blogging more about the swine flu, but then I realized I write about that all day and would rather put skewers through my eyes. I started a post about trying to stay on Weight Watchers during this time of super PMS (eleven weeks this Wednesday, hollah!), but not even I wanted to read that. And then, a miracle. My little sister Cate came up with an idea. I could write about her "awesomenicity." Yeah, that's not a word, but it's still a great idea.

Cate is pretty awesome. She is five years younger than I am (which means she will be thirty this year), and I always said that while I had great parents growing up, I really wish I had had Cate's parents. That five year gap gave my parents just enough time to relax and having two teenage girls at once, and then decide to let Cate do whatever she wanted. For instance, Mandy (older sister) and I had to share a station wagon that previously belonged to our grandfather the chain smoker for most of our teen years. It was like driving a tank, and gave us both emphysema. Cate? She got her own Toyota 4 Runner. Oh! And she never had a hard time getting money from our parents (Mandy and I didn't either, but I am going to forget that right now for dramatic effect). She was known as "keep the change Cate" because no matter the size of the bill, or the cost of the purchase, the money went into her pocket. My Mom says I wasn't very nice to Cate, and that when she was an infant/toddler/in her early 20's I used to poke and pinch her just to make her scream. I do not recall this, and will not take any more questions on the matter.

As an adult, Cate is many things, but the word that describes her best? Hilarious. No, really, she's funny, and not in the typical Mitchell way. Not only is she sarcastic, and biting, she's crafty -- as in glue gun and sparkles crafty. For instance, when Ryan and I started trying to have a baby she made us a very nice "bless our home" tole painted sign. It reads "Bless Our Humperdome." A few years ago she bought a large rubber bat to hang on her front door for Halloween, but then decided she wanted to keep it up year round. So, she made it costumes for every month of the year. Not just simple costumes either, for July it had a complete Lady Liberty get up, including light up torch. If she were to use her power for good instead of sarcastic crafting -- no, I don't even want to think about that. I love the crafts too much. Good will have to wait.

Oh, and while Cate may be funny, she is also fuckin' tough. We have a saying in my family -- don't poke the badger. Because really, she will take your face off. You do NOT want to fight with Cate, and many theater patrons in the intermountain west have found that out the hard way. Oh, so have many Broadway tour company managers. When "Wicked" came to town the actress playing Elphaba wasn't the only one looking green. That lighting guy really should have watched his mouth...

I just hope she likes this blog post. I love you, Catie. Okay?

More Links Than Sausage

Don't have much to say right now, since my life the last two days has been made up of making swine flu jokes, selecting pictures for our adoption profile that don't make us look crazy, and wondering if I should give the Smooth Away another chance since I am beginning to (once again) look like a French porn star.

While I am not interesting right now, there is still tons to amuse you on the web. For instance, check out this blog I found. Kim Waters may be funnier than I am. Don't tell her that, though, because she seems like the type who will come and give me a WWF beatdown just because she's bored.

Oh, and if you don't want to take the energy to read, there is always this video. It's about time someone but pregnant women in their place...




I will try to get back to being funny again tomorrow. I mean, unless I lose my entire audience to Kim...

PIGS ARE COMING TO KILL US!

Psst. Come here, I have a secret to tell you. It's about the news business. Oh, and about a story that's making big headlines right now. Are you ready? Are you sure? Okay, here goes...

Swine flu is not a big deal. It just hit on a slow news day. And everyone loves a good panic.

I know, it's shocking. You would never suspect that we "respected journalists" would blow something out of proportion for our own selfish gain. I mean, the reason most of us got into the business is to HELP people, by TELLING THEM THE TRUTH. It had nothing to do with the fact that we wanted to be on television but had no talent as actors, or that we like to control the opinions of others. Actually, if you think about it we are still telling the truth. I don't think that anyone has reported more than 80 cases in the U.S., or more than 16o deaths in Mexico. However, those small numbers have been footnotes in video of people wearing face masks, and information about school closures and travel advisories. After all, the words "health warning" won't get as many viewers as "possible pandemic."

I promise you that if this story had surfaced on a day when anything else was happening, it would not have gotten as much play. But over the weekend the only other thing making headlines was the continued crumbling of General Motors. And, well, we've done that story to death. No one wants to hear about it any more. It's depressing. It involves concepts many people don't understand. What is something everyone DOES understand? Fear of death. And nothing is more frightening than death from an exotic disease. I mean, you don't think people saw "Outbreak" for Dustin Hoffman, do you?

I don't mean that you shouldn't worry about swine flu. You should worry about it the same way you worry about being hit by a bus. Both are possibilities, both could kill you, and both can be stopped by taking basic precautions. Don't step out in front of a bus if you see one coming. Oh, and wash your hands when you think they may have touched something germy, like a door knob, or a public phone, or Paris Hilton. That's right. The kryptonite to this killing machine of an illness sweeping the globe? Soap. That's never going to make it into the headline, I can guarantee it.

Just thank god the media had swine flu to keep themselves busy this weekend. Otherwise the death of Bea Arthur would have been the big story, and you would have spent Sunday wondering how the "Golden Girls" ended world hunger and the cold war. They didn't. We just would have made it seem that way...

Making Our Case

If Ryan had murdered me this weekend, it would have been a justifiable homicide. Really, it would have. I would have made a point to come back from the grave to encourage people to testify on his behalf, because I was such an anal retentive uber bitch.

You see, this weekend we started making our adoption profile.

The adoption profile is the first thing the birth mother sees about the potential adoptive family. It helps her form her first impressions, and decide if these could be the people she wants to raise the child she's carrying, or if they are total psychos that should rightfully remain barren. So, you can see why it's a little stressful to make one. I want it to be funny, but not too light, intelligent, but not eggheaded, and compassionate, but not patronizing. I want it to be so perfect that when the birth mother picks it up it vibrates in her hands and she hears angels singing. Unfortunately Ryan nixed the idea of putting a joy buzzer and a tiny digital music player inside, so that isn't going to happen... Still though, I want it to be as good as it can be though, and so I analyzed every decision that we made about it, and then second guessed them all.

This is where the defense could start making it's case.

Ryan really wanted to be helpful. He knew how I was worried, and wanted to make it easier. He picked out pictures, and inserted text, and worked for a long time on every page he did. And then I went back and changed everything he did. Well, not everything, but pretty much everything. I wasn't nice about it either. I tired to be, but I think at one point I yelled "are you kidding" when I looked at what he had done. I didn't mean to, but I did. My bitch training wheels had come off the crazy train.

One of the biggest "discussions" we had was over a picture of the dog. It was taken right after we first got her, and she was chewing on everything. Luke had been over and left one of his pacifiers behind, which Sally gleefully took as a sign it was hers. One of us wanted to include the picture that resulted thinking it would show we are fun. The other thought including it would show any potential birth mother that we consider child raising like having a dog.

I'll let you know how it all worked out after I read the comments...

In the end I like to think that our first draft of the adoption profile is a collaborative effort. Ryan picked out pictures I never would have thought to put in, and we both helped whittle down the text so that it is less about telling birth moms about our life, and more about showing it to them. Of course, we will probably have to rip it apart and redo it at least seven more times before it's ready to go.

Do you think they'll still let Ryan adopt if he's acquitted of murder? After all, he'll have a great profile to show for it...

Not Quite the Spanish Inquisition

Ryan and I our first official step towards adoption this week -- our home visit. It really wasn't a big deal, just a formality required by the state -- requiring a complete stranger to come to our house and evaluate whether or not we would irrevocably mess up a kid if we are fortunate enough to be able to adopt one. Yeah, I think you can see why we were a bit stressed out about it.

We had a week's warning for the visit, and almost every minute was spent on gathering paperwork, filling out paperwork, or worrying about things in our house that could appear offensive, dangerous, juvenile, or terrifying. You have no idea how many things we found. We not only questioned pretty much every piece of art on our walls, but also all the items in our fridge, the arrangement of the clothes in our closets, and books that some groups consider "sinful." We had no idea to expect, so we got ready for anything.

On Saturday we got the yard ready, figuring it was the first thing the stranger/social worker would see. We weeded. We mowed. I got dirt under my nails and whined. Ryan gritted his teeth and wished the leaf blower could go louder. On Sunday we tackled the basement. I had no idea how much shit was down there. I mean, I did, since I put most of it there, but I just didn't think I would ever have to deal with it again. We actually got through it pretty quickly. We made three piles: keep, toss, and give to charity. Oh, there was also the pile of stuff that Ryan had to go through that I thought should have been thrown out, but I know got hidden somewhere in the basement until we clean it out again -- but I won't go into that. After we were done the basement once again looked like we use it for storage, instead of for refuse.

While Ryan and I handled the big gross jobs we had been putting off for months, there was only one woman I trusted to help with the main part of the house -- the Queen of Clean -- my Mother. She showed up on Tuesday morning with her sprays, powders, and steam cleaner in hand to take on our actual living space. I offered to help, but she refused, even threatening to leave if I didn't leave her alone and let her clean. Yes, I had the stomach flu, but I think she would have said that regardless. She wanted to make sure that my bad dusting didn't keep her from getting a grandchild. By the time she was done the house smelled like pledge, and looked like a museum. I have never been happier for her compulsions.

The day of the actual interview dawned with both Ryan and I doing our best impersonations of assholes. We were both nervous, and taking it out on each other. In the ten minutes before the social worker/stranger arrived we almost got into THREE different fights. One of the fights was about how we shouldn't be fighting when she arrived. When she finally got here I swear the smell of our flop sweat was greater than that of the Pledge. And then? Well, it was fine.

She asked about why we wanted to be parents. Why we chose to pursue adoption. What we thought about child rearing. What we thought about each other. If we had criminal records. If we had happy childhoods. Then she walked through our house. Just walked. She didn't go through the trash, or try on our shoes, or question our choice of toothpaste. And then it was over. She shook our hands, said the report would be filed within three weeks and, pending the outcome of our criminal background checks, could move forward with our adoption plans.

That night we laid on the couch like marathon runners after a long race, or at least what I picture that would be like if I ever ran more than half a block. We watched a show on whales. And then we both realized that the thing we had feared, the home study, was nothing compared to what is ahead. Next we have to make a profile, and then we have to meet a birth mother, and then we have to hold our breath to see if we actually get the baby, and then, if everything goes well, we have to be parents.

I kind of wish that we were still just worrying about offensive art.

Full speed ahead.

Ryan on Facebook?

Today an amazing thing happened. Birds began to fly north for the winter. Druids began work on a new structure. Naked mole rats began wearing clothes. Jesus, Buddha, and Mohammad put off their weekly poker game. And my husband, Ryan, said these fateful words "I am thinking about getting a Facebook page."

It happened after a lecture on teaching in the digital age. He came home very concerned about being able to reach students in an effective manner when their lives are bombarded with media. He was talking about teaching on a multi-level, multi-input platform. About how kids have a world of knowledge at their fingertips and communicate at the speed of light. He said he wanted to understand it better, and that he needs to be changed as much by their world as they are by his world. I mean, I think that's what he said, I was still reeling from the word "Facebook" coming from his lips without the words "waste of time" in the same sentence.

I always wondered how I would feel when this day arrived, and now I can tell you -- I am freaked out. Yes, Ryan is well aware of the time I spend on Facebook. He knows who all of my friends are. He has looked at stuff with me and laughed, if not a bit disdainfully, about it. However, now he would be aware of just how much I interact there and, even worse, how much time I spend just broadcasting my random thoughts on Twitter.

I think I may have to turn down his friend invitation.

I am not just worried about him finding out about me on Facebook, but I am worried about the personality he might develop there. What if my calm, even keeled husband loses his Dr. Jekyll persona to become an online Mr, Hyde. What if he starts bombarding me and everyone we know with lists of his five favorite books/movies/candy bars/deconstructionist thinkers? Or, even worse, the results of quizzes about what kind of shoe/bird/celebrity hooker he would be? My world would shatter. I think even Sally would hide her face behind her six toed paw.

Of course, now Ryan says he isn't actually going to get a Facebook page, and not just because I said I was thinking of blogging about it. He says that the school doesn't have a clear policy yet, and that he doesn't want to be inundated with students who could then link to me and others and find out just how nuts his life is.

God, I hope he never finds out about this blog.

The Children's Name Crusade

The other day I was listening to NPR (yes, I am that smart) and there was a piece about a young couple that were able to buy their first home because of the recession. They were happy about this because they had just had their first child. A boy. Named Brailey.

I actually had to go and look at the transcript to make sure I heard the name correctly. Then I had to look it up in all of the online baby name dictionaries. Turns out that the name Brailey has a storied history dating back back to 2007 and means "man who gets beaten up the schoolyard, and never gets laid." It was then that I found my new mission in life: to stop parents from giving their kids douchey names.

I first noticed the douche name phenomenon four years ago when people started naming their children after professions. Hunter, Forrester, Driver (spelled Dryvver, making him doubly screwed), Walker. I swear to god I heard a woman yelling for her child the other day calling him "Worker." I really hoped her other child was named "Management."

The names have only gotten worse since then, because they have not only gotten more obscure, but also more strangely spelled. Take for example the name Caden. On it's own, it seems to be the name of a boy even I could beat up. However, spelled Kayden, Kaiden, Caiden, Cayden, Kaidyn, Caideen, or Kaedyn, it is the name of a child who will need therapy, if only for the fact he will never be able to find a mug with his name on it.

Boys are not the only ones plagued by the bad name problem. Sophie may be name that is taking over the nation, but at least it is a name. The other day I wrote a piece where the child's name was Ovarie. The information I was given didn't say if she had siblings, or if one was named Testies, but I can only guess. Also, what about the names given to girls that just seem like whatever their mothers screamed out during birth? Symonoria. Annerderia. Shayronia. Yes, these are all real names. And all of these children should be allowed to sue their parents.

So, this is my new crusade in life. I am going to approach all pregnant women and make sure they are not giving their children dumb names. If they are, I will either turn them into CPS, or the Scientologists. After all, they accepted someone who named their child Suri. I have already started with the people I work with, who all responded that they like classic names. All of them looked a little scared while talking to me, but I think they were telling the truth.

As God as my witness I will never meet another Lavandarie or Bronco again.

Save A Fashion Victim

The economy is bad. We all know it. Oh, and you if don't know it, this must be the only thing you read on the Internet. While I appreciate your loyalty, I think you should branch out. Really though, things are not looking good on the financial front, and the retail sector is being extremely hard hit. In fact, according to the website 24/7 Wall Street more than a dozen well known companies could be out of business by the end of 2010. Now, normally I wouldn't care, I hate shopping and I enjoy watching people fail, but this time I am very concerned. You see, I could soon have to go naked -- all the time.

I, like most midgets, find it extremely hard to find clothing that fits me, that I like, and that doesn't make me look like a lesbian circus clown. After years and years of trying out different looks, dabbling in skirts, dresses, pants and, for one awful moment, jumpers, I found my perfect mix -- jeans and v-neck t-shirts. Yes, I know it sounds boring, but you would be amazed at how I can vary it, and make it seem like I am not wearing the exact same thing day after day. Different colors, different materials, slightly different styles, I use all of these to fool those around me, and make it appear like I have some sense of style. There are only two variables that never change: the jeans are from Old Navy, and the shirts are from Eddie Bauer. And both of those companies are on the list of companies most likely to fail.

Oh, and as if it weren't bad enough that my pants and shirts soon won't be available, 24/7 Wall Street says I won't even have shoes to wear! Yep, Crocs is expected to go out of business as well. I'm sure that will bring great joy to all of the fashionistas, and my sisters, but for me, a person with flat feet who is caused pain by every other pair of shoes I own, it's a tragedy. Yes, Crocs are ugly. Yes, they make every one who wears them look like the offspring of a Dutchman and a Smurf. Damnit though, they make me happy, and anything that makes me happy should be seen as a boon to mankind.

I am urging you, please, support these businesses. Buy something from Old Navy, even if it's just one of their crappy tank tops that only fit fetuses. Buy some Crocs, if only to burn them and send the pictures to "I Hate Crocs" websites. Do it for me. Do it for the economy. Do it for the children. Trust me, you really don't want them to see me naked.

The Only Way I Am Like Hitler

My upper lip is my greatest shame. Well, not my greatest shame, I can't actually write about that on this blog, but it is definitely in the top ten. You see, like a great number of women, I have a moustache, and I have been doing battle with it my entire adult life.

It started when I 13 and the first wiry hairs sprouted from my upper lip. Jolene cream bleach became my best friend. Every two weeks I would mix the cream and the power accelerant together on the little tablet, using the even littler spatula. Then I would put it on my lip and let it sit. And sit. And sit. After about three hours I would scrape the caked mess off my face, and check the results. They were never what I would call "good." I mean, the buzz from the fumes was great, but my hair usually stayed dark. I then decided it was time to stop bleaching my moustache, and start eradicating it altogether.

Over the years I have vacillated between waxing my lip, which is both painful and a kind of psychological torture (oh, yeah, 3-2-1 rip, that works), and using depilatory, which I think is how the government is getting rid of the left over Agent Orange from Vietnam. I would use one or the other until I did myself either emotional or physical harm. For instance, when I was in eighth grade I decided to use depilatory. It didn't work the first time, so I did it again. Oh, and I took off half of my skin. No, my moustache would not be noticed, but the large red blister in the shape of a moustache would. It was my mother who finally came up with the lie that saved me -- I am allergic to Strawberries. Yeah, but only in one place.

Like all hairy women I have been looking for an easy answer to the moustache conundrum all my life. And then, one night last month, I thought I saw it. Smooth Away. I was aghast that Europe had been hiding the fact I could simply buff away my unwanted hair, all while smiling and wearing a wrap around towel. Suddenly I understood the national hatred for the French. I wanted to know where I could buy it IMMEDIATELY! Then I saw it was only sold by phone and lost interest. After all, I would never be that drunk.

Destiny found me when I was helping Tara move to California. We were in a Rite Aid the size of the Superdome when I wandered through the Jesus figurines, flammable Hawaiian shirts, and buckets of Cheez(TM) balls and discovered the "as seen on TV aisle." There, right in the middle of it, calling to my like a siren, was Smooth Away. And it was only $9.99. I would have bought two if Tara wasn't sniggering.

In the commercial the women in the half towels smile as they easily buff the hair away from any body part that is too hirsute. Yeah, those bitches are on drugs. The only way they can smile while using the Smooth Away is if it is not actually touching their skin. After I was done using it, and actually getting hair off, I looked like a burn victim. You see, what they don't tell you is that to take the hair off to a suitable level, the skin has to come off also. Yes, I should have known that, but I still believe in magic and unicorns.

I have figured out why Smooth Away sells so many units though, even though it is like putting a sandblaster on your face: it comes with a vibrator. It is supposed to go in the hand held pad to "work hair from it's root." Yeah, the only thing it's going to do is work housewives from their sexual frustration. And at just $9.99, that's not a bad price.

Maybe I should just move to Greece... Gryos, and I would look like a hairless cat....

The Red Sea

For the first time in almost a decade, I am artificial hormone free. I mean, I am still drinking milk, eating food, and breathing, so I am sure I am sucking in some type of salmon estrogen, but what I mean is that for the first time in almost a decade I am not actively seeking to put them in my body. No birth control. No non-birth control. No shots. No pills. No creams. Ryan and I are taking a break from the insanity and letting my body get back into it's own groove. And grooving it is.

Honestly, re-discovering who I am without hormones is kind of like watching "The Wizard of Oz" with Spanish language overdubbing. I recognize it, and I know what is going on, but it's still foreign. For instance, I DON'T actually cry every time I feel frustrated. Now I just sit there, waiting for the tears to come, shocked by the sanity that fills me instead. I have to admit that at times it's disappointing. After all, tears help me get my way much faster.

There are some positives to letting my body do it's own thing. I hardly ever threaten to kill Ryan any more. And babies don't cry and people don't scream "unclean" as I approach due to the condition of the skin on my face. Also, I can fit in my jeans at all times of the month without the aid of duct tape and Crisco. There are other pluses too, but I can't really write about them on this semi-family friendly blog without fear of getting an NC-17 rating, or Ryan filing a restraining order against me. Let's just say... Yeah, I can't even say that.

I honestly wish this feeling could go on forever and ever. Oh, and the way things are going, it just might. As of Wednesday it will be EIGHT WEEKS since my last period. Noah's flood? Jesus' time in the desert? The coolness of jelly bracelets? All shorter. I am really worried I should notify FEMA when I finally feel the first twinge of cramps. Actually, I don't think I will have to notify them, as my groans and screams will rival those of Godzilla. Some say no one remembers pain. Those people are full of shit. I remember non-hormone-moderated menstrual cramps. I think they are being simulated for prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.

So, all of you who live in Utah? Now is the time to plan a trip. I think you have at least a week to get out of town. Of course, if you see dead frogs on the sidewalk, drop what you are doing, and GET THE FUCK OUT! Oh, and if you can't, at least try not to wear white. Or open toed shoes...

Only in L.A.

They have everything here, even bubble bath specially for people in the entertainment industry...

I Knew She Could Wear It Again

This is the dress Tara wore when she was a bridesmaid at my wedding. She found it in her storage unit and is now using it to torture me. Me, who helped her move her shit to California and bought her the "I love Beaver" bracelet.

Next time she and Kent move I am scheduling unnecessary abdominal surgery...

Utah's Best Named City

Fresh Hash

Tara has been here since Tuesday, which means I have been doing little else but going to work, helping her sort through stuff, drinking wine, and sleeping. Oh, I have also been battling a migraine, but that's not funny, so you probably don't care. I know I wouldn't. Tonight Tara is down in Utah County visiting her family and dyeing Easter eggs, so I have some time to sit and ramble on-line. So, ramble I will. Let's have some Libby Logic hash, shall we?

• Yesterday I came into work to discover a co-worker with a new very short haircut. "How's chemo going?" I asked. Turns out he actually has cancer. Not the bad, Lifetime movie of the week, let's have a fun run type, but cancer nonetheless. He had to shave his head to have it removed. Yeah, I'm sensitive.
• Ryan and I have started looking into adoption, and this week visited our first batch of agencies. I called my Mom after the first one, and she asked how it went. "Great," I replied, "They just have an enormous box of babies under the desk. It's so cute the way they wrestle." She was not amused.
  
• We are all very amused by Luke's continued crush on Tara. On Tuesday we stopped by my Mom's house to say hello, and Luke insisted that she watch him on the swing. Then he insisted I pick him up at school the next day. I told him sure, that Tara would be working at the storage shed, so I would have time. "If Tara won't be with you," he said, "Grandma can come get me."
  
• Cleaning out Tara's storage unit was one of the most disgusting, dirty things I have ever done. We opened the door to find an enormous dead black widow. Then I walked through the web and it ended up on the toe of my boot. I had to run around in circles shrieking and kicking at air for at least 30 seconds before it came off. Did Tara help? Does laughing count?
• People in the newsroom love free food, but I have never seen anyone who loves it more than one guy on our crew. Whenever anything is brought in he does what I like to call the "doughnut dance." He takes his first one, and then finds all kinds of reasons just to stand around it. When he thinks no one is looking, he snags another. I think this could be classified as sneaky -- if he wasn't seven feet tall and the most conspicuous person in the world. Really, the only way he could be more noticeable is if he painted himself purple. Of course, then he would get paint on the doughnuts, and no one wants that.

Hmmm. That was delicious. Not bitter at all, like the fact that Megan McCain just landed a six figure book deal, or that Amy Pohler is making bank on an "Office" spin off that sucks. Those are topics for another time though...

Stay tuned tomorrow, as Libby Logic goes on the road. The long, long road of taking Tara's shit to L.A.

Tara Ruins Everything

I really was planning to blog this week, even with my self-imposed Internet ban. That was my plan. Of course, as with all good plans, I didn't take all of the unforeseen problems into consideration. Yep, that's right, Tara is coming into town.

You see, she and Kent recently bought a house in California, which means it is time for her to finally clear out the storage unit of doom. I am not sure what is in there, even though I helped her fill it three years ago. I think it's mostly summer clothes, exercise equipment, and evil. Whatever it is, soon it will be filling the closets of her new home, and not collecting dust and racking up rent in Salt Lake. While that is a glorious fact, and I am glad Tara and her crap will soon be reunited, all of that stuff isn't going to get into the U-Haul and take itself to California on it's own volition. I just hope Tara doesn't think I am going to help... I mean, other than with snarky remarks and the occasional coffee run. Oh, and I'll ride int he truck with her, but only if I can nap.

So, for the next few days blog posts will be sparse if here at all. Yes, there may be some drunk Twitters about Tara's Mom, but other than that, I wouldn't expect to hear from me. I have asked my Mom and sisters if they would like to guest blog and, depending on how insulting or profane their posts are, I may put them up.

Oh, and if anyone is in Salt Lake, has their own grocery store back brace thing and lots of time on their hands, drop me a line. I'm sure Tara will appreciate it.

Unplugged

I do not remember a time when I couldn't read. Honestly, I feel like I have had a book in my hands, or on my bedside for every day of my life. Yes, there have been times that I have burned out, or been turned off my a particularly bad read ("Da Vinci Code," anyone?), taken a few days off, and only read short stories and magazines. However, even in those times, I have always had a book that I want to read in the back of my mind. Until now. I blame the Internet.

It used to be that I would come home from work, and read. I would just fall into a book and not come out until Ryan got home or the house lit on fire. It wouldn't matter how convoluted, or boring, a book was, I would dive in, and I would finish it. Now I don't do that though. If a book isn't working out, I put it down, pick up my computer, and search Buzz Feed for the latest inane website about sandwiches, or videos of kittens scaring babies. Today I finally gave up on reading "Blindness" by Saramago and instead looked at a website entitled "Awkward Boners." I don't think this is good for me.

For the next week I am going to limit my Internet consumption, and try to read things that are more than 140 characters long on a regular basis. I will, obviously, be online for work, and to blog, but other than that I am turning the computer off. I will use my Blackberry as a phone, but will limit Twitter, and avoid it totally when with other people. Oh, and I will pick up a book. Or maybe even two. After all, the Internet may be great, but I need to reconnect with my first love: Books.

I think this will not only be good for me, and the publishing industry, but also for the people who read this blog. Yes, all 7.2 million of you. Detaching myself from the Internet will give me time to find a new things to write about. Just imagine how many things are out there that would piss me off, but I don't know about them because I am too busy looking at videos of deer using cat doors, and reading blogs about people who hate cute animals.

Really, this will be great. If it isn't? There will be a week's worth of fresh Internet hell waiting for me at the end of it. And all of it will be consumed until my eyes bleed, and I forget the meaning of the word book.

Rhymes With Smashina

There are lots of things that make me think about my friend Jane. Drinking beer in the summer. Making snarky remarks about people from high school. Any song written by David Byrne. Oh, and the word vagina. Never before, or since, have I met anyone who loved, and used, that word so much. Even Eve Ensler would have told her to give it a rest.

Jane was not afraid to ask anyone about the state of their vagina, or discuss the status of hers. Oh, and she loved discussing what our vaginas should or should not be doing. In the weeks before my wedding she drove me absolutely nuts asking about my vaginal preparations for the big day. Was my vagina nervous? Did my vagina know what to expect? What was my vagina wearing? At one point the vagina talk got so prevalent that I told Jane if she said it one more time she was out of my wedding. She then started referring to it as my coochie. Damn semantics.

Why am I bringing this up? No, no because I am trying to horn in on the Bloggess' territory, but because of this website. And this dress. Vaginas are everywhere right now! Vaginas are the new black! Jane would have been so proud to see her pioneering vagina awareness campaign finally being played out in the mainstream press. I like to think of each of the stories as yet another vagina miracle, getting her a step closer to vagina sainthood. I mean, if that actually exists. Maybe I should write the Vatican. They really are more peniscentric though. I mean, just look at the Pope's hat.

I guess some would say it would be nicer if every time I saw a flower, or a hummingbird, I thought of Jane. What would the fun in that be though? I guess they would both be more acceptable memorial tattoos, but that's about it. And I probably wouldn't miss someone who made me think of hummingbirds or flowers near as much as I miss Jane.

LibbyLogic Hash

It's April Fools Day, which means that anything I write today will be seen as a joke. I mean, most of things I write are jokes, but what if today is the one day I have something really important to say? What if today is the day I want to take a stand against illiteracy, or genocide, or men who wear tank tops without irony? It won't matter, because everyone will just think it's a joke. So, because I don't want to waste me time with a long, thought out post (you know, more than 140 characters), I'm just going to throw together some of the random events/thoughts from my life as of late. These are perfect for those of you who are really drunk and can't follow a long story.... You know, most of you.

• Today was Hawaiian shirt day at work. Of course, it was also 30 degrees outside, which meant few were wearing tropic attire. One of the managers came through the newsroom asking people why they weren't decked out, and specifically questioned my friend Irinna, who is Polynesian. Her reply? "Every shirt I wear is Hawaiian. I mean, once I put it on."
  
• I was looking for a birthday card today when I came across one in the 99 cent section that said "Happy Birthday. May this day bring you as much joy as you deserve." I had no idea Hallmark had gotten so passive aggressive.
  
• I keep all kinds of granola bars in my desk to keep me from eating out of the vending machine or patronizing the hated Carriage Cafe. Recently, I added Planter's Peanut Bars to the mix. Yesterday my Dad called me (yes, I work with my Dad) and asked me to come into his office, and bring a peanut bar with me. I did, and asked him what he wanted as I sat down. "Nothing," he replied, "I just wanted a peanut bar and wanted to see if I could get you to bring it to me."
• Speaking of my Dad, it always takes people a while to figure out we are related. Recently a co-worker was looking at my blog posts about New York and came across a picture of my parents. "Libby," she said, "how long has Tommy been dating your Mom?" I told her they had been going steady for about 38 years, but they weren't really serious.
  
• Ryan is currently teaching World Religions, and discovered that ancient Greeks had 120 holidays a year. This is why I have built a large statute of Zeus in our backyard. Scoff if you must, but religious freedom is a right in this country, not a privilege.
  

Happy, now? Good. Tomorrow I will be back with treatises on war and Capri pants. Because really, aren't Capri pants the true cause of war? Think about it.

April, Ugh

I hate the month of April. I know, I know, that is probably going to piss of everyone born in April, and I am sorry. It is not your fault your birth month sucks. If it makes you feel any better I was born in August, which is pretty much universally acknowledged as the sweaty ass crack of the calendar year. But we aren't talking about August. We are talking about April, and why it sucks.

Just look at the way April starts: with April Fool’s Day. The month is just setting you up for a prolonged misery with a day of lame and/or hurtful jokes that are all excused with the words “April Fools!” Yet, if you punch the jokester in the face, you can’t use the same rationale to get out of assault charges. How fair is that? Not fair at all. Thanks a lot, April.

I am always either too hot or too cold in April, no matter what I am wearing. A cute blouse and shorts? Freezing. A cute blouse, shorts, and a sweater? Boiling. I spend the entire month alternating between being covered in goose bumps or sweat. Neither is attractive.

Oh, and what about the colors associated with April? This may be all in my head (many things are), but isn’t April all about pastel yellow and tangerine orange? It’s like the whole month is an ad for 70’s bridesmaid dresses.

Taxes are due in April. Now really, who likes taxes? I mean, besides homo, baby hating, Atheist Democrats. And they don’t count.

The final indignity of April? The birthstone is the diamond. Yeah, April, the month that leaves me covered with sweat, unable to find a decent colored spring dress, and the butt of jokes, gets diamonds. What does August get? Peridot. Yes, a stone colored like bile. Well, at least no one gets their hands chopped off for trying to steal them. The diamond miners in Sierra Leone must hate April more than I do.

No, I take it back. That isn’t possible. Wake me when it’s May.