Open Letter to Ryan

Today's post comes from Sarah, or hell, I can't tell which. All I know is that she is hot...

Dear Ryan,

If I remember correctly we met briefly at an Eels concert a few years ago. I was the ditzy blond drunk on vodka tonics with a nerdy scientist in tow.

I don’t know you well enough to ruin your marriage, but I’m going to anyway.

I know you THINK you are happily married to a woman who adores you, but you’re not. She’s living a lie. I know you’re confused, so let me explain.

A few weeks ago Libby and I met at the pub for drinks and dinner. We had a grand time. We spent a few hours shit talking while gulping wine, because that’s how we Utah girls roll. We have a lot in common Libby and I. We are both friends with Yocom and we both could happily live inside a bottle of wine.

Back to my point…

When the bill came Libby refused to let me pay for my own dinner. I think it’s clear she’s trying to date me. Why else would she pour glass after glass of wine down my throat? She was trying to get me drunk so she could take advantage of me. Don’t you worry, Ryan, I didn’t let her. I was far too interested getting the goods on a cute guy she knows BECAUSE I AM STRAIGHT.

I apologize you had to learn of your wife’s indiscretions via a blog post, but it’s my only option. I’d come over to your house and talk to you face-to-face, but Libby would likely try to dry hump my leg and I haven’t shaved this week.

Enjoy your vacation.

Best,
Sarah

P.S. If it’s not too much trouble could you swing by Trader Joe’s and get me a case of Two Buck Chuck? Thanks!

P.S.S. Dude, you had to see this coming. She wears Crocs for hell's sake.

Read more →

It's Like a Your Mama Contest, Only Meaner and We Really Should Be Too Old for This But We're Not

I am on vacation this week, and I promised Ryan I wouldn't document every moment of our trip. So, instead I have enlisted the help of some of my favorites out there to help you pass the time. First up is Kim, the evil genius from Yellow Trash Diaries. I'm not quite sure what she wrote, she wouldn't let me proof it, so I hope it isn't too awful...

It has come to my attention that Libby has been acting rather peculiar of late, and is beginning to scare one of the temp girls at work. According to my source (who would rather not be named because she has small children and a mother in a nursing home and you just never know what Libby might do when she's angry), she has been coming to work this week with her makeup like this...

and the other day she was dressed in her pajama pants (the ones with the dancing alligators wearing sunglasses). Apparently this was not on purpose, and she was outraged that no one had brought her little mistake to her attention. Her co-workers were baffled and shrugged to each other-- She looks like that all the time, but one well-meaning soul took Libby's tirade to heart and called her on her attire the next morning. Um, Libby, I think you accidentally wore your husbands clothes today-- only it wasn't an accident, and they weren't Ryan's clothes. Needless to say the poor girl spent the rest of the day in the bathroom crying after Libby got through with her.

So what, you might wonder, is causing all of this turmoil? Apparently Libby has been beside herself ever since she realized that I now have more followers than she does. Some of you may remember the little contest we had a while back to see who could obtain 50 followers first, and although she somehow managed to emerge victorious in that duel (I heard she had people at work on the phones like a Jerry Lewis telethon, and she really shouldn't be surprised at all the crazy late night phone calls she receives after throwing around the I'll be your best friend line so much), she has been living in fear of the day when the student would surpass the teacher. Well, that day has come, and she has been writhing in agony like a garden slug who's had coarse salt poured all over her. The only way to end her suffering is to take her up on her challenge to renew the contest-- first one to 100 followers wins. It's the only humane thing to do, and I'll give her appropriate credit for any followers I collect while she is on vacation (along with several other handicaps for...well, for just being Libby. Honestly, I don't even know if I can enjoy a win over her now-- just doesn't seem fair.) I think she'd have a better chance if she competed against me using her other blog EatSLC, as I believe that is where her best writing takes place.

And now before I leave this lovely site, I'd like to share a funny story about our dear Libby. It was during a Christmas party at the office X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X XX X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X
and now that poor guy has a phobia about closets and shudders every time he sees mistletoe. Gee, I hope Libby doesn't edit that because it is hilarious and I'm sure you readers won't judge her too harshly for such inappropriate behavior. She's lucky that Utah is one of the few states that doesn't consider acts like that involving a small rodent to be illegal.

Enjoy your vacation, Libby-- I will be awaiting your return.

Read more →

The Public Outcry

I am in shock that Michael Jackson died. It's like a piece of my childhood died with him. I remember playing house in the basement, pretending I was President living in the White House with my husband Michael. I would hold my baby doll and tell the imaginary reporters that he would serve as an International Ambassador with his music. My sister Cate was even more obsessive. Every wall of her seven year old room was covered. For a time she insisted we all called her Michael and did her version of the moonwalk everywhere. Really though, it was just retarded backwards walking. We made money telling people she was one of Jerry's Kids.

While I am saddened by Jackson's death, I am also fascinated by the reaction to it. There is something about public grieving for a celebrity that is so interesting and so bizarre. It's like true emotion seen through a kaleidoscope. It looks real, but it's overblown, and flashy, and I can't stop believing that all the tears and statements of public grief are just final attempts to cash in on Jackson's celebrity. For instance, all the people standing outside of Jackson's home this morning, aren't looking at the home, but at the cameras. Oh, and the people who have come out of the woodwork to make "personal statements." I mean, do we really care how Corey Haim feels about this? And does he have to do his grieving live on the Today Show?

I think there is something cathartic about grieving for a celebrity. It's like everyone can take a minute to feel sorrow, and let out some emotion, without feeling a real impact on their lives. I was living in D.C. when Princess Diana died, and for days did live shots outside of the British Embassy. You should have seen the lines of people, and the piles of flowers. In fact, so many people came to pay their respects that flower vendors set up on the corner. None of these people actually knew Princess Diana, they wouldn't miss her in their day to day lives, but they were still taking time to feel her loss, even if it wasn't personal. Actually, I think especially since it wasn't personal. The same thing will happen now. People will cry, but the tears won't really be for Jackson. They will be for lost youth, or life's disappointments, in order to belong to a crowd, or for a little attention. Then we'll all go on, having taken a minute for national emotional release.

Now, if you'll excuse me I am going to go watch the "Thriller" video. The long version.

Read more →

The Birds

Our house sits on what used to be an orchard, and many, many of the fruit trees are still left. Oh, and the stream that was diverted to feed the trees still runs under the land, and pops up in springs all over. While both of these things might seem like pluses, they are actually a huge pains in the ass. The water makes our backyard so swampy that watercress grows wild and only a third of the land is usable, unless we decide to start a mud wrestling club. The fruit would be good, if we didn't spend so much time sweeping it up off the ground or smelling it rotting in the grass. It used to attract raccoons until we cut back all of the blackberry bushes where they lived. Honestly, most of the time our yard makes me wish for one of those astroturf fantasies from the fifties. Of course, then I would miss out on the birds.

Right now pretty much every type of bird in Utah is making it's home in our backyard. There are wrens. There are robins. There are grackles. There are doves. There are ducks. And, of course, there is my favorite, the crazy hummingbird. I love this guy. He is obviously a juvenile or male, because his red and green are not that bright yet. In fact, at first I thought he was just a hyper wren. While he isn't the prettiest hummingbird though, he might be the bravest. He seems to have no fear, and really loves coming up to the window when we are looking out.

I have tried to take a picture of him, but I think hummingbirds must be like vampires, and not visible on film. Every time I have tried I just end up with a blur, or a picture of the background. I am actually thinking of getting a hummingbird feeder, but instead of filling it with sugar water filling it with that True Blood stuff. Then maybe I'll get the greatest picture of all time. I mean, especially if it's of the night's we are having Bigfoot over for dinner.

Read more →

My Good Deed

I am currently at the Apple store (the loudest place in the world) waiting for one of the "geniuses" to tell me why my computer battery will no longer charge. I tried to bribe my way to the front of the line by offering one of them a chance to look at "real boobs" but I think I just scared him. So, here I wait.

While I am waiting I figure I might as well do my good deed of the day. Kim, you know, my nemesis over at Yellow Trash Diaries is entered in some kind of "who is the least pathetic" contest. I am not entered in said contest, so I am urging you to vote for her.  The category is guilty pleasure blog. I don't know what she wins if she wins, but I am sure Kim will give me at least half of it because of my largesse. 

Or, maybe Karma will smile on me and let me win the lottery, grow three inches, and lose ten pounds. Oh, and whatever is wrong with my computer will be under warranty. Yeah, I would rather have that. 

Read more →

Music of My Youth

Lately I have been feeling nostalgic for my college years. No, I haven't been thinking fondly of my days of a theater major who wore a uniform of overalls and one "female" sign earring. No, I haven't been missing dating gay men because they love Bernadette Peters as much as I do. And I definitely haven't been waxing rhapsodic for the deepest days of my depression before I was placed on the proper medications. My nostalgia has been all about the music. I have spent days going back through CDs, and downloading songs from iTunes that were on mix tapes from boyfriends. Ryan and I have danced around the house for hours singing along to music we forgot we loved, and have had a glorious time doing it. Oh, and I have had a few musical revelations...

1. Tracy Chapman Dates Jerks Seriously, name one song where she is not singing about a guy she should be getting a restraining order against. "Fast Car"? "For My Lover"? "You're the One"? All of them could be used as theme songs for a domestic violence hot line. Even her one truly romantic song "For You" has overtones of dysfunction. She sings about no longer being the "master" of her emotions. So, then who is? Probably the manipulative jerk who is going to sleep with her sister and then steal her El Camino.

2. Lisa Loeb Is Vastly Underrated If "Stay" is the only song of hers you have ever heard, then I actually kind of pity you a little bit. Loeb is a brilliant singer and songwriter who should have been as famous, if not more so, than Sarah McLaughlin or any of the other Lilith Fair ladies. How can you not love someone who writes the lyric "the time between meeting and finally leaving is sometimes called falling in love."

3. Sarah McLaughlin Is Not As Good As I Remember As I've said before, I was depressed in college. I was also really into being artistic. I remember loving McLaughlin more than anything, and listening to her music at full volume as I drove my 1985 Volvo through the streets of Salt Lake. Of course, these were also the days I wanted nothing more than to play Ophelia and I loved velvet. Those days are gone, and so is my affinity for Sarah McLaughlin.

4. Suzanna Vega Is A Feminist Barry White She might be best known for song about a kid getting the shit kicked out of him, but Vega also wrote some great "I want you now" music. If you don't believe me just listen to "99.9 Fahrenheit" or "Caramel." You and your significant other can thank me later.

5. You Cannot Be Grumpy Listening to the Song "These Are Days" Even if you are in the worst mood ever, put on that classic from 10,000 Maniacs and just try to be grumpy. Not even I can do it, and I am very good at holding onto a bad mood. Go ahead, try it. Put on that song. I'll wait.

I know that many of you are now considering calling Ryan to tell him he married a lesbian. First of all, get bent. Second, this isn't all the music I liked, or like. It is just represents a very specific time of my life, when I was young and not as jaded. Maybe tomorrow I'll be pining for the music I used to listen to when I was in my 20's and living in Washington. After all there's nothing like a little death metal in the morning. Am I right? Yeah, I am.

Read more →

Cop Out Photo Post

It has been raining in Salt Lake City for pretty much two weeks straight. Really, I am not kidding. It has rained so much here that we have all made the jokes about living in Seattle, gotten tired of them, and then remembered how much we used to love the Seattle jokes, so made them again with "retro" twists.

The nice thing about the rain is that everything here is much greener than it ever is, and plants are still growing that normally have already shriveled and died under the dry heat of the Utah sun. I am especially noticing the purples the rain has brought...

These usually don't make it past June first...

And our lavender is never this lavender-y. Usually it's grey and blends in the with the rosemary behind it.

Yeah, I know this isn't purple, but the rain has made our maple tree so bushy and red it looks like it is on fire.

Wildflowers are blooming everywhere. I picked these just walking down an alley near our house.
Usually the only things I find there are dog poop and hobo teeth.

The rain hasn't just affected the plants, but also the people. For instance, Luke has taken to dressing like Gary Coleman, since he is never sure if he is going to be hot or cold. We have tried arguing with him about his fashion choices, but finally decided it wasn't worth it. Who knows, this look may be on the cover of Vogue in the fall...

Today it is sunny, and is supposed to be so for the rest of the week. Everything will be getting back to normal, and things will begin to dry up and die. Utahns will stop bitching about the the rain, and start bitching about the heat. Well, as long as there is something to bitch about...

Read more →

Happy Birthday, Ryan!

Today is Ryan's birthday. We are going to get excellent bloody marys, and then going to the spa, and tonight we are joining friends to see David Byrne in concert. I think it sounds like a perfect day. Oh, and it would be even more perfect if Ryan wasn't injured...
No, he didn't suffer that wound fighting off rabid ninja bears. That was actually the handy work of our 14-month old nephew Kaedyn. Last night at a family barbecue Ryan let K play with his sunglasses, and the little bugger stabbed him in the eye with tip of the stem. It didn't hurt, but it sure did bruise. K thought it was hilarious. Really, I have never heard a baby that giggle like that. Now that I think about it, it was kind of menacing.

Ryan just thanked me for letting the blogosphere know that for his 34th birthday he got his ass kicked by a baby. Don't worry, that's not the only present I got him. In just days his kick ass new iPhone S will be arriving, so he can finally join the rest of society in using his cell phone for more than just making calls. Really, his phone is so old that I don't like him to use it out in public when he's with me. I have an image to uphold. While he doesn't have the iPhone itself yet, today my sister gave him the case for it, so he has been practicing with the cardboard insert.

The apps on the cardboard edition are limited, for instance,
he can only help you with directions if you are driving on Highway 280.

However, the fake reception is great...

And the cardboard iPhone is much more flexible than it's "operational" cousin.

Ryan has known he is getting an iPhone for weeks, because I am really bad at keeping secrets, and I wanted to make sure that I didn't spend a ton of money on something he didn't want. Actually, he only had one birthday present that was a surprise, from my Mom, and I really wish she had discussed it with me first...

Wind chimes. I HATE wind chimes. They remind me of New Age douche nozzles and old Southern women with too many cats. Oh, and now, my husband. I guess he really likes them, and had commented to my Mom that he liked the sound of a set hanging in our favorite Vietnamese restaurant. The things you find out about a person four years into a marriage...

Yeah, and they are hanging in the FRONT of our house. I begged him to put them in the back yard, but he used the whole "it's my house too" argument to get his way. Sitting here typing this I can hear them rattling. It's making me slightly grumpy. I think it's time for those bloody marys.

I love you, anyway, Ryan. Happy Birthday.

Read more →

Corpse Fleur

I let my niece paint my nails... Now I look like an extra on CSI.

Read more →

The Bad Mother Conundrum

I am in the that phase of my life where pretty much everyone around me either has, is having, or is thinking about having children. And without exception, every one of them thinks they are, or will be, bad at it, especially the women. For instance, I have a friend, we'll call her Christy, because that's her name, who recently, after spending several years and thousands of dollars trying to get pregnant, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. During her pregnancy Christy read every book, and researched every product. She is my guru when it comes to what a baby needs and does not need. She is also one of the most loving and responsible people I know. Yet, earlier this week, she sent me an email saying she felt like the world's worst mother. I won't go into the details, Christy is also very private, but suffice to say, it was not a matter she had any real control over, nor something that put her in the same league as Medea or Nadya Suleman. That got me thinking, does any mother actually feel like they are doing a good job?

I know my Mom has never really felt like she was a good parent. My sisters and I are now all in our thirties, and she still can remember instances when she believes she scarred us for life. Also, I know that out of the millions of blogs out there, I still have not found one written by someone who thinks they are an awesome Mom. I have come across "Her Bad Mother," "Martini Mom," and the "Un-Mom," but I am still looking for "Doing Fine At Mothering." Oh, and let's not forget Dooce, who makes bank criticizing her parenting skills. Why do all these women, none of whom appear to be raising serial killers, feel so bad about the job they are doing? Is it real, or is it an act? Do Moms inherently think they have to bad mouth their skills, even if their skills are good? Are they afraid they will be opening themselves up to criticism, or doing they really believe they aren't very good at child rearing?

I guess I am asking these questions due to my (hopefully) impending motherhood, and the fact I am already sure I have messed up my child, even though I haven't met him or her yet. First of all, there is the fact I will not be growing this child inside of me, or giving birth to it. The person who does that will be involved minimally, if at all. I think we have all heard the horror stories that result from those situations. Also, there is the fact that our child will likely be of a different race. That means the first thing most people will think when seeing us together is "oh, that kid's adopted." Will that lead to me embarrassing my kid by attacking anyone I perceive to be racist? Or will it lead to them feeling like they were ripped away from their culture due to "white privilege?" And how am I supposed to do their hair? I can barely do mine. Lastly, there is the issue of breastfeeding, which I will go into in depth in another post. For now let's just say that in the past few weeks my breasts have gone from my favorite part of my body to a source of pain, frustration, and embarrassment. Part of me thinks putting myself through this to breastfeed is the least I can do for my child, and part of me thinks the mental damage it could do would make things worse rather than better.

Here is what I am proposing: let's all feel good about our parenting skills. Let's not just feel good about them after getting support from blog comments telling us we are actually doing great. Let's make a concerted effort to know we are doing the best for our children, or children coming to us. Trust me, there are enough bad parenting stories out there to prove me right.

To Christy and my Mom, know this, it is women like you who give me the courage to undertake this endeavor at all. Thank you.

Read more →

Better Than Christmas

Today is the highest of Mitchell family holidays: the celebration of the birth of Luke. Yes, six years ago on this day we all looked down at that little baby and handed over our hearts, and our wallets. His birth changed our lives forever. I remember about 15 months after he was born I looked at my Mom and said "what did we talk about before Luke was born?" "I don't know," she answered, "but it couldn't have been that important."

The birthday festivities actually started on Saturday. That is when around 30 screaming five and six year olds, along with their parents, stormed my parents' backyard for a party. My Dad set up the pool, and my Mom put out enough food to feed an army. Of course, year round they have all kinds of toys, and a pirate ship play yard that is every child's dream. My parents bought it from an Amish company soon after Luke was born and it was shipped across the prairie on a flatbed truck before weighing anchor in a bark pit specially built to house it. What I am trying to say is there was plenty for party guests to do. However, that wasn't enough for my Mom and Sister. Oh no, not for Luke's birthday.

I don't know if I have mentioned it before, but my Mother is an evil genius. She can make things happen that no one else can. Seriously, I think it has been raining in Utah for weeks because my Mom looked up one day and said "I like this rain." It is that power to change the weather that brought firemen to her house, just for Luke's party. Well, that and three huge pizzas.

You should have seen the kids' eyes when the fire truck pulled up (they were almost as big as my parents' neighbors who assumed there had been some kind of terrible accident). Those little bodies swarmed the truck, wanting to see and touch everything. Luckily, the firemen (no ladies) were game, loved to talk, and pointed out everything the kids wanted to see. Of course, they had to take a moment to talk about fire safety, telling the kids about when to call 9-1-1, and what to do if they happened to catch on fire (I think they just wanted to see them rolling on the grass). One of them even showed them how quickly he could put on his suit, and all the Moms (and some Dads) gasped when he stripped down to his t-shirt to start the process. The best part though, was the fire hose.

There was nothing funny about what happened at Kent State. However, watching little kids get plowed down by a high powered stream of water is absolutely hi-larious. I mean, it was funny until one of them sprayed me, and then I went all Tianamen Square on their asses. After all, I was the one who cut the crusts of the little sandwiches, motherfuckers!

Actually, I didn't. After all, I am friend to man and beast. I just took pictures of them all to sell to their prom dates in later years. Then I lead in the hardy round of applause for the fire fighters, and went back to serve cake.

The rest of the party was the regular bullshit. Cake. Presents. Ice Cream. Crying. You know, everything you remember from your 30th. After all, my Mom and Sister may have the power to get firemen to bend to their wills, but they cannot stop people from buying stupid plastic toys that will be discarded within weeks, or bakers from using lard in frosting.

Honestly though, the best part of the day, was when the kids left. The clouds came in half way through the party, but the rain didn't start until right after Luke blew out the candles. Then the kids snarfed their sweets, and their parents rushed them out, afraid of flash floods. It was as if God said "Happy Birthday, Luke. Party's over." Or maybe that was my Mom...

Read more →

Tara is Trying to Kill Me

Today I was driving along, almost dying of a coughing fit, when my phone starting buzzing and just would not stop. I picked it up to see who it could be. It was Tara, and apparently she was desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Tara: Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey. Are you there? Hey. Are you there?

Me (trying to text and drive, which I know is very dangerous, but if my friend needs me, I am there): What?

Tara: Do you remember the time that cocktail waitress told you we had stiffed her and started crying making you feel bad and so you gave her more money.

Me: Yes. (Of course I remember that little bitch. Ryan and I were the last ones to leave the restaurant when she came to our table to asked if service had been okay. When we said it had, she burst into tears and said she didn't understand the shitty tip then. Well, we didn't know what other people had left on their tickets, so we just gave her more money. It was only after talking to friends later that I realized we had been played, and she had gotten a 75% percent tip. Her face is burned in my brain, and I will find her again. Oh, yes I will.)

Me: Why do you ask?

Tara: No reason. Ahhh. Good times.

This was when I started laughing, and coughing, and then really coughing, and almost sideswiped a cop. Sally looked over at me as if to say "woah." I had to pull to the side of the road until I could breathe. Then I pulled a napkin out of the glove compartment and wrote on it: "If Tara causes my death my promise to her she could have my CDs is null and void." I am pretty sure that makes it legal.

P.S. She totally gave me permission to use that picture.

Read more →

One of My Very Own

Sometimes I lie to people who call the station about my name. It isn't nice, I know, and it isn't professional. However, a name like "Libby" is easy for wackos to remember, and use when they want to get past the receptionists and spread their crazy to people in the news department. For instance, this morning one of the overnight producers, Brittany, took a call from someone very upset about Iran, angry we weren't doing more to stop the atrocities, and claiming to have spoken to "Libby" several times. When I came in Brit asked me if I knew this person, and said he claimed to have talked to me several times. Um, maybe, but I don't take copious notes on people who call in about aliens/conspiracies/American Idol. I was ready to laugh it off, until she said he was planning to call back.

Here is the other thing about having a memorable name in my business: the receptionists assume someone isn't just pulling the name "Libby" out of their ass, and happily put them through, thinking I must know them. Not good. I had to take action. So, I sent out the following email...

Overnight, Brittany got calls from someone named "J_____ C______" who claims to know me and is very upset about Iran. I do not know him, and I do not want to deal with anyone concerned about Iran in a fanatical sense. I had nothing to do with the situation in Iran. I am assuming this guy is a friend Tina Swallow's... Please do not put through any calls from him to me, even if he asks for me by name.

Then the shit began. This was the first response email I got...

OK- I'll have to tell C______ I don’t want to be his 'facebook friend' any more. Also, I will at once stop reading his blog... 'C_______'s Korner'.

Then this one...

fine..i won't put any calls through to you...but i'm not sure you didn't have A LOT to do with what's going on in iran.

There were others, must most of them were just mocking and asking if this was an old boyfriend/creditor/long lost parent. Finally, one of my co-workers piped up and asked me why I had sent the email, since I was getting so much crap from co workers. My answer was simple, I would rather get crap from people I know, than talk to someone about how I am not doing enough in Iran with someone I don't. Besides I have already done enough to help Iran. I sent their leader my old Members Only jacket. Of course, I signed the card "Kimberly."

Read more →

Career Counseling

I love my job, really I do. It is fits me, and plays to my strengths in that I don’t have to wear a suit, or pretend to be nice to people, or do physical labor. However, even though I really do enjoy my profession, and feel I am relatively good at it, once or twice a year I get an itch to do something else. Usually these itches are scratched when I realize there is no other profession that will pay me as well, or excite me as much as my current one. I mean, there are lots of things I do better, or enjoy doing more, but they really can’t be considered “careers.” Oh, but if they were…

Five Jobs I Would Love, If They Were Real Professions

1. Professional Heckler Many times I have had people ask me if I have considered doing stand up comedy. My answer is usually “I don’t like to stand.” Really though, I would be a lousy stand up comic. I mean, I’m funny. I know I’m funny. I am just not that kind of funny. My humor is less about routines, and more about mocking whatever is going on around me. That’s why the position of professional heckler would be perfect. I have never seen a comic that I couldn’t mock. Bands and public speakers are also highly mockable. The only problem is, most people on stage don’t want attention, or money, going to a person off stage making them look like an ass. Instead, they usually just want to beat that person up. Trust me.
2. Anxiety Attack Counselor Believe it or not, I am excellent at talking people through anxiety attacks, most likely because I have experienced so many of them firsthand. No, I don’t want to be a psychologist or other mental health professional, that requires going back to school and listening to people’s pissing and moaning. I just want to be the person called in when the room is spinning and someone is about to lose their shit. Then it’s my time to shine. I can get someone taking deep breaths, and concentrating on nonsensical happy thoughts in just minutes. I don’t think I could afford the liability insurance for such a job though.
3. Ridiculous Dancer I am a horrible dancer. I am sure I have mentioned this before (because it scarred my psyche), but when I was a kid my tap dance teacher told my Mom my taking lessons was a waste of her money and my time. Despite that, I love to dance. According to Ryan it is quite a sight to see. So, why not let people see it? For a small fee I will come to any event and start dancing. Then, everyone else will relax, because they know they can’t dance worse than I do, and take to the floor. I could call myself a “covert party starter.” Believe it or not, this is the most plausible alternative career option.
4. Personal Speechwriter Have to make a speech at a wedding/funeral/gradutation/bris but have no clue what to say that isn’t boring/inappropriate/borderline racist? Well, that’s where I come in! I am great at impromptu speeches, especially when there are people present to mock (see number one). I will write you a speech, and (for an added fee) coach you on how to give it! My services are cheap! So cheap in fact there is no way I could make a living it this. I mean, I guess I could if I wanted to write “major speeches” as well as nuptial toasts, but that just sounds like too much pressure.
5. Blogger Really, who the hell makes a living at that? No, I mean people who haven’t made deals with the devil.
   

I am sure if I had the moxie I could make at least one of those careers work out. However, instead of moxie I have a house payment, and the possibility of a child. So, I guess for now I will be playing it safe. Or maybe I can become an insane person’s job counselor… I mean, in my free time away from my real job.

Read more →

Snotty Bitch

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe it's my period. Wait, no it's not my period, it hasn't been 12 weeks. Whatever it is, today I have been the bitchiest version of myself. I haven't even been mean about it, just bitchy. For instance, my Dad is the nicest guy in the world. I mean, unless you work for him and are an idiot. Luckily, I am neither, and so we get along. Today though, I was so rude.

Dad: Did you pick up mustard? (It was Luke's birthday party).
Me: No, Ryan is bringing it.
Dad: Why?
Me: He's my husband and he does what I say.

See? Rude to my Dad, and (by implication) my husband. But, I wasn't done yet. My Mom was my next victim. Now, ordinarily I would not mess with my Mom, since she is an evil genius, however, today I was not in my right mind.

Me: Do you need help with anything else?
Mom: No, I think you have done enough. Thanks.
Me: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS CRITICIZING ME?

Wow. belligerent and channeling a 14 year old. It was a short time after this that Ryan insisted on taking me home. He put me on the couch, where I have been ever since. I have asked only for mineral water and wine, and I think I have been pretty nice.

Of course, my last bottle of mineral water was shaken up pretty good, so maybe not...

Read more →

Drippy

There are lots of things I dislike in the world. Sand in my shoes. Racism. The Dutch. Anyone who uses the word market as a verb. Topping the list though (especially today)? Runny noses. I do not like them on anyone. They are the only thing that make babies not adorable in my eyes. I can handle the diaper blowouts, and the crying, but show me a snotty kid and I don't know how the human race survives. I don't even like it when my dog's nose is dripping, and that's a sign of canine health. The worst of all though, is when my nose is the one dripping -- as it is now.

I really thought I was going to avoid getting this cold. Ryan came home sick from New Orleans, and usually if he gets the illness first it's a good sign. If he tells me that kids at the school are getting sick, but he's just fine, I know I'm screwed, because it means he's a carrier. So, I was prepared to nurse him through this illness, and then be done. Then on Wednesday I felt that tickle in the back of my throat, and yesterday woke up yesterday with my head packed full like a new Buster Brown loafer. At first I thought it was a barometric pressure migraine --- until I started to ooze. I haven't stopped since.

Honestly, I don't know how anyone can stand to be around me. I am a cacophony of disgusting sounds. I snort. I slurp. I blow. I lurp. The only thing I will not do it spit, because, even though Ryan says it will help get stuff out of my head, I believe spitting is something ladies do not do. And I am a lady, you fucktards.

One thing I do like about illness is that my use of cold medicine is no longer seen as a "problem." There is nothing better than a good Comtrex high. Yes, I know, some people prefer DayQuil, but it dries me out to the point I can see blood sluggishly moving though my veins. With Comtrex I remain somewhat hydrated, with just the slightest hint of a buzz. It doesn't matter that the cobwebs in my head are making it impossible for me to come up with snappy comebacks, because I am too entertained with the tracers from my hands. Excellent.

Now, if you'll excuse me I am going to go open a bottle of white wine and really get this party started. And by that, I mean put myself into a coma until I stop oozing...

Read more →

Brush with Fame

Utah has been awash with rain and clouds for the past few weeks, meaning I have been awash with headaches. Today I finally gave in and slept in a dark room praying for sun, and not putting together coherent sentences. So, today's blog is a repeat. Sorry. I think it's timely though, since I am going to see Joel McHale again tomorrow. This was first published in February of last year... Enjoy.

Utah is starved for celebrities. I don't know what it is, but this state has a major self-esteem issue that can only be helped by celebrities coming here and acknowledging our existence. Tara says Utah is the 8th grade girl who never got Guess jeans and has never gotten over it. Now, I had Guess jeans, so I can't relate, but I think it's cute when she tries to make analogies. I think this "celebriholism" that grips the state must be caused by the fact that the only celebrities ever associated with Utah are the Osmonds, or those who go to rehab at Cirque. We feel like we have something to prove, and therefore every celebrity who comes through town is treated ridiculously well so maybe they'll stay. It's easier than knocking them over the head and chaining them to the Temple -- which was actually a proposal in last year's legislature. So far we've managed to snag Gary Coleman, which actually has just made us feel worse as a state, while intensifying our lust for all things Hollywood.

This weekend was a perfect example of celebrity chasing in Utah. Joel McHale, the host of The Soup on E! was appearing at a comedy club in Ogden. Now, I love Joel McHale. I think he's hilarious. He's the only reason I watch The Soup since John Henson quit six years ago. However, he is hardly an A-lister. But at a small club in Ogden, for one night, he was a god.

It started with the opening act. Every time he mentioned that Joel McHale would soon be stepping on the stage the crowd would erupt in applause and screams like he had just promised everyone a puppy with money stapled to it. When McHale finally stepped on the stage I was afraid someone might faint, or throw their garments on the stage, the crowd was that excited. All through his act everyone laughed hardily, even though I would say only 80 percent of his material was really funny. The rest was the standard jokes about how you can't get a drink in Utah, or how everyone in Utah has lots of kids. I expected so much better. But it didn't matter to the others in the crowd. "Make fun of us," they seemed to say, "but just stay here."

After the show McHale stood at the back door of the club taking pictures with fans. I had brought my camera AND video camera because, after all, I've lived in this state long enough to know what's expected. But even I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I stepped out the door. There was a line all the way down the block and around the corner. Now, there are only two people I would stand in a line like that to get a picture with -- Tony Curtis and God. If they were together I might even camp out to get the shot. But this was just too much. So, I snapped a pic from a distance, and went on my merry way. After all, I've already worked through my eighth grade angst. And I'll still get to tell anyone who will listen that he's much taller in person, because I saw him in person. Maybe I'll even be able to tell the story of how I was there the night Joel McHale disappeared. After all, I did see two guys with a potato sack and a taser standing in the line. Of course, they could have also just been out on a double date... Now, that's how you make fun of Utah.

Read more →

The Source of ADHD

I have taken the advice of Sandi and others and begun to nest, getting ready for the baby that could arrive on our doorstep any day now. Friends have helped us put together a registry, telling us all the things we "must have" and for the most part we have followed their advice to the letter. We know the baby will need a place to sleep (other than a drawer), clothes to wear, a car seat for safety, and bottles for eating. We've picked out blankets, and bathtubs, bumpers, bouncers, boppies, binkies, and other things with ridiculous names. In fact, only once have we balked at a so-called "must have": the exersaucer. You know, this thing...



I'm sorry, but that looks more like a Mardi Gras float than a baby essential. I am really worried that if we get one of these things and I am able to nurse (a post for another time), my child will hand me beads every time it's time to feed.

I mean, I know that bright colors help stimulate a baby's mind, but can't we do that while also stimulating their sense of style? Also, does it have to be the size of a Yugo? Ryan and I live in a home with about 1000 square feet of livable space. This will take up at least 50 of it. We might have to replace the sofa.

Oh, and all of them make noise! Like the thing isn't calling enough attention to itself, so there have to be frog croaks and annoying nursery rhyme songs emitting from it all day. You know, when I was a child the majority of toys were silent, and those with sound were powered by rubber squeakers. So, why do all baby items now have to come with their own sound systems?

I just don't think we can do it. Well, maybe if Sally can chew on it. Then it's a multi-tasker...

Read more →

Shantytown

When Ryan and I bought our house five years ago the neighborhood it is in was high on the list of reasons we wanted it so much. It's in an area that when I was a teen wasn't the best place in the world, but since that time has undergone a revitalization as young couples pushed out drug dealers and college students renting from old ladies. It's easy to walk to parks and stores, Ryan and I are both close to work, and it gives us a feeling of being kind of urban and hip. Oh! And it's safe! Nine times out of ten we can leave our cars unlocked over night and know everything will still be there in the morning. Of course, lately certain events have occurred that have made our neighborhood appear less "urban and hip" and more "the place Loretta Lynn was born."

About 18 months ago the house at the bottom of our street was sold when the woman living in it died. Her children did the obligatory creepy "estate sale" and then put the house up for sale. It wasn't on the market long, since it is one of the few two stories in the neighborhood. People moved in, and started renovating. For a while it looked like things were going to turn out pretty well, but then strange things began happening. Tibetan flags were strung across the front porch. A front yard garden with a compost pit was planted. And then a cow skull on a stick appeared as "yard art." Suddenly we realized what had happened: hippies had moved in.

This evening I discovered that the house actually belongs to the parents of the main hippie (there is always a main hippie, it's a queen in a hive). I don't know if that makes it better or worse. All I know is I find myself grumbling like Howard Cunningham every time I drive past.

The other eyesore on the street is bigger, but not as permanent. Our neighbors down the street are having major work done to their house, which will almost double their livable space, which makes me very jealous. But while the end result will be lovely, it also means that for the next few months this will be sitting three houses down from us.

Yep, that's a port-a-potty. Luke thinks it's pretty cool that we have an outdoor toilet on on street, but I am less than enthused about it. It's not that it stinks, or that it is oozing, it's just that it's there. I have thought about hanging some decorative towels on a rack outside the door, or maybe putting an archway of flowers over it, but I don't think anything will really help make it appear any less like an outhouse.

Of course, our neighbors are not the only offenders. No, it may not be tarnishing the view of everyone in the neighborhood, but that's just because Ryan and I don't like to share our prizes. Feast your eyes on the little beauty in our back yard...
Some of you may recall when I wrote about our water heater mishap. That was March. Since then we have had the old one sitting just off our porch, waiting to be taken to the dump. We just haven't gotten around to it. Maybe I'll saw it in half and sell it to the hippies a statue. Of course, I'll have to tell them it's an American Indian artifact made out of hemp to get them to buy it.

Oh, and did you notice the unplanted planter next to the heater? I don't know if that adds, or detracts from the picture. I mean, on one hand it is filled with weeds, and untended, so it just kind of underscores the whole "I wash myself with a rag on a stick" vibe. However, it also is a planter, and from Smith and Hawken, so it makes it look like we care about things like gardening, and eating vegetables.

I wonder how hard it would be to put a Chevy up on blocks. That would make an awesome planter, with the exact vibe the neighborhood needs...

Read more →

Not Amused

I am with Luke and Amaya today at the local amusement park -- Lagoon. I swear to God people morph into hicks the second they walk through the gates. I don't see these types of people anywhere else, except maybe the fair. It makes me wonder how I appear to others while I am visiting this vat of humanity. Has my shirt gotten tighter? My pants, shorter? My hair, bigger? I do feel like I am covered in some sort of film, but that could be the snow cones the kids have insisted on having, but that they don't want to hold.

I really wish I could show you some of the sights I am seeing. I mean, the parenting moments alone are priceless. TWICE I have heard someone say "I will give you something to cry about." Unfortunately, I forgot my camera.

Of course, my lack of photographic equipment has afforded me the opportunity to play some of my favorite games. The first, of course, is "Your Team." You play it by pointing out the people who are on other people's teams. For instance, teens making out in inappropriate places are all over the park, and they are all on Tara's team. Kids pouting, while wearing black, and cursing their parents for making them come on a family outing are all on Ryan's team -- especially if they are carrying a book. Oh, and anyone who has spilled on their shirts in an overly conspicuous way is wearing a "Team Libby" jersey.

My other favorite game is "Rocker Couple or Lesbian Couple." This one takes more skill. You come up behind a couple, preferably mulleted (easy to find at any amusement park) and make your guess. I would say I am right 60 percent of the time. Oh, and before you scoff, try playing. Like whack-a-mole, it is harder than you think. Eventually I am hoping to find a Rocker Lesbian Couple, and then I will die happy.

Oh, and I have developed a new game today -- "Which One is the Mom." You see, here in Utah, people breed young, which means there are lots of multi-generational clans. So, what I do is a pick a family pack with one or more strollers, and try to pick the Moms. Once again, not as easy as it looks. You know what, though? Seeing an obvious mother and daughter pair, each with their own baby, made it all worth while...

All I can hope is that eventually I get out of here, hopefully with my dignity, and bank account, in tact. That second one might be more difficult, since I am with two children, and have a "sucker" sign on my forehead.

Okay, gotta go on the log flume. Yes, I have typed this entire post while waiting in line.

Read more →

Damn You, Mother Nature

Warning: This blog post contains petty bitching. Proceed at your own risk.

I had a whole day full of activities planned. Fun activities. Active activities. Activities that would provide me with a week's worth of blog posts. Outdoor activities. I am not doing any of them though, because it is fucking raining.

This is how my day should have gone:

• Meet friends for brunch at charming canyon restaurant with a lovely patio.
• Go to the gay pride parade.
  
• Come home and replant hen and chicks that have outgrown planter in the front yard.
  
• Walk Sally down to the park to throw bread at the young geese that are just getting ready to take off.
  
• Make bacon wrapped asparagus to take to a barbecue with Ryan's colleagues.
  
• Go to said barbecue and bask in the warm weather, playing with the kids I love to see.
  

How my day has actually gone:

• Meet friends at charming canyon restaurant, find out patio is closed, and so the wait is 40 to 50 minutes. Wait in the rain for a table.
  
• Enjoy brunch, but wonder what the hell I am going to do for the rest of the day.
  
• Think about going to the pride parade, but decide not to. Not even the promise of hot wet gay men can get me motivated.
  
• Come home and wrap asparagus in bacon, while grousing about how much this day sucks until Ryan finally pours me a glass of wine -- at 12:15.
  
• Watch Ryan try to get Sally to go out for a walk, and then watch him chase her around because she hates the rain, but still has way to much pent up energy.
  
• Bitch blog about the day.
  
• Nap, hoping skies might clear before this afternoon.
  

Oh, and it's not enough that it's raining, it's actually cold. We had to turn the heat back on. I am wearing a sweater. We both have the sniffles from sleeping with the swamp cooler on, not realizing that the weather was about to drastically change overnight.

Watch, it will be sunny tomorrow -- when I am at work.

Read more →

On His Birthday??!!?

This technically isn't a blooper, because I'm sure it was scripted this way, but you have to question the anchor's delivery. Or maybe he just really doesn't like the guy he is replacing...

Read more →

Death Threats Aren't Funny

There are many advantages to work the off shift in a television news room. Those of us who work outside of the 9 to 5 have formed our own little society with our own set of rules. Don't want to wear shoes? We don't care! Hungry? As long as you bring enough for all we will gladly cover for you while you run out and get a snack! Not in a great mood? We all understand, and will keep our distance. Of course, life in the early hours isn't always candy and roses. There is the issue of the phone. Between the hours of 7pm and 9am there are no receptionists on duty, so those of us who just happen to be in the newsroom are left to answer calls. Of course, these are the hours when the "interesting" people come out to play.

During my time in news I have taken many strange phone calls. Most of them are just lonely people who want someone to talk to, and if we have time, most of us are glad to listen for a moment. However, there are a few that stand out in a crowd. For instance, there was one man who had gotten caught shoplifting at a local thrift store owned by a religious organization. He claimed he had been "framed" and was going to sue the store, the church, and Jesus Christ himself. I probably should have hung up on him when he said that, but it was 2am and I was tired, so I let him keep talking. I mean, until he asked if I would be a character witness. Then I found a reason I had to quickly get off the phone. Another time a guy called from the lobby, claiming he had discovered a new kind of dinosaur, and that he had pictures to prove it -- I just had to let him in. Um, no. I told him if he wanted to leave them with the security guard I would look at them and give them a call. So he did. His new dinosaur? A line of rocks sticking out of the soil. Oh, and that wasn't the best part. He wanted to call it the "Dianasaurus" after Princess Diana. I'm sure she would have been touched.

Of course, my experiences pale in comparison to the call taken by Sloane, a producer on the morning show this morning. I could recap it, but instead I'll let his e-mail tell the tale...

It's no big deal at this point - but I thought I should let you know a slightly unhinged woman made a death threat against me this morning - and a bomb threat against this building.

It started when she called demanding that I send a crew to meet her at Provo City Cemetery. She claimed she had the answers to all of the world's problems, but outside of that - she didn't explain what the cameras would see.

She said "I am a genius, and can prove it." She asked that I make those arrangements and then call her back when the crew was on its way.

I told her, I would try - but don't expect a call.

Of course - when I didn't call - she called back.

LIVID. PISSED OFF.

I've never heard someone call me a "motherf--ker" so many times in one conversation; well except perhaps when I was living in the dorms at the University of Wyoming - but that was on more friendly terms and involved alcohol.

Anyhow, she called me incompetent, and demanded I write on a piece a paper that she was gay and she loved her country. Then she said she would drive up from her apartment in Provo - find me and kill me. And if she didn't find me - she'd bomb the entire station - UNLESS I call Provo Police and have them come to her apartment.

So - I called Provo Police.

I really don't think she intended to carry out her threats, but obviously she was unhinged and I feared she would at least harm herself.

A few minutes later, I got a call from Sgt. Crosby. They found her outside her apt in perhaps what they thought was a suicidal state, and possibly threatening harm against her "wife." He told me that they've had several run ins with her before - but never found her threatening. But, again, I doubt and the Provo police doubted she'd come up her and bomb the station or anything else.

But I thought you should know what happened. I also gave heads up to security.

Sloane went into the wrong business. He should be writing for Letterman. Or working as a crisis counselor. Honestly, I don’t think there is a person in the newsroom that would have handled it with more aplomb. I mean, maybe one of the receptionists, but then they wouldn't have summed it up so well.

I love my job.

Read more →

Can't Fight Comfort

I am not the snappiest of dressers. Most days I wear a variation of my uniform, and I only wear heels on very special occasions, or when I am feeling like a masochist. I just can't understand the whole heel wearing thing. Yes, wearing them makes me taller, which is excellent considering I am only three inches away from technically being a little person. And yes, they make my legs better, because they force all of the leg's muscles to flex, creating a more pleasing line. However, they also make me want to cry because they hurt my Flintstones like feet so much. So, I stick to Crocs.

There is a woman in my office, Candice, who, unlike me, is always dressed fashionably, from her head to he her toes. She is the kind of co-ordinates her jewelry with her clothes, and shoes. Oh, and she wears heels. Almost every day she has on a different pair of heels. Most are of the garden variety, with a one or two inch rise, but yesterday, she went for the gusto -- and was wearing these beauties.

Just looking at them makes me start to whimper. So, Candice was enjoying her day, looking very put together, towering over everyone around her, and walking only short distances. Then, the unthinkable happened. It was time to go get lunch. She started out the door, only to come hobbling back a few moments later, defeated by her beautiful shoes. So, we made a deal...I think she looks nice in my Crocs. Very European. She asked me if I wanted to wear her heels while she was gone, but I was very content just to pad around the newsroom barefoot for a half hour until she came back. I don't think anyone even noticed I wasn't wearing shoes. Or maybe they all just hate Crocs so much they were happy not to look at them. No matter what they look like though, they are the ultimate comfort shoe. And sometimes that is just what you need.

Just ask Candice.

Read more →

I Am The Only Queen

Ryan and I have an agreement -- I take care of things on the inside, and he takes care of things on the outside. Yes, yes, I realize that it is a very 1950's division of labor, and that Gloria Steinem will bitch slap me if we ever meet, but it's really the best situation for us. Ryan hates vacuuming and the smell of lemon pledge, and nothing makes me more uncomfortable than dirt in my shoes or under my nails. We really only trade off on two things: laundry (which Ryan has insisted on doing ever since I magically made a load of his shirts two sizes smaller and pink using just hot water and a red rag), and insect removal (because I like bugs).

When I say "I like bugs" I am not talking in a weird, little kid, entomologist kind of way. I don't have a collection of potato bugs munching on leaves in a jar in my kitchen, and I don't have to identify the species and genus of every creepy crawlie around me. I like them in the whole "I wouldn't want to be squished either" way. I figure, if they aren't harming me, I shouldn't be harming them. I mean, unless they are box elder bugs, and then they are SO DEAD! Little fuckers, thinking they can just take over my house, I'll show them! Sorry, digression. Ryan is more of a "kill 'em all" person when it comes to insect control, so you can see why I like to get to them first, if for no other reason than to keep our karma in tact. Of course, before this weekend I had never come up against something like this...

Yep, that's a wasp's nest, right on my front porch. Of course, wasps are nothing new around our house, since the fruit trees make it a paradise for them. We've even had to deal with their dwellings before, but they have been of the much smaller, apartment home variety.

See, those are easy to deal with. You can see if there are any wasps in them, and act accordingly. However, with a nest you can't be sure if anyone is home, or if they are going to come out and sting you to death when you knock on the door. Ryan said I shouldn't worry about it, that he would get some spray, which immediately made me put any fear aside and try and get rid of the nest humanely. After all, if Jesus is currently reincarnated as a wasp I would rather he be mad at me for making him homeless, than ending his life.

Saturday night when Ryan went out, I went to work. I put on jeans, a long sleeve shirt, a hat, and sunglasses. Then I tied a bandanna across my face, and grabbed the broom. I looked like I was from the Eazy E cleaning service, but I didn't care, it was wasp moving day.

I wish I could tell you it was all dramatic, but really, the only interesting thing was my outfit. I walked out on the porch. I knocked the nest down. One wasp flew out, and very anxiously and angrily flew around before taking off. I was sure he would be coming back with reinforcements, but I think he just found another place to live. A couple hours later I went out and sprayed the area with liquid soap to keep the wasp from rebuilding (thanks Mom!), picked up the nest and put it in a plastic bag so Amaya can take it to school. Dullsville.

Now the only thing I have to deal with are the ants on the sidewalk. Not nearly as exciting... I mean, unless radioactivity somehow makes them super ants. But that probably won't happen.

Read more →