Good-bye, Kitty

Our cat, Rita, died last Friday. We had her put to sleep after her diabetes got the better of her. I wasn't going to write anything about it. I mean, I was, but then the weekend happened, and I got pissed about other things, and I thought I was okay. After all, she was 13, and sick, and it's more about quality of life than quantity.

Then yesterday I came home from work, put Meg in her pajamas, put on my nightgown, got in bed, and fell apart. I have been in a funk ever since. So, I am hoping that writing about Rita will help -- at least little bit.

I got Rita in 1997, four months after I moved to Washington D.C. I didn't get her in Washington though, because people there actually spay and neuter their animals. No, Rita came from a backwoods farm in North Carolina on a trip to visit my parents. She, and about 3-million other kittens, were in a guinea pig hutch. I looked in, unsure who to pick, until she climbed up my body to my shoulder and looked at me as if to say "let's go." We were thick as thieves from that moment on.

Yes, those are laser eyes...

I was the only person Rita liked, and even that was intermittent. My Mom claims that at one point she had to call for help when Rita cornered her in my kitchen while cat sitting. I don't know if that is true, but I do know she tried to end Ryan's life several times when he came on the scene. One night especially stands out in my mind: Ryan awoke to find that Rita had used a single claw to open a deep scratch all the way down his side. "Why did that have to happen," he asked. The answer? Only Rita knew.

Rita may have been a bitch, but she saved my life. I was so crazy in my early 20's that I didn't know which end was up. I drank too much, I dated bad men, and I harmed myself in any way possible. However, whenever I thought of going to real extremes, I thought of Rita. Who would care for her if I wasn't around? NO ONE WOULD DARE. So, I had to be there. And she was there for me.

I would tell you about the end, about the seizures, and the turkey we fed her, and about the many times we thought she was checking out, only to have her rally again, but I would rather your last image of Rita not be of her infirm and dying, but alive and sassy. In the first year after I got her, I took Rita everywhere. That meant when I drove from D.C. to N.C., she went with me. Not in a cage though, but looking out the window. She would lay across my shoulders, looking out the window, grabbing bites of Taco Bell burrito, and having the time of her life. I think she even tried to flash her boobs at truckers.

I hope I did right by her. I know she did right by me.

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Hustled

Warning: This is a rant about my anger at a bank. Read at your own risk.

Recently, my husband and I were taken for 465 dollars. No, we weren't taken in a confidence scheme by a man with a mysterious scar named Lefty. We didn't buy a share in a hot new resort being built in Haiti. We didn't invest money with a man promising big returns named Vernie Manoff. Instead, we were swindled by our mortgage lender, who is probably your mortgage lender too: Citimortgage.

It started in August. Ryan and I were thinking about the future and how we could start saving. We had just adopted Meg, and wanted to start thinking not just like adults, but parents. When the letter from Citi arrived, offering us a lower rate if we would take on a 20 year mortgage, for just a slightly higher monthly payment, we thought it was a sign. We jumped at the chance. After all, how could we lose? The letter called us "good long standing customers." It was like getting a financial hug.

I called the number. I talked to Kimberly. She applauded our responsible decision and congratulated us on the baby. She told me there would be a $465 application fee, but that it was "no big deal" because when the refinancing was finalized we would skip a month of payments. It would all be even Steven. We signed the papers, we paid the money, and we waited.

And nothing happened. Really, the silence was deafening.

Finally, at the start of this month, I got a call from a new loan officer, Vanessa. Everything was fine, she said, the underwriter was just finishing up. Then, she disappeared. Oh, she was virtually there, with an email account and a phone number where we could leave messages that were never returned, and a fax line that was always busy, but we couldn't actually communicate with her.

Today I called, and, instead of leaving a message, pressed "0" to talk to another agent. It was then I was told the refinance had been rejected, earlier this month actually, and that the application fee, you know, the one that was "no big deal" was non-refundable. I argued with the woman, and then I asked to speak to her supervisor and argued with him. I asked why we hadn't heard from them. He told me a letter had been sent out, and that he had no idea why we hadn't gotten it. I was amazed he was using the "lost in the mail" excuse, but I regrouped. I told him we would good customers. I told him about my conversations with Kimberly (who he claimed no longer worked there), I told him we would take our mortgage elsewhere. He didn't care about any of it. All he seemed to care about is that Citi got to keep my $465.

I don't really know what to do now. I filed a complaint with the FTC, and will file one with the Better Business Bureau. I do not expect to get my money back, or to take my mortgage elsewhere. After all, if my own lender does this to me what will happen elsewhere? Also, I kind have had all the fight knocked out of me. I guess that's what they were counting on.

Still, it would have been better if my loan officer had been named Lefty. At least it would have been a better story to tell.

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What is Your Baby Wearing?

Buying clothes for a baby is not an easy proposition. On one hand, there are clothes everywhere, in every store, all crying out "cute." On the other hand, most of those clothes are either poorly made, feature evil cartoon icons of corporations, or are so "cute" that they make any rational adult want to puke. Oh, and on the third hand the well made, cute, but not too cute, comfortable baby clothes cost more than anyone should pay for an outfit that will be worn maybe twice and vomited on repeatedly -- I mean, unless you're Lindsey Lohan.

I feel like we have really lucked out when it comes to Meg's clothes. We have many, many people who have given us wonderful hand me downs, and we have discovered that, for the most part, clothes by Carter's are economical, well made, and just cutesy enough to be darling without making me need insulin. However, I am starting to notice some nefarious undertones in their garments. Take this one for example:


At first glance it looks like a basic nightgown featuring good animal friends and the words "I love hugs." Really, who doesn't? Well, I don't really, but that's another post. Let's go back to the nightie, and look a little closer...

How many people, or animals do you know that give hugs right under the jawbone, covering the trachea? Unless you know a lot of serial killers, I am betting none. That elephant is not hugging that giraffe, he is trying to kill it. "I love hugs?" More like "I love inter species hate crimes." Oh, and that's not all. I give you, the jacket:

Try to ignore the adorable baby and focus on the ears on the hood. You cannot buy a Carter's jacket without them. It's almost like the CEO of the company has seen "The Island of Doctor Moreau" one too many times and declared all babies must look like genetic experiments. Luckily they look like cute genetic experiments.

I makes me wonder if I should listen to Barney CDs backwards to listen for satanic messages. Wait, you can hear those forwards, can't you?

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Making Deals

We had one little baby, and yet our laundry has tripled. Yes, I know, babies go through clothes quickly, spiting up and having diaper blow outs -- and that then there are the sheets, and the blankets, and the socks, and the burp cloths, all of which have to be washed at the first sign of dirt, but I just don't see how it all adds up. Yesterday I spent putting away a pile of laundry almost taller than I am, and today I went into the basement to find it growing again.

I started to think that maybe I could make Meg a "free range" baby, and just put papers down for her "leavings," but then I realized I would like to keep custody of her. Then I considered asking Ryan not to wear shirts, but I have heard that song "Don't Stand so Close to Me," and I have seen the girls at Ryan's school. No one could resist that gorgeous hunk of man. Of course, once I came to my senses, I realized I shouldn't make my baby or my husband suffer, so I needed to make the sacrifice, like June Cleaver, Claire Huxtable, or the Tooth Fairy.

So, from now on, no pants.

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My Gift to You

The re-gift. There is not a person in the world who has not given one, or received one. Anyone who says different is either clueless, or lying. Everyone has had that moment when they have hastily wrapped something because they have either forgotten a gift giving occasion, are totally broke, or don't really care about the person getting said gift. And who hasn't opened a present only to find that the box has been opened, or there is Christmas wrap stuck to the back (oh, and it's not Christmas), or that the item in question was produced in 1985. NO ONE! We all do it. We all re-gift, and accept re-gifted items. So, I think it's time we all just admit, and be open about it.

Think of it this way: regifting is green gifting. Instead of taxing the earth to buy a new item, the giver is using something already here, and making sure it is not thrown away in vain (or put in a basement to gather dust). We should regift with pride! Wrap that piece of crap we didn't want in plastic grocery bags and write a card on the back of a magazine subscription card just to let everyone know how ecologically friendly it is.

Of course, while those regifting should do so with the zeal and self-satisfaction of Prius owners, they should also expect a little mocking and derision -- like Prius owners. The person receiving the regift should be allowed to recognize it, and loudly tell the story about it. For instance, my sister received a set of goblets for her wedding that had not been sold at the store in question for more than a decade. And they were not pretty goblets at all -- they were like something out of "Labyrinth." She should be able to tell that story with vigor, milking it for every laugh she can get -- especially when the regifter is present. After all, if they can't enjoy the story as well, what the point?

Oh, one more thing, the person getting the regift shouldn't have to write a thank you note. After all, if ecology is the point, do we really want to kill a tree to write a thank you note? Or, if a thank you note is required, I think the receiver should be allowed to send a thank you note previously sent to them. Think of the possibilities! Give a baby blanket, get a note for a chafing dish! Give a chafing dish, get a note for crotchless panties. It would be like a weird "Choose Your Own Adventure" book!

I am so glad I thought of this before the holidays! Or, rather, that I was forced to think of it. I mean, really, who gives a change purse as a baby gift? Turning it into a positive though, because I am sure my sister needs a change purse! And my nieces need "doll" clothes that Meg has grown out of! Oh, I can't wait to shopping in my basement -- and save the world.

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Crossing a Line

There are some crimes I can understand. Embezzlement. Shoplifting. Monkey theft. I am not saying I would, or have, committed them, but I can understand why people do. There are others that are harder to comprehend, like murder or kidnapping. And then there is the one I will never get: child sex abuse -- specifically those cases that involve a teacher having a relationship with a student. It isn't that I don't understand wanting to have sex. Or wanting to abuse power. It's the fact that any adult, with any adult dating experience, would want to have that type of relationship with a teenager. After all, teens are gross.

My husband is a teacher, my Mom is a teacher, and quite a few of my friends are teachers as well. Because of that, I am in schools, and around kids, quite a bit, and I have observed their grossness firsthand. They dress horribly. They eat disgusting things in a disgusting manner. They talk loudly, and about ridiculous things. Oh, and they smell. If it isn't body odor, it's too much cologne. Really, I think the only reason teenagers are attracted to each other is that their brains and/or olfactory senses are not fully developed.

How desperate and/or stupid does someone have to be to overlook all of the things that make a teen a teen? Even worse, how desperate and/or stupid and/or deluded does someone have to be to convince themselves that it is a "real" relationship. It is bad enough when we report on teachers that have abused their power and entered into a sexual relationship with a student. It is even worse when they try to justify their actions by claiming to be "in love." Oh, really. What is it that sealed the relationship? A shared love of the Jonas Brothers? Those long conversations that center around bad poetry and reality television? Or maybe it's the belief that showering is not necessary as long as Axe body spray is available?

Just gross.

What really makes me angry (outside of the emotional/physical damage done to the victims) is that for each of these emotionally stunted predators there are dozens of good teachers, who really care about kids, who have to deal with the fallout. Every teacher I know lives in fear of being accused of improper dealings with a student. All new teachers in the state of Utah must now take a seminar about proper teacher student relationships, as if they are all potential predators. Why? Because a handful of their colleagues have no moral compass and lousy taste in who to date.

Nope, I don't get it.

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How Lovely to be a Woman

I am all about being a woman. I have never, and will never, wish to be a dude, even on days that I am bloated beyond belief or seemingly hemorrhaging pain as my uterus tries to make a break for it. I love being a woman even though I make less money than my male counterparts, and most likely always will. After all, money can't buy not having genitalia that looks like a reject from the Henson Creature Workshop. I mean, really, you can see variations of female genitals in all kinds of fine art. However, the only place you see representations of male genitals are porn and weapons. (And yes, I know there are plenty of penises in art, but they are just realistic penises, not artistic musings, and most of them are really small. Um, David, are you cold?).

While I love being a woman, I think there are limits. You know, like standing naked in the gym locker room and putting in a tampon while other people are around (true story). Or, wearing a representation of your vulva around your neck.

Really, who would wear one of these? Who is so confident about their vagina, no matter how pretty, that they are willing to wear it around their neck? I mean, I wear a necklace with the letters M.E.G on it and get questions. I can only imagine the queries one of these beauties would bring up.

Stranger: Is that an orchid?
Me: No, it's a sculpture of my labia.
Stranger: Oh.

Like I don't have enough problems with HR.

Of course, if I don't want to wear my vagina (not vajayjay, no bajingo or whatever cute name prime time wants to think up) around my neck, there are other options. The artist who makes these unique pieces also offers "uterus plushies" or "I love my vagina" mugs. I guess because a home isn't a home without a pussy -- er, a cat.

While I don't think I want to own any of these objets d'art, I will still be buying some of them. After all. Christmas is coming up, and I still haven't decided what to get Tara. I just know I want it to be something personal.

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Nonplussed

I have worked (full time) in television news for thirteen years now. Yeah, that sounds sad to me too. In the time that I have been in this profession I have learned many things. For instance, almost everyone in this industry has a deep seated fear of being left out. Also, free food is like crack to us. Oh, and we can all predict the future.

Don't worry, people in the media aren't all savants that are drawn to the business because of our magical powers. If that were the fact at least one of us would have warned NBC about the Jay Leno disaster. We can tell the future, because we have seen it all before. Man who claims he was kidnapped by mysterious assailants? Faked it. Politician says he isn't lying? He is. Balloon boy? Not in the balloon.

Let me tell you what happens, at least twice a month, in every newsroom in America: a child is reported missing, and a camera crew is dispatched. Is the child really missing? No. Is the child sleeping at a friends house, or in a place other than their bed? Yes. Did the parents look ANYWHERE before calling the police? No. Really, it has gotten to the point where the words "missing child" make me roll my eyes rather than say a prayer. And I live in the land of Elizabeth Smart.

The balloon boy thing did have a few "wild card" factors that made it a bit to figure out. His brother said he saw him get into the balloon. His parents are clearly nuts. His name is Falcon. However, the law of averages still says he was just fine, and in a place someone should have looked BEFORE they called CNN. You know, like a box in the attic.

Oh, well, there's always next time. Until then, I really hope someone sends some muffins to the newsroom. I am craving carbs.

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Bread Alone

I am (once again) on Weight Watchers. For those of you keeping track at home this is the fourth time, and the second time I have actually lost weight. It is also the first time I have ever gone to the meetings. I blame that on my friend Meghan, and her sick sense of humor. Doesn't she know it's much easier to lie about your weight when you do it at home and enter it on line? Well, if she does she doesn't show it.

The meeting we go to is full of crazy people, including one woman who yells out "steamed vegetables" whenever the leader asks for weight loss tips. Actually, if the people in the meeting weren't fat, I would swear it was a meeting of people with eating disorders, and who don't want to get rid of them. Really, you should hear them talk about how to lose weight. All of the "tricks." You know, like only eating the egg whites. Filling up on water before you eat so you can't eat much. Taking bites of a forbidden food and then spitting it out. I am expecting a lecture on laxatives any day now the way things are going.

I am not saying that I haven't learned anything useful. For instance, I have found that I actually prefer olive oil on pasta instead of butter. That there are ways to prepare vegetables that makes them not taste like vegetables. That there are whole wheat pastas that don't taste like whole wheat pastas. Oh, and that there is no real substitute for bread -- no matter how hard they try to pretend.


Above is the bread Weight Watchers recommends. Sara Lee "Delightful." You can eat two slices of it for one point. For those of you who don't know the system, I won't explain it so your head won't explode. Just know that normal bread is one slice for two points. Really good bread (like Great Harvest) is three points. So, I could trade one slice of really good bread for six slices of the Sara Lee. Oh, and then I could use those six slices as coasters.

The people at Weight Watchers claim this bread is "just as good" especially when it comes to making sandwiches. Well, I guess, but in order to make it palatable I had to greatly go over my point with fillings. Mustard is supposed to be a "zero points" add on, but I had to put so much on it counted as seven. I am guessing the people who like it are not really carb addicts like me, and are willing to eat this so they can enjoy things like bacon. I, personally, would rather have the turkey stuff, and eat real bread.

And I am not even going to spit it out.

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WARNING: CUTE BABY POST

Today I almost wrote one of those awful "I have nothing to blog about" blog posts. Yes, I know, it's sad but true. I was actually two paragraphs into it before I realized I wold rather claw my eyes out than read such a post, and that it wouldn't be fair to inflict one on you. I sat at my computer, staring at the screen, trying to think of something else to say, other than the fact I have nothing to say. I thought about writing on how Barney Frank should be helping the equal rights cause instead of acting like an old bitter queen. I thought about defending Obama's peace prize win, even though I was a bit taken aback by it myself. Of course, then I realized that if I was going to tackle stale topics I might as well just write about who is cuter: Luke or Han. I was always a Luke girl myself, I don't care what anyone says. He was the Jedi, none of it would have happened without him, so just shut it about Han's smoldering looks and charisma. I don't want to hear it.

I think you can all see my dilemma.

So, what, I am sure you are asking, is the point of this post. Have I tricked you into reading a post about how I have nothing to write about, by writing about how much I hate such posts? Well, kinda, but it's worth it, because, without further ado I give you -- wait for it -- MEG IN HATS!!!

One hat...

Two hat.

Red(ish) hat...

Blue hat.

Some hats have birds...

And some are birds.

And some will fit a little later.

Yeah, I know it's a cop out, but I figure since Meg is the reason I have nothing to say (I mean, other than silly baby goop), she might as well pull her weight and help me out with a post. I think it's only fair. After all, I made Sally wear hats after she ate our sofa.

Yeah, okay, I'll keep this post to show to Meg's therapist later. I'll put it in the file with the others...

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Walking the Park

It was a perfect fall day for a walk. Not to hot, not too cold. Sun shining, but not in that obnoxious "oh, look at me, I'm the sun" way. The dog was restless, and Ryan and I needed exercise after gorging ourselves on dim sum. We decided to hit the park. We bundled up Meg, and were off. Oh, and the moment we started walking, she was out.

The park nearest to our house is the largest in the city, kind of like the central park of Utah. Ours just has fewer millionaires, and more dirty hippies. On Sunday it is filled with all sorts of different people, most of whom make me feel much better about myself... For instance, there were these guys:

Yes, they are playing beach volleyball in a sand pit that most likely is home to numerous used needles, and E.coli. And they are playing in it without shoes or shirts. I guess some people really like knowing how they are going to die.

This is the weekly "drum circle" that takes place in the park every Sunday. Basically it's just a time for people to smoke marijuana in front of their kids under the guise of a "cultural event." Still, it is nice to know there is still a market for tye dye and patchouli in Salt Lake. Oh, and by nice, I mean horrifying.

Those people are walking on a tightrope. And they weren't the only tightrope group in the park. Actually, I counted three groups total playing on tightropes today. I guess it's the new thing. Better than sword swallowing...

Of course there were tons of dogs in the park. This one was my favorite. He wasn't pulling much, but he was pulling it with gusto. And he still found time to bark at every person and animal that walked by him.

We returned home feeling lighter, less jumpy, and a lot more in tune with our neighborhood. Yep, it was a perfect fall day for a walk.

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Three Months

From this:To this:I am pretty sure the baby in the second picture ate our baby and took her place. There really is no other way to explain it. I mean, look at her. How could a little person change so much in such a short time? Luckily, this replacement baby is pretty cute, and sleeps through the night, so we are willing to go along with her little charade.

This last month has been epic in watching Meg develop a personality. First of all, she discovered pouting. Now, if we are doing something that displeases her she sticks out her lower lip and looks away. She can keep it up for a while too if she is really unhappy, but we don't mind because it is so damn adorable. Meg has also become more willful this month, especially when it comes to sleep. While she doesn't mind actually being asleep, she hates getting there, and most nights will fight it like a piranha. She spits out her pacifier, wriggles in her blanket, and scrunches up her face like she is going to explode. After about three of those displays though she has worn herself out and has no choice but to doze off, usually with a little grin on her face.

The best thing about the new Meg is her voice. She is talking up a storm. In the morning she is especially chatty, telling us about her night, and what she wants to do that day. At least I think that's what is it, I don't speak baby. Oh, and she sings. Whenever I am singing to her she just coos along, watching my lips like she is trying to remember the lyrics. She is a big fan of show tunes, especially anything Julie Andrews.

I really cannot believe it's been three months. Everyone told us it would fly by, but I thought they were just being jerks. Turns out they were right, and the newborn stage just slipped through our fingers. Now I feel like I am spending every second watching Meg, hoping to memorize what she is like as a baby, because she won't be one for very long.

Oh, how I love my girl.

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It's Snot Funny

I grew up here in Utah, which means that I started babysitting immediately after I passed the age when I needed a babysitter myself. My first babysitting job was at the ripe old age of 11, for my cousin Elliott, who lived a block away. My parents always made sure they were home if I needed help, but after a year or two, and no noticeable physical or emotional scars on E-boy they let me branch out, and babysit for kids not related to me.

I think what made me a great babysitter was the fact that very little grossed me out. Poopy diapers? No big deal. Wet pants? Whatever. Vomiting? I pretended I was in the "Exorcist." I didn't even mind cleaning up after pets, as I learned one night when family's Husky got skunked. I covered my nose, grabbed some V-8 and made it into a game for me and the kids. Really, in all my years dealing with children, only one thing made my stomach turn and had me recoiling in horror: the snotty nose. And this week, I had to face my fears head on.

I mentioned last week that I had a cold. Well, since Ryan, Meg and I live in a space smaller than most shoe boxes, Meg now has it too. She doesn't have a fever, she isn't unhappy, but, man, is she a snot face. She can't lie down, or else she sounds like the star of "Cujo." She eats, but now at least twice a bottle she erupts in coughs as she realizes she can either eat or breathe, but can't do both at once. Oh, and tummy time is out right now. Well, I guess we could do it, if we don't mind cleaning up puddles of mucous and knowing our infant is plotting our deaths.

I would love to say that because the snot was coming out of the nose of my beautiful daughter I was not grossed out. I would love to say that. I would also love to say I weigh 120 pounds. However, neither are true. The first time I had to wipe Meg's nose I had to stifle a gag. All yesterday, and for most of today, Ryan handled the saline dispensing, and nose sucking duties. I focused on keeping her upright, fed, and smiley.

This afternoon though, Ryan wasn't home. And the snot needed to come out.

I don't really want to focus on the details. If you have ever read "Heart of Darkness" you already know them anyway. Suffice to say saline was used, mucous came out, there was wiping, a little whimpering, and in the end both Meg and I were smiling once again. Oh, and no wine or pain killers were used, or even wanted. Well, I guess I can only speak for me, Meg may have been wishing for Xanax. She got a bottle though, and that seemed to be enough for her.

I guess if it wasn't, at least she and Elliott will have something to talk about at family reunions. I mean, other than about how awesome I am.

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I Feel Fine

I grew up almost positive that I would die in a nuclear war. Reagan, Gorbachev, Robards -- all of these men convinced me that I would most likely die in a horrible explosion. I wasn't happy about the fact, just resigned to it. And I knew I didn't want to live through it. There was no way I wanted to be one of the "lucky" who made it through a nuclear holocaust. My Mom used to say that when she heard the attack was coming she was going to paint a bulls eye on our roof, and sit in the middle of it eating a bag of chocolate chips and drinking a bottle of wine. I planned to be next to her. The latest spate of Hollywood movies have done little to change my mind.

Has anyone else noticed that the end of the world is the latest movie trend? Today Ryan and I went to see one of the lighter of the latest spate of "disaster porn" -- "Zombieland." It was okay, not the best movie I have ever seen, but hardly the worst. What really got me though wasn't the movie itself, but the previews. For 20 minutes we watched trailer after trailer for movies about the end of the world, and the "lucky" few who survive it. "2012." 'The Road." "Legion." "Couple's Retreat." Each painted a picture more horrible than the one before, and each made me wonder, what happened to Julia Roberts romantic comedies?

All the way home I tried to wrap my brain around why there is such a surge in these movies. After all, since Bush has been out of office, I thought we were feeling more optimistic. Then I realized that this is nothing new, but that this time I am just paying attention.

There have always been apocalyptic cults, and every generation has been sure they will see the end of the world. I think it's a bragging thing. I mean, who wouldn't want to go to heaven and be able to claim they were there at the end? It would certainly give you more cache than those who simply choked on a Brazil nut. However, the poor sap with the Brazil nut didn't have to watch everyone and everything around him die, pretty sure he was next.

Of course, a Brazil nut death doesn't make a good movie. Neither would my Mom and me sitting on the roof with our wine and chocolate. But really, if it is Armageddon, who is going to be thinking about lighting and camera angles anyway?

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