Gloating Is Not Pretty

I WON! I WON! I WON! As of this morning I have 50 followers! I emailed Kim to tell her about my victory, and after some discussions about Florida and butterfly ballots we agreed that the win is legitimate.

I want to thank all the little people, specifically the troupe of midgets I hired to put fliers on people's cars outside of the gun show. I think getting the NRA vote really pushed me over the top. I also want to thank God for taking time out from his busy schedule of helping athletes and movie stars to follow my blog. Oh, and I want to thank Kim. She is a worthy adversary, and if you are not already following Yellow Trash Diaries you really should be. She is hilarious. And now you can follow her without feeling like a traitor...

So, now under the terms of the bet, Kim either has to write a post about how awesome I am, or the subject of my choosing... So many, many things to consider. Any suggestions?

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Walking the Dog

I am taking time out of my contest with Kim in order to write something that doesn't seem like a desperate plea to get people to like me. I mean, yes, I am still desperate, but I have cute dog pictures to post. That trumps my insecurity.

Yesterday was the annual "Strut Your Mutt" fundraiser here in Salt Lake, which is why, if you went anywhere near Sugarhouse Park, you got poop on your shoes. The event is pretty much just a very big walk, and then a fair where every manner of pet product is pimped out. For instance, did you know there is such a thing as dog ice cream? It's true. And we wonder why foreigners hate America.

Many of the teams, or "dog packs," chose to dress up their animals, since, as with all good charity events, there was a costume contest, and a owner/dog look alike contest, complete with prizes. As if the dog ice cream didn't make us look bad enough. I chose not to dress up Sally, since I only like to humiliate her around the holidays. So, as we walked around the park both Sally and I got some good laughs...

Pink bandana. This dog got off easy.

These dogs did not.

These dogs are probably in a mah jong league.

These people decided to spare their dog, and humiliate their baby.

This guy decided to take the hit for his dogs.

Yes, this dog is painted. I am not showing her face to save some of her dignity.

The best team t-shirts.

The reason dogs will eventually rise up and kill us all.

I am so glad I was wearing closed toe shoes. Next year? Well, I have already promised Sally we will practice checkbook charity and just make a donation...

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SHE'S PULLING AHEAD!!!

C'mon people, Kim is winning in the first to fifty followers contest! You know what happens if she wins, don't you? Yeah, I don't either, but I'm sure it's pretty bad. And that's why I have to pull out the big guns. I wasn't going to make this public, but this is an email Kim sent me soon after she started her blog...

Hi Libby!

My name is Kim, or at least that's what I am going by on the Internet. I can't really use my real name because of all the warrants out for my arrest. Don't worry, I didn't do anything bad, I mean, most of the people I killed had it coming to them. I mean, they didn't REALLY expect me to wait 45 minutes for a table at IHOP did they?

So, this blog thing is pretty cool. I'm hoping I can use it to increase traffic to my Amway, Mary Kay, and Xango sites. Also, I really want to get people more interested in Scientology. I figure I'll just send endless mass emails to anyone who follows my blog, not stopping until they either give up on the Internet, or submit to my will.

Well, I have to get going. My neighbor's cat isn't going to kill itself!

In the name of Xenu,

Kim

Now do you see why you should follow me? Just remember, if I get to 50 followers first, everyone gets ice cream. And a kitten. And a faster metabolism.

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The Greatest Battle The World Has Ever Known

So, Kim is stepping up the blogger follower contest rhetoric. I only skimmed what she wrote, because I was busy getting a massage and a pedicure from two very muscular, very intelligent men, but it seems like she may be getting desperate. I would pity her if it didn't make me want to crush her more. So, just remember that if you follow me you are following the blog of truth, justice, and sarcasm, and if you follow her blog you are all for kids shooting heroin in grade school, and the comeback of Hammer pants. Think I am kidding? Take a look at a few of her followers...


Do you really want to hang out with these people? I thought not. So, follow me, and we will make the blogopshere great again. Follow Kim, and you are dead to me.

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Another Helping of Hash

I don't know what it is about summer, but my brain just turns to mush, almost like the heat has slightly poached it. I find it hard to concentrate, and even harder to put together a sentence, much less a paragraph. Luckily, the news in the summer takes a hiatus, since policy makers and criminals also find it too hot to do anything. So, that just leaves this blog. This big, empty, gaping, maw of a blog. And what to do with such a maw? Throw some Libby Logic hash at it.

• The other day I was writing a story about the large number of refugees being forced into camps in Pakistan. You know, an uplifting story that doesn't at all make you question if humans should eat their young. I thought I wrote that they were running out of "food and firewood." That's what I thought I wrote -- at least until my anchor came to ask me about the script. "Why are they giving the refugees fireworks," she asked. I replied the only way I could. "Well, they're refugees," I said, "they need something to take their minds off the situation."
• I believe I have figured out how Ikea picks names for their products -- blog comment word verification. For instance just today I encountered "liess," "scrotea," and "kyvertia" when leaving comments on blogs. I think I looked at all three styles of those lamps on my last trip to the big blue temple of Allen wrenches.
  
• Speaking of blogs, Kim over at Yellow Trash Diaries has challenged me to a contest -- whoever gets 50 followers first wins. Now, Kim is very funny, and a very good writer, but I think you should all know that she is a foreigner. In fact, she's Korean. Yes, she hasn't been in Korea for like, 30, 35 years, and she is an "official" citizen of the U.S., but I am pretty sure that if you follow her you are supporting Kim Jung Ill having nuclear weapons. Oh, and his wearing of pantsuits... Also, I think you should know I have proof she once punched a dolphin.
• Ever since I got my Blackberry Ryan has been insufferable, referring to it as my "boyfriend." Well, now he's entered the world of electronic dating too. Her name is Kindle. Ryan has always been an avid reader, but he favors esoteric titles like "How Penguins Impact Fossil Fuel Development," which take six to eight weeks to ship, so there are times when he is not buried in a book. With the Kindle though, he can get these books instantly. I am hoping he looks up before our soon to be child turns eight, or his head explodes due to an overload of knowledge about Icelandic feudal politics.
  
• I love this picture. I can't help it. every time I see it I spit milk out my nose, even if I am not drinking milk. I really wish I had been clever enough to think of it.
  

Argh. Okay, my attention is waning, and my glass of wine is getting low. This weekend I plan to lay in a kiddie pool filled with ice and and Smirnoff ice, and hopefully get my brain cool enough to think, and blog again. Until then, join the Libby Logic army and become a follower. I am just hoping one of us gets to 50 before the smack talk gets ugly... or the Internet is replaced with telepathy.

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We Interupt This Program...

For a migraine... And a (Ryan) school engagement. Libby Logic will return tomorrow at it's normal time, but for now enjoy this special presentation...



Don't you feel young again?

You're welcome.

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How Adoption Works*

Our nieces and nephews are all very aware of the fact we are planning to adopt a baby, and all of them are very excited about the idea of a new cousin. They are even more excited though, because this baby is not coming "the old fashioned" way. They have had pregnant aunts, and Moms before, so they know how that works, but adoption is a whole new ball game, with a whole new set of expectations, and misconceptions.

Luke, for instance, seems to think that adoption is a sort of baby pizza delivery service -- you tell them exactly what they want and they bring it to your door. He has already told me several times that he would prefer a boy, because he has "way too many girl cousins." He also would like a baby that doesn't cry, and that likes to be outside, preferably to swim. Shaylee is also a proponent of the pizza delivery adoption model, but, of course, she wants the exact opposite of what Luke wants. She wants a girl baby, which will not mind being lugged around and dressed in doll clothes. I mean, she hasn't specifically said the doll clothes thing, but I can see it in her crafty little face. Also, I've seen her try to dress her cat.

Amaya looks at adoption as more of a Home Depot. She thinks that somewhere in the Salt Lake valley there is a large warehouse where all the babies are kept, and we just need to go pick one up. I explained to her that, no, that is not quite how it works, and that we need to wait for a birthmother to pick us, and for a baby to be born. It was then that she suggested we go for an older child, since she had seen commericals for those on TV. I explained that even for an older child we would have to wait, since a lot of paperwork would need to be done. She asked how long the paperwork would take. I told her at least two weeks. "Might as well wait for a baby," she said.

I really don't know how the kids will react when the baby actually gets here. I mean, I know they will be excited, but I also know it will be a big adjustment for them. First of all, their new cousin will most likely be African American, so there will be no cooing over how he/she looks like all of them. Then, there will be the fact that this baby will have another Mom. I know there will be questions about that. After all, they all live with their Moms, why doesn't our baby live with his/hers? I like to think that answering their questions now will help us prepare for when we have to answer the questions of our child later. I am hoping that we can do it with a mix of love, honesty and humor.

It would be cool though if they baby was delivered in 30 minutes or less and came with a side of crazy bread. I love that stuff.

*Not really.

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Soooo Lazy...

I am wrapping up the Memorial Day weekend, in which I did none of the spring cleaning I was going to do, by ignoring the blogging I should be doing now. However, I don't want to leave you with nothing, so here is an oldie but goodie. Originally published in April of 2007, enjoy "The Pile."

Each year in Salt Lake there is a city wide clean-up. This means that all residents can put any amount of junk on the curb in front of their house and the city will come and haul it away. It also means that for the two weeks leading up to the clean-up any number of people can be seen scavenging off the piles of trash. Just this weekend alone I saw someone loading up a couch, and another group helping themselves to a discarded toilet. There are also a number of families who make the scavenging a bonding opportunity. Seriously. I saw Mom, Dad, Grandpa and what looked like twelve kids out cruising up and down the streets looking for a new entertainment center. All they needed was a little old lady tied to a rocking chair on top of their car -- and they could have been a sitcom. The city has tried to discourage the trash pickers -- and even had one point had cops patrolling during the clean-up writing tickets. But that just forced the scavengers to work under the cover of night -- like raccoons.

This is the first year Ryan and I have put out anything for clean-up -- mainly because for the past two years we have totally spaced it and not put anything out until two days after the trucks came. And then it was just littering. But this year we were on the ball -- and we had blackberry bushes to destroy.

When we first moved into the house we loved the blackberry bushes. With the pond and the cherry tree, the rhubarb and the herbs it was like we had moved into Eden. But, slowly over the past two years to blackberry bushes have taken over, destroying the rhubarb, the herb plants and moving dangerously close to the cherry tree. And blackberry vines are not something you can just go and pull out. They have barbs, big barbs, and the vines are made from something slightly stronger than titanium. Yet, three weeks ago Ryan decided no blackberry bush was going to push him around and bravely went into the backyard. I went to the local church to light a candle. For the next fourteen days Ryan did battle, coming into the house covered in dirt, with aching muscles and any number of scratches. And of course all the scratches itched like crazy because they were filled with bramble tips. Those bushes were not going down without a fight. I thought about telling Ryan to quit and we would hire someone, or that we could light the bushes on fire, anything so that he wouldn't get hurt any more -- and I wouldn't have to help.

After two weeks Ryan was triumphant in tearing out all the bushes -- and we gained a good three feet to our yard. But now we had a problem. The clean-up crews don't come into your backyard. We had to move this giant pile of vines -- to the front of the house. And I still didn't want to help. I was about to play the "I will eventually carry our child" card when Ryan volunteered to do it. Sucker. I bought him a tarp and this entire weekend he has loaded the beaten bushes onto it and dragged them out to the street. The finished result is a sight to behold.

That is a nice pile...

If you didn't know any better you would think a whole team of beavers had been working round the clock to build that thing. Now, I just have to sit on the front porch to make sure some bandit doesn't come by looking for a whole bunch of really sharp sticks....

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I Care About Their Names

This evening Ryan and I were doing yard work, because we are old and that is what we do on Saturday nights before settling down in front of the television to watch a Matlock DVD and drink Postum. He was mowing the lawn and I was mucking out the pond for what feels like the 40,000 time. He was finishing up, so he turned off the lawnmower and took out his earphone to talk to me.

Ryan: How is that going?
Me: Fine. The fish seem really happy.
Ryan: How do you know?
Me: They told me their names. The two orange ones are Jean and Claude and the spotty one is Vandamme.
Ryan: (putting earphone in) This is intentional.

How rude.

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Commentary

To lurk, or not to lurk? That is the question.

When I started this blog it wasn't because I wanted to meet people. I wanted to do something to get the news business out of my head at the end of the day. I remembered that I used to be a pretty good writer, and able to craft entire paragraphs without once using the words "Iraq," "allegedly," "deficit," or "homicide charges." I mean, I do use those words on this blog, but in a totally different context, and usually not all at once. I meant it to be a way to make my family and friends laugh, and keep them up to date on the child I was sure we were about to have (oh, the sweet, painful irony).

Over time I started going out and reading other people's blogs, but never commenting. I never really saw a point. Most of the blogs I was reading had thousands of people commenting, and most of them were doing nothing except fawning over or disparaging the writer. And the writers of these blogs didn't really seem to care about the commenters, unless they were offering free stuff, or could be held up as and pilloried for saying something mean. They weren't conversations I wanted to be a part of. Well, actually, they weren't conversations at all.

Then I started branching out, following links, and eventually, I guess, found "my people." Yes, they are out there, and not all of them are under the strict supervision of a doctor. Out of the millions of blogs out there I found people who write interesting, funny, intelligent, and bizarre things that sparked my interest and made me want to speak up. So I did. And now I worry that I should shut up.

You see, I have become a kind of "comment junkie" in recent months. I say something about everything, and some times I comment before I have even finished the post (I think in the blog world that is the same as cutting someone off mid-sentence, oh, except then the comment just looks dumb, especially if they have addressed your remark in the rest of the post that you didn't read). There are posts that I have even commented twice on. Now, of course, I think that every comment I leave is an absolute gem, filled with humor, and maybe just a little bit of wisdom. However, now I am beginning to worry I am like the party guest no one invited, and just tolerated with a nod and a grimace.

Do I have any reason to believe this? No. Has anyone politely asked me not to comment on their blog? Or to only comment after taking a breathalyzer? No. Still I worry about it, the same way I worry in the summer that my deodorant has stopped working and no one wants to tell me because my stench is keeping them at arm's length.

Of course, now that I out of the lurking closet, I can't go back in. No one can delurk. They can pout, and take their ball and go home, but they can't delurk. While I can pout with the best of them (really, ask Ryan, I DO hold my breath) I think pouting on the Internet, where no one can see me is probably pretty pointless. Of course, I could set up a webcam, and buy the domain name Libbyispouting.com, and maybe become the next Internet sensation like David at the Dentist, or porn. If I took my top off I bet I definitely could. I mean, I've never really blogged about it, but my boobs are magnificent. Really, my best feature.

I lost myself. What was this post about? I know it was serious at one point.

Oh yeah! It's time for all of you out there reading and not commenting to delurk! I did it, and now you have to do it too. Let your people know where you are. And make me feel better by leaving comments so unabashedly banal, obscene, or nonsensical that I feel like Dickens! Better yet, leave a comment you wanted to leave on someone else's blog, but couldn't (if they are mean just let me know they aren't really meant for me). I declare this comment freedom day!

Go!

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Kids Should Lie More

Over the weekend my sister-in-law got married. Since I am not like most Utahns and think a wedding calls for more than just "fancy jeans" I decided to wear a dress, and heels, do my hair and (gasp) wear make-up. I felt like I was wearing a huge hideous mask and kept asking Ryan if I looked like Tammy Faye. My 4-year old niece had a different opinion about my use of cosmetics...
Shaylee: Libby, your lips look so shiny.

Me: I have on lipstick.
Shaylee: Your eyes look so big
Me: I have on mascara.
(By now I was starting to get a Red Riding Hood vibe, and was afraid my darling little niece was about to turn into a creepy Swedish vampire creature, but I didn't let on)
Shaylee: You just look so different. You look so... so... so... pretty.
(Yes, I was a little taken aback, but I thought to myself that she is only four, and that decking a flower girl is not proper wedding etiquette. However, I couldn't just let it go.)
Me: Well, don't I normally look pretty?
Shaylee: You normally look like Libby.

Ouch. While the remark did sting, it gave me a great ides for a new career path. I am going to sell Mary Kay. However, instead of reeling clients in by offering them a free facial, I am just going to bring along my associate Shaylee to tell them what they really look like without make-up.

I see a pink Cadillac in my future.

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They Are Called Pot Stickers For A Reason

Last night our neighbors in the duplex next to us had a potluck dinner where they rolled sushi, and asked everyone to bring an appetizer. Yeah, I think you see the trap. They roll out beautiful sushi, look like the perfect hosts, and then later get to laugh at the crappy little of plates of crap the neighbors produced. Ryan says I am being too cynical and paranoid. Ryan believes in unicorns.

In the past for parties such as these I have done what I do best and bought something, usually a dessert. But this time I decided I wanted to make something, or at least bring something that it looked like I sort of cooked, instead of just snapping the lid off a container of hummus. And then it came to me -- pot stickers. Who doesn't like pot stickers? They go perfectly with Asian food, look really fancy, and even have a fancy ethnic name -- "gyoza." The bag promised that the prep was "simple" and "only took ten minutes." The bag sits on a throne of lies.

At first tings seemed to be going well. Two tablespoons of oil? Check. A single layer of pot stickers? Check? Browning? Check. The bag said if I wanted the pot stickers not to stick to the pan not to move them around. That didn't make any sense to me, but I figured the person who wrote the instructions wasn't an idiot and probably had made pot stickers before, so I left them alone. I poured in the water to let them steam, and walked away.

When I returned it looked like everything was going well. The water was evaporating, and the gyoza were plumping up. Sure, it was taking closer to 20 minutes, but I blamed that on the whole "high altitude" thing. I let them go and two minutes later went back to find the water all gone -- and the dumplings stuck to the pan like barnacles.

I began to rage.

I figured the best way to get the dumplings out of the plan was to scream and slam the pan around. Oh, and threaten to go out and buy another appetizer, a better appetizer, to replace them. Surprisingly, none of these tactics worked. The dumplings stayed so stuck that they didn't even move when I inverted the pan over the sink in a histrionic attempt to rid myself them forever.

During my fit (there really is no other way to describe it) Ryan stood in the corner saying soothing things and trying to make the situation better. I reacted by asking him please not to talk, or touch the pans, or do anything other than insult pot stickers and whoever came up with the ludicrous idea to stuff meat into dough and pan fry it. I know, I can't believe I was saying such insane things either. How could I insult doughy goodness?

When I finally calmed down and stepped away from the pan Ryan stepped in to do damage control. First of all, he got out a spatula (why didn't I think of that) and started gently working under the dumplings with it. It was like he turned into MacGuyver before my eyes. While most of the dumplings were coming up not quite whole, they were still coming up, and Ryan was placing them very carefully damaged side down on a plate so wouldn't see the holes from where the dough had become one with the pan.

Of course there were some dumplings that were not going to make it. When Ryan touched them with the spatula they just clung tighter, until they exploded in ribbons of dough around a meatball. The meatballs went to Sally, and Ryan and I split the dough. Eating oily dough out of pan almost calmed my rage, but not quite. To make up for the lacking dumplings Ryan got out two very artful containers to fill with the gyoza sauce, and Thai chili sauce, and placed them on the plate so it didn't look like we had only cooked half a portion of food.

On the way over to the party (all 15 steps) I told Ryan at least we would have a funny story to tell about our misadventures with pot stickers. And I figured that my misstep could be seen as a hostess gift for our perfect party hosts. However, because of his kitchen magic, not one even noticed there was anything wrong. Actually, a couple people commented on how good they were, and how well they went with the sushi. I don't even think the hostesses noticed anything was wrong.

Next time though? I'm going with hummus.

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David Copperfield Bores Even Himself

David Copperfield is creepy. Oh, and I am pretty sure he has spray on hair.

I am not going to explain how it came to pass that yesterday I went to see David Copperfield perform. Let's just say the tickets were free, I had nothing better to do, and there was a certain amount of whining on the parts of both Luke and Ryan. Whatever. So, there I was, sitting in the midst of grannies and geeks, at David Copperfield's "Grand Illusion" tour. However it probably should have been called "David Copperfield: Narcissist." You see, every moment of the show was dedicated to how "great" David Copperfield is. As people were filing in a power point presentation played listing all of his accomplishments. Did you know that David Copperfield is the only living magician to appear on a postage stamp? Yeah, it's was in New Guinea, and they have been known to put odd shaped potatoes on stamps, but he still is pretty proud of himself. Then, the show started with a montage of pretty much any time his name has been mentioned in television or film EVER. After watching it I understood that David Copperfield may have a high self-esteem, but he has no sense of when sarcasm or mocking are being employed.

The show itself was pretty interesting, although it was pretty obvious that David Copperfield had been doing it long enough that he just didn't care. He made a motorcycle appear. He moved through a steel plate. He made a car appear. He made a piece of paper dance. He made people disappear. He did a card trick with a scorpion. He made a duck disappear and reappear. And he did every one of these tricks with a sneer. This is when the show should have been called "David Copperfield: Give me my check, you Rubes." When he came out into the audience it was pretty obvious what he wanted, chicks with low cut tank tops who thought he was wonderful. I don't think they noticed he was looking down their tops the whole time, but I sure did. He also picked people who had been planted in the audience. You could definitely tell who they were because they acted less interested in the entire thing than he did.

The best part of the show for me was just getting to look at David Copperfield up close. I am guessing that Claudia Schiffer sucked out anything attractive about him when they broke up, because now he looks like a cross between a the crypt keeper and the Sham-Wow guy. Remember about ten years ago when Ron Popeil sold that spray on hair? I think David Copperfield bought out the stock. It doesn't even really look like hair. It's more like black cotton candy. Every time he did a trick with fire I feared for us all. And his overall demeanor is snake like. I'm sure he's trying to come off as mysterious and devil may care, but instead it just comes across as condescending and possibly contagious.

The fact that Luke loved the show made it all worth while. Of course, Luke also thought it was cool when I stood behind Ryan so it looked like it had four arms, so his bar is set pretty low. Well, and I got a blog and few good jokes out of it. At least I think I did... Maybe this is all just an ILLUSION!!!

No? Well, is THIS your card?

It isn't? Hmmm.

Wanna see Ryan with four arms?

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House Hunting Horrors

Every young couple has that day when they venture out into the world of real estate to buy their first home, and then retreat in horror after seeing the shit that is for sale. When Ryan and I first started looking for a home four years ago we started out with such high hopes -- that vanished after the first three houses we saw. We were almost positive we were either going to have to sell our kidneys, or settle on a home with slanting floors, shag carpet and "wood" paneling. It was like a miracle when we finally found our house. When Tara and Kent were looking for a home last year they were pretty sure they were either going to have to take a two bedroom (they wanted three), or move into a neighborhood where bars on the windows aren't just a fashion statement. Eventually though, they found the house perfect for them, just like we did.

Now it is my friend Lesli's turn to find a home, and she is facing the same horrors Tara and I, and all other house hunters have faced. However, unlike us, she took along a camera, and a sense of humor. So, Lesli, take it away and show us what you found...

This was pretty much a ginormous wood cabin in the middle of residential Orem.

Smelled like a sauna on the outside and a brewery on the inside.

This bedroom is where they kept the bad kids. Why else would they move the door handle so high?

I'm going to take a wild guess they did their ironing in this room.

Besides the beer cans in every room, there was a much more "tasteful" display of "vintage" alcohol bottles here.
Can you say "White Trash"?

A former in-ground trampoline pit, or should I say, child death-trap.

Don't bother doing laundry before you show the home or anything.

This room was made for me!

If the Jim Carey autograph comes with the house I'm sold!

A FULL LENGTH SUPER WIDE mirror IN THE SHOWER!! I don't know what's scarier,
the thought of looking at myself naked everyday or washing the stupid thing.

Industrial soap dispenser in the bathroom. Why didn't I think of that?

Industrial toilet paper dispenser. Now we're talking!

It's nice to know that while the housing market may fluctuate, the quality of the houses do not. There will always be an abundance of "fixer uppers" available that really should be called "tearer downers." And they will always be shown to young couples in the hopes they will fall for the delusion that a crap house is all they can afford. Hang in there, Lesli, there are better homes out there, and your perfect home is out there. Oh, and once you find it, Ryan and I have a ton of "vintage" wine bottles you can have to class up the place...

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Jesus Loves Ellen

There is nothing very funny or interesting about me right now. My depression and anxiety have gotten the best of me as of late and it is all I can do to breathe without crying, much less be entertaining for millions of readers the world over. I don't know if it is the adoption process that is getting to me, or a nasty e-mail I received earlier in the week, or PMS, but whatever it is, I just can't shake it. So, since I am busy being the Martha Stewart of pity parties, I figure I can either promise you all five dollars to keep reading, or I can I tell you a story about someone who is always funny and interesting -- my Mom, Ellen. Yeah, that's better than money...

My Mom was raised in a Catholic family, which meant as soon as she was old enough to understand the pain of a ruler smack she was shipped off to Catholic school. The children that do best in Catholic school are the ones that are quiet and docile, that love rules, and crave order, and that believe if they step out of line Jesus will barbecue their soul for all eternity. My mother was not one of these children, and so was constantly in trouble from the time she first entered school, until the day she was kicked out. I think she probably always knew the day was coming, but no one had any idea how spectacular her exit would be.

The school my Mom attended was called St. Mary's of the Wasatch, was run by a bunch of nuns, and guarded over by a large bronze statue of Jesus with his arms outstretched on the back field. By the time Ellen was a student the school was in it's last days, about to be sold and replaced with expensive homes. Almost every part of it was in disrepair, including the Jesus statue, which has lost a hand to Utah's harsh winters freezing the metal over and over again. Nowhere in the bible had my Mother read about Jesus only having one hand, so she decided to help a savior out -- by making him a hook.

The way she tells the story, making the hook was a breeze, but getting it on was the hard part. The statue was at least eight feet tall, and she, like me, is a midget. She had to climb up into Jesus' arms in order to place it, with her friend Jenny pushing her up and holding her legs. Of course, once she was up there, and the hook was placed, my Mom didn't want all of her hard work to go to waste, so she asked Jenny to take a picture of her. Jenny ran back into the school to get her camera, and Ellen waited there with Jesus, contemplating her awesomeness.

Then the nuns came out.

Ellen looked up into Jesus' face and said "if you have ever done a miracle, please do it now."

My Mom says that it took her thirty minutes to get up into the statue's arms, and it took the nuns thirty seconds to get her down. She doesn't remember a lot after that, except that her locker was cleaned out, her father was called, and the housekeeper came to pick her up. The next week she started at the public high school down the hill.

She didn't last at that school either, but that's a story for another time. No wonder she is such an excellent teacher, because there is nothing any kid can do that she doesn't done before, and done more spectacularly, so she sees no bad kids. They all have value in her eyes, and they feel that. Oh, and they love her stories.

Wow, I am actually feeling better now. Thanks, Mom.

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WARNING: CUTE DOG POST

Really I am not kidding. There are pictures of ridiculously cute dogs doing ridiculously cute things in this post. I actually threw up a little in my mouth while writing it. So, unless you are one of those people who like this kind of thing, come back tomorrow, and I'll have more sarcastic bitter bile for you feed on.

Sally is not a dog who likes other dogs. When we go to the dog park she will walk in, sniff the grass, go to the bathroom, and then look up at me as if to say "what are all these dogs doing here" and head for the gate. I would fault her for it, but considering the way I feel about most people, that would be unfair. So, instead I normally just head for the gate right behind her, before one of the dog "Moms" can strike up a conversation with me, or the inevitable head humper gets too close to Sally.

Of course, no man, or dog for that matter, is an island. Sally has a few dog friends that she not only tolerates, but adores. One is my Mom's poodle Scamper. They play so much that Sally is not welcome to sleep over any more, because my parents get no sleep. Another is our friend Katie's dog Micah. And then there is Mauly. She is the newest friend and I think, Sally's BFF.

Mauly is a golden retriever puppy, and her name is spelled strangely because it really is the only way it should be spelled considering her personality. She never stops jumping, or chewing, or wagging, or running. In the three months our friends Meghan and Andrew have had Mauly I have seen her worn out and sleeping TWICE, and both times Sally was involved.

Right now Sally and Mauly are spending most afternoons together. It's perfect. They run around and tire each other out, I read a book and occasionally watch the madness...

This is their favorite game.
Molly puts her front legs on Sally's back, and bites her ears.
Sally runs around madly trying to get her off.
The tennis ball is a new touch.

Here we have the puppy hip check. This is another favorite game,
when they try to push each other over or into walls.

This is Meghan's other dog, Temple.
He doesn't have time for this shit.

The only time he gets involved is when they get too close,
and he has to tell them to calm down or else.

I know that the fun and games could end as Mauly gets older, or Sally gets grumpier, but I really hope they don't. Watching the two of them play with such abandon and fake toughness is such a joy. I think they are having a pretty good time too. And if they aren't? Well, at least it's keeping both of them out of trouble, and wearing them both out.

See? I told you. It was actually a little smarmy too. Now I need to go punch a kitten and get a drink.

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Sounds Like Utah

Utah, like most places, is home to a regional dialect. Unfortunately, it is one of the most annoying dialects in any region, anywhere. It doesn't have the soft lilt of a southern accent, or the blue blood lineage of a northeastern twang. It doesn't even have the gentle nasality of the great lakes region. It's just, well, Utah. And while I love Utah, I really do, the sound of a strong Utah accent just makes me cringe. I think it pretty much makes everyone else here cringe as well, even if they have it. In any play, or piece of writing written about Utah by a Utahn there is always something in there about the accent -- and it is usually far from complimentary.

The hallmark of the Utah accent is the change of any oo sound to an ah sound. Instead of to it is ta, instead of so it is sa, and sa on. Another telltale sign is the shortening of the ee sound sound. The words creek, and heel,or as they are pronounced here, crick and hill, come to mind. Oh and, of course, the word for is always pronounced fer. There are many more linguistic traits to the Utah speech pattern, but those are the three that stick out the most to me.

I grew up here almost my entire life, and yet, because of a severe speech impediment, I never developed the twang. My speech therapists were so concerned with making sure my s wasn't sloppy and my t was terrific that they trained me out of any kind of dialect at all. Of course, their influence only gets part of the credit. The rest goes to my Mother, the easterner, who hated it when she heard the Utah influence in her children's voices, and teased us when she heard it. I am shy about saying the word nuclear around her.

Now, though I think I am slipping. Today I called to make a doctor's appointment and was sent to the nurse's voice mail. I left all the pertinent information, and at the end of the message, out of nowhere, said "Thanks sa'much."

I hung up the phone and screamed.

"So! So! So!" I yelled as I marched around the house. Sally looked at me like I was insane. I ran to my Blackberry and Twiittered about what I had said, and how I would be drinking a bottle of whisky to get the Utah got of my mouth. And then the phone rang. It was the nurse, we had a short conversation, I made an appointment, and then... I SAID IT AGAIN!!!

Tonight I will be staying in, and watching the BBC. I will not be talking to any of my neighbors, or to Ryan, until I am absolutely sure that I know how to pronounce my o's and r's. Or I guess I could just give into it, head to Provo and have dinner at one of the many buffets available... They do have better food than the English.

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Caution: Super Bitch Ahead

I am not a shy person. I have very little internal filter. More often than not, I say things I regret later, rather than regret later not saying something. That said, there are times that even I bite my tongue. Usually it is because I want to keep my job, or because I don't want to be disowned by my family, but sometimes it is just because I am being polite/don't have time to deal with the aftermath. That's why I really love this meme. Oh, and if you think I might be talking to you, just assume I am and change your behavior to fit my whims. Okay? Of course, if you are reading this you probably are one of the people I have no problem saying things to...

Ten Things I Wish I Could Say or That I Should Say to Certain People:

1. Yes, I have cats. That does not mean I care about yours.
2. I don't know when you decided that living with your head up your ass was a good idea, but it really wasn't.
3. I have no idea what your name is. The use of pet names is a cover.
4. Those shorts are waaaay too short.
5. I like it when you are pouting, because it means you aren't talking.
6. I am sorry I was mean to you in high school. I thought I was the picked on one, so I didn't notice I was picking on others.
7. I only pretend I don't like you because I know you don't like me. I think you are hilarious.
8. The fact you seem to pity me because I cannot have children biologically makes me pity you even more because you will never be an adequate mother to the one(s) you produced.
9. I don't care if everyone thinks you are a "nice guy." I think you are creepy. The cartoon character ties don't help.

Yeah, so I could only come up with nine. I told you I'm outspoken. I am glad that nowhere on the list did I have to put the words "I love you." I mean, I might bite my tongue, but not when it comes to letting people know how much they mean to me. Or if they owe me money.

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DUCKS!

I almost had a fit when I looked out in our backyard yesterday and saw two ducks just hanging out near the pond.


About seven years ago my mother had a pair of ducklings that she raised for months until she figured out that ducks are actually pretty disgusting animals that are impossible to potty train. They went to a farm after that, but during their time at my Mom's they would follow my little sister around and sit in her lap to watch television. I was so jealous. And so, when I saw these ducks yesterday I knew I had to make them mine. I thought they would be thrilled because we have Cinemax and everyone knows ducks like soft core porn.

I grabbed a loaf of bread, opened the back door, and went out to welcome my new friends. Sally went out in front of me, and I was sure she was going to scare them off, but instead both Sally and the ducks decided to ignore each other's existence. I took that as a good omen and started to approach, making what I assumed were soothing noises for ducks, you know, kind of like a cross between a cluck and throat clearing. They started making a similar sound, and I really thought we were starting to communicate.

And then they flew away. Little jerks.

I went back inside to tell Ryan that he wouldn't have to build a duck pen after all. "They flew away," he asked. "Yeah," I said, "I think Sally scared them." He looked at me, and smiled. "It could have been worse," he said, "They could have bitten you. That probably would have hurt."

He knows me too well.

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The Perfect Gift

Today is our wedding anniversary. For four years Ryan has been putting up with my shit. He deserves a present. A really great present. Something that tells him just how much I love him, and how lucky I feel to be married to him. Of course, the traditional gift suggested for a fourth anniversary is "fruit or flowers" but I don't think a hydrangea or an apple will adequately express my feelings. No, I need to make a grand gesture, and so, after work today, I am going out and getting this tattoo.


Isn't it perfect? I know, it is. I don't think I am going to get it on my back though. I mean, first of all, tramp stamps are trashy, and second of all, I want it in a location where all the world can see it and know about my pink dancing unicorn love. So I'm putting it on my chest.

I love you, Ryan.

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An Open Letter to Kirstie Alley

Dear Kirstie,

Remember when you were an actress? Yeah, so do I. I liked you so much better then. Now you have morphed into this big narcissistic ball of weight obsession, and it just is not becoming. All you do is talk about why you gained the weight, how you lost the weight, how you felt about losing the weight, how you cried about gaining the weight, and how other people should feel about you losing/gaining the weight.

It is so boring I want to scream.

Yes, I know that we are a nation obsessed with weight, and that every time you admit to gaining/losing a pound you get the cover of People. Really though, is this what you want to be known for? Is this what you want your legacy to be? The fat actress who stopped being an actress so she could rake in the cash just being fat? I mean, I guess that would be fine for some who didn't have any talent (cough, cough, Carnie Wilson), but as I recall you actually had some. You were even good in those ridiculous movies with the talking baby.

But what has she lost?

I know there are people who are encouraging you to stay on this path, saying that your struggle with weight makes them "appreciate you more" because they can "relate" to you. Don't listen to them. What they are really trying to say is "I don't feel as bad for myself because there is someone famous I can ridicule." Also, why should you care if you are "relate" to normal people? Normal people don't win Emmys, or hang out with Oprah. They sit at home and write stupid blogs about celebrities while feeling their asses grow.

Kirstie, now it's up to you. Either you can keep riding this weight loss gravy train, eating gravy, and sink into mediocrity, or you can rise, like a phoenix from the ashes, say "I don't care what I weigh" and be an actress again (and don't give me that "no one will hire me" thing, Liza Minelli got a fresh start, and so can you). Oh, and if you pick the second one, you can't tell us about how you've picked the second one in a multi-page "Okay" magazine spread. Choosing integrity means actually choosing it.

Best of luck,

Libby

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Babies Have All the Good Stuff

First of all, I want to thank you all for your kind words and encouragements over the past few days. It is nice to feel excited again about the idea of starting a family, and your comments have made the possibilities of a child in the near future seem even more real. I'm not quite sure if I am really ready to buy things yet, even though I am trying to take Sandi's advice to heart, I still feel a little shy about diving into the nursery pool full force. I did buy some books though, and soon Ryan and I will know exactly "what to expect." Oh, and I have been web browsing, looking for the things I will need, and the things I will want, and I have found an item I absolutely lust over.

Want to see it? Okay.No, it is not a bucket. I mean, yes it is a bucket, but it is a very expensive European designed bucket used to give a baby the perfect bath. It's called a "Tummy Tub" and, dumb name aside, it will help tackle one of my biggest fears about taking care of a baby -- the bath.

I have bathed many a baby in my time, mainly because I find putting babies in water is the fastest way to calm them down. Just ask my Mom and sister. When Luke was a baby and I was alone with him every time he started to cry I would just plop him in the bath. That led to him being the cleanest kid around when he was teething, and left he a nervous wreck every time until he was study enough to hold his head up. I was always worried he was cold lying in the water, since if it was deep enough to cover him it would be too deep. I also worried about him sloshing around. Oh, and I really worried about getting water in his face. With the Tummy Tub all three of these worries are taken care of! The baby is warm, because it's almost completely submerged! It can't slosh around because it's in a confined space! And the only way water is getting in it's eyes is if it splashes, and then the baby has no one to blame but itself.

I think I really want one though because if they made an adult size -- I would buy it. It reminds me of the big Japanese tubs at my favorite spa, that allow you to sit and just relax in water up to your chin. It's my idea of heaven. Ryan and I have often talked about putting one in our house, but then we remember our living space is just 900 square feet. So, if we can't live in luxury, at least our child can. Right?

So, I think the first thing I am going to buy is the Tummy Tub. I mean, right after I get a new sippie cup. Tara is such a bitch...

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Babies Need Stuff

Things are moving along with the adoption process and, unless something unexpected happens, like our criminal background checks turning up that we are both wanted for shoplifting in Yemen, our profile should be active by June first at the latest. Then we just wait for someone to pick us. And if they do? We could end up with a baby. Then we'll really be screwed. Why? I think the conversation we had on Friday tells the tale...

Me: How much to babies eat?
Ryan: I don't know.
Me: We should probably figure that out.
Ryan: Maybe there's a book on it.

You see, we have spent so much time trying to have a baby, that we really haven't thought about what to do with a baby if one comes to live in our house. We have all the books on "Fertility Diets" and "Reproductive Zen," but none on swaddling or saying good night to moons. We have all the accouterments of baby making, like thermometers, syringes, and ovulation predictors, but when it comes to actual things for a baby we have one onesie. Oh, and a sippie cup that someone left here after a party.

I think we're going to need to go shopping. I'm just not sure when.

You see, while we have nothing for a baby, and could get a baby at any time after our application becomes "active," we don't really want to have anything around the house until we know that our baby is home with us, and not going anywhere else. We have heard too many stories of adoptions that went south at the last minute, leaving the couple to go home empty handed, and with a fully furnished nursery. The one onesie that we have I bought right after we started trying to have a baby, and when I was sure it would happen immediately. It hurts to look at it, and just a scrap of cloth. I can only imagine what a whole room would do to me.

So, here is my plan: on the way home from the hospital, be it in a month, or in two years, I am going to blow on a seashell to rally the troops. I am really hoping that a scene like one out of "Snow White" will evolve, with rabbits and fawns bringing packs of diapers and pacifiers. If that doesn't happen I guess I'll send Ryan out on a mad dash to Target and Toys R' Us. As long as he brings back a bouncy seat and no clothes with itchy tags I think we'll be fine.

In the mean time though, I am allowing us one baby thing in the house. We got some books. I don't know if you all were aware of this, but there are a lot of them out there...

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