Thankful?

Hell yeah.

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There Will Be Rolls

My family does not think I am a good cook. Probably because I am not. I mean sure, when I follow a recipe I can make things that are edible, but who really wants to follow a recipe? I am a free spirit, going where my culinary whims take me, and enjoying the results. The fact that other people can't enjoy them as well is not my problem. For instance, I will never believe that a grilled pretzel, butter, peanut butter, and cheese sandwich is not a taste treat. And I will not be ashamed that is the pinnacle of my cooking adventures.

While I am not ashamed of my cooking adventures, I am always a little hurt that they don't ask me to bring anything to family dinners. While my sisters and Mom divvy up the dishes, the answer when I ask what I can bring is always the same: wine. It doesn't matter if I have just perfected a recipe for roasted brussel sprouts and apples, or figured out a way to crust pork with Cheetos without making either mushy, they just want me to bring wine. Oh, unless I am working on wine recipes, then they say they just want my company.

This Thanksgiving though, they messed up. They asked me to bring rolls. And I am going to make this Thanksgiving all about bread.

You think I am just going to pick up a couple bags of rolls from the grocery store? You don't know me very well. I will be baking them myself. Oh, and I will not just be baking one kind. There will be white AND whole wheat. Oh, and there may even be buttermilk biscuits. Or maybe some type of "herbed" roll. Of course, none will actually shaped like rolls, or at least what you call "rolls." I see turkeys, and flowers, and Cloverfield aliens. Family members won't want to eat the rolls, because they will appear to be works of art, but they will have no choice, because they will be so delicious.

This year: rolls. Next year: the turkey. The turkey which will be stuffed with pretzels and Kraft singles. Victory will be mine.

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It's Kind of Hurty

Tara and I have a new favorite game. Like most of our games, it centers on pain and mocking. Unfortunately, most of the pain and mocking is aimed at ourselves. The game is called "guess who's pregnant." I don't think we invented it, I think it has been played by every woman dealing with infertility since, well, since infertility became a concern. However, while it may not be a new game, I think Tara and I have perfected it.

First of all, there is the fact that we can usually guess who, in fact, is pregnant on either the first or second try. Yes, that might have something to do with our small circle of friends, but I like to think it's because we are both actually kind of psychic. Then, there is the fact that we can both instantly come up with at least five reasons why it is unfair said person is pregnant instead of us. You know, because they already have two beautiful children, or we know they will name them something dumb, or because said person is a dude, reasons like that. Further, without even stopping to think, we both can come up with why this person is more deserving of being pregnant, and why both of our wombs will likely stay empty and gathering cobwebs until the end of time. This is where the game gets good. Where we were both united on the last two rounds, now it's every woman for herself, until the last, most pathetic one, is left standing. I have to say that since we have adopted Meg it has been harder for me to win this round, since Tara now has the "you have a baby" card to play, but sometimes, when I am really working it, I can still pull out a win.

Yes, yes , I know this game is not constructive, and possibly hurtful to all involved, but that's how we roll. Also, I hate to tell you all this, but optimism never actually got anyone pregnant. Also, I know that when the answer to the question "guess who's pregnant" is either me or Tara we will both be too overjoyed to play.

But I'm sure there will be other women dealing with infertility willing to play for us.

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We Should Have Named Her Tony Danza

I didn't realize there was a power vacuum in our home until Olive arrived. She has come into the house like a hurricane, eating what she wants, sleeping where she wants, and letting Sally, Alice, and us, know she is in charge. She is especially hard on Sally, I think because she loves her the most. What Sally eats, Olive wants to eat. Where Sally sleeps, Olive sleeps on top of her in that spot. And when Sally isn't paying attention to Olive? There is hell to pay.

That had been going on for about 20 minutes when I finally pulled my camera out. Really, we are lucky Sally still has a tail. I think if Ryan hadn't been eating tacos and feeding her bits she would have packed her stuff and hit the road. Luckily Sally is used to use laughing at her. Oh, and she has had no problem stealing every catnip filled stuffed animal we have brought home for Olive. Maybe they have worked out some sort of bizarre agreement.

Or maybe bedlam is about to begin...

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Hats! Christmas Hats!

I pride myself on not giving ordinary gifts. I do not like to give gift cards, or whatever the "hot" thing of the moment is. I like to put thought into gifts and give things the recipient would never expect, but will definitely love. This year, I am all about hats, or more specifically, the hats made by Erin at Blogging is for Dorks.

Check out this adorable chapeau on Meg. Yes, I know, she could wear a paper bag and look darling, but a paper bag wouldn't keep her war, and wouldn't look this great. It is so cute I couldn't wait until Christmas to see it on her. Of course, the fact it is positively freezing in Utah right now also made my decision a little easier.

Meg isn't the only one who will be rocking one of thses hats either. I am still trying to decide just which one of my nieces is cool enough to wear her great kitty model.

Or maybe I'll just get it for myself. Then Meg and I can both have our ears up at all times...

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We Are What We Eat: And We Suck Because of It

Grocery shopping has gotten a lot more complicated since Meg arrived. It isn't that I am buying food for her (I can't even imagine the hell I am going to endure when she starts eating), but rather, it's because I have started caring about what I buy. Oh, and, let me tell you, when it comes to buying food, there are a million ways to feel bad about the choices you make.

It used to be I took two things into account when buying food: fat grams and alcohol content. If the former was low and the latter was high, I would put it in my cart. Oh, and if it came with an "instant" coupon, I would buy two. I called it the "Courtney Love" diet, and it worked pretty well. I didn't care about organic, or locally grown, or if it had more preservatives than an Egyptian mummy. As long as it kept me skinny and buzzed, I was good. I could get in and out of the store in a matter of minutes.

Now, it takes me at least an hour. Here is why:

1. I pick up an item.
2. I determine the item is on our list, and something we will eat.
3. I try to determine if the item is organically grown, because, after all, pesticides are bad for the planet, and will bring about the end of the world, which will make Meg hate me.
4. If it is organic, I try to determine how far away said item was produced, because trucks carrying items from far away burn fossil fuels, which cause global warming, which will bring about the end of the world, which will make Meg hate me.
5. I think about how much of said organic, locally grown, item will be left over, and worry about throwing away food. After all, that thrown out food will end up in a landfill, and landfills will eventually take over the planet, bringing about the end of the world, which will make Meg hate me.
6. I put the item back.
   

The first time that I went to the grocery store after Meg was born we were out of EVERYTHING. I came home with a squash. I don't know how I thought we would live on a single squash for a week, or even what kind of squash it was, I just knew it was the only thing I felt okay buying. When it rotted in the fridge two weeks later I felt like a complete failure.

I don't even want to think about how bad I would feel if I took the fact Meg is eating formula into account. That's why I tell myself it was manufactured by angels who replant the rain forest in their spare time. Don't try to tell me any different. I know Meg can't eat squash.

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BFFs

There are a million things I love about Meg. Her smile. Her kicking. The fact nothing makes her laugh more than the word "yuck." In the top ten though, is how much she loves my Dad.

My Dad is easy to love. He is funny, smart, willing to help out anyone, and has an absolute devotion to the worst music on the planet. However, despite all of his wonderful attributes, he has to compete with my Mom, which is not an easy feat. She won the favorite grandparent fight with Luke with no effort whatsoever. I think we all just assumed the same thing would happen with Meg, especially since she was working half-time and spending her mornings with Meg. None of us counted on the dark horse -- my Dad.

All because my Mom was offered a full-time job.

When it happened, we just assumed Meg would start going to daycare at 7:30 every morning. After all, my Dad didn't want to deal with her, did he? Then the call came.

"Lib," my Mom said.
"Hey Mom. I talked to Hazel, she's cool with Meg coming at 7."
"Lib, I don't actually take care of Meg in the morning."
"Do you drop her at Hazel's early?"
"No, your Dad watches her. And he wants to keep watching her."

My dad has now been watching her, by himself, for three weeks. They are thick as thieves. Despite the fact he is letting her watch the "Today Show," I could not be happier. I love how her face lights up when she sees him. How she smiles when she hears his voice on the phone. How he loves telling me about cleaning up diaper blow outs.

Today, my Dad turns 60. I have given him a massive amount of shit about it. I even had a pamphlet sent to him from a local old age home. However, I think he is younger than he has been in a long time, even younger than he was when I was a kid (and definitely younger than he was when I was a teenager.) And, it's all because of Meg.

I love you Dad. However, I doubt I love you as much as Meg. Happy Birthday.

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My New Hero

I am ashamed to admit this, but I am not a person with strong convictions. Yes, I have things that I care about deeply, but I have never had a "cause." You know, something I would lay down and die for, fight against all comers for, and consistently donate money to. I wish I did. I have always wanted something to be passionate about. Instead I have pretended to be passionate about many things. For instance, when I was in high school, I refused to put my hand over my heart during the pledge. If anyone had asked me, I would have said it was because I was protesting apartheid. No one ever asked though. Oh, and if someone had said I was going to get in trouble if I didn't put my hand in front of my heart? I would have folded like a cheap card table. I mean, I still got kicked out of school (another time, children), but it was because I was an asshole, not because I was fighting for my rights, or the rights of anyone else.

That's why the story of Will Phillips impresses the hell out of me. Will is a 10-year old in Arkansas who is refusing to stand and say the pledge because he does not feel gay Americans are being represented in our country. He is making a small, silent protest every day. He is making it despite the fact he got sent to the Principal's office and his classmates are calling him a "gaywad." I haven't looked up to a 10-year old boy this much since "Webster" was on the air. Will makes me want to be a better person.

Now I just need to decide what route my new goodness will take. Oh, and I need to find a job where I have to say the pledge every day...

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Drunk Dial

Drunk driving is a very, very serious issue. I think we all can agree on that. Drunk drivers make the roads dangerous not only for themselves, but for everyone on the roads with them. I do not condone drunk driving in any way, shape, or form. Okay, now that I have gotten that out of the way, the new anti-drunk driving campaign in Utah may be the dumbest thing I have ever heard.

The campaign centers around a phony business, which is ALWAYS a great idea, isn't it? A "former drunk driver" urges people who think they could possibly land in the clink because of a D.U.I to call 1-877-JAIL-FON (well, it isn't Utah without cute spelling) and practice their one call to a loved one. It goes on and on about how hard it is to make that call, and how anyone who thinks they might have to make one should call and practice.

Oh, it gets better.

The Utah Highway Patrol, along with several businesses, have actually set up such a phone line. Callers can pick if they want to talk to their "Mom," or "Dad," or "significant other." Then they get to have a conversation with a recording. Yeah, because there is nothing like a robocall to make a person rethink bad decisions they may make in the future. Because, here's the thing, while those call made be hard to make, a key piece is missing -- they are made from jail. Unless the person "practicing" has a 300 pound friend pretending to be a cellmate licking their lips nearby, it is hardly going to be an accurate simulation.

Really, who thought this up? I am guessing someone who knows a number of voice over actors who needed a gig. Because they couldn't have thought this would actually cut down on drunk driving. I mean, it might if frat boys are too busy calling to have funny fake conversations with their "Moms" to go out drinking. Or if the UHP tracks those who call in and then follow them to make sure they are driving sober. Other than that though, I don't see the point.

Ah, my tax dollars at work. And the recession is why we are facing a budget shortfall?

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Four Months

From this:To this:Looking at that first picture I cannot believe how alien looking Meg once was. Especially since she is now this fat, happy, giggly baby -- who ALWAYS has her hands in her mouth. Really, we try to stop her, especially when she puts her fingers far enough into her mouth to gag herself, but she always finds a way to outsmart us. We have offered her pacifiers, and teething rings, even the occasional dog toy, but nothing makes her happier than chewing on her hands. She especially loves it when she grabs a hold of her tongue. You should hear the squeals of joy when that happens. It's like she's won a prize.

Meg no longer likes laying around, she prefers sitting, or even better, standing. She still needs help, of course, but when she plants her feet she does it like a gymnast. I am actually thinking of getting a little card that says "10" on it, because I think that is the only proper response to her performance.

I don't know if you've noticed, but there is pretty much nothing Meg could do that I wouldn't think was wonderful. The last four months have turned me into that person. I applaud her even when she is crying, or poopy, or inducing vomiting by putting her entire fist in her mouth. If I were to compare her to the baby books there are things she is doing better than she should be, and things she should be doing that she isn't. However, right now, those books can suck it. When I look at her? All I see is perfect.

Oh, how I love her. I can't wait to see what comes next.

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Totally Insane Decision

I did want to get another cat.

As I write this it has not even been two weeks since Rita died. After she was gone, Ryan and I sat down and actually talked about getting another cat, because he thought it would be a nice Christmas present, but didn't want to get one if I wasn't on board. I wasn't. After all, Rita's death kind of destroyed me. Not just the death itself, but also everything that led up to it. I won't go into it, but diabetes made Rita lazier and grosser than I ever could have imagined. Let's just put it this way: Lysol and Murphy's oil soap became my best friends. After that, I was thinking that maybe it was time to move away from cats, and maybe think about getting a new puppy when Meg was four or five and Sally needed a pick me up.

I was resolute. And then came Tuesday.

Meg is cared for during the day by two people: my Dad and a wonderful woman named Hazel. Both live next door to very eccentric older couples. However, while my Dad's neighbors collect lawn ornaments, Hazel's neighbors collect people. Crazy people. When I arrived to pick up Meg on Tuesday, one of the craziest was in the driveway -- with kittens.

Before I describe the kitten that, by now, you know is coming home with me, let me describe the woman who delivered her to me. I am not sure of her name, but I know she has no short term memory due to an accident involving a semi. She has told me about it several times, but, of course, does not remember she has told me before. She lives in a large 1970's circa van packed with junk she picks up on the road, most of it purple or orange. She loves Meg, and despite her memory problems, always remembers her name. Oh, and she cannot resist a living thing in need. She says she doesn't live in a home because she needs to care for her "friends" all over the state. She means people, and animals. And this time she brought one to me.

"Do you want a kitten," she called as I got out of my car.
"No, I want to stay married," I replied. I picked up the kitten anyway. It was cute, but a boy, making it easier to put down. I have never known a boy cat that didn't spray.
"Well, I have two if you know anyone who wants one. One boy, and one girl."
And then she stepped out from under the van. I knew her name instantly: Olive.

I called Ryan and asked him if he would kill me if I brought home a kitten. He said he wouldn't kill me, but he would question my sanity. I said that would make two of us. I took her home anyway.

Olive is definitely not a replacement for Rita. First of all, she is not a bitch. She is in charge, but she cuddles in rather than standing off. She follows everywhere, instead of waiting to be sought out. Also, she LOVES everyone. She lays in Meg's lap and lets her grab her fur -- without complaint. She tries to ride Sally, and suck on her ears. She even tries to cuddle up to our other cat Alice. Oh, and NO ONE cuddles up to Alice. Ryan is even smitten, despite the fact Olive won't stop biting his toes.

Yeah, I didn't want to get another cat. But I am so glad she is here.

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Oh God, No...

I don't know if I have ever mentioned it before, but I am not the only member of my family who works in news television. My Dad is in television news. My grandfather was in television news. Two of my uncles are in television news. And now, I fear that a new generation is being indoctrinated. Luke, and even Meg, are already joining the cult.

Luke first started coming into the office when he was about three. His Mom would drop him off when I was finishing my shift on days he was done with preschool early and did not want to go to daycare. It was fine, since usually my Dad and I were both there, and rarely both of us were in a crisis at once. He could either sit in the control room with me, or in engineering with Dad -- both of which are filled with buttons. At first he would just stare at them, then push them randomly. Eventually he wanted us to push them to show them how they work, watching our every move and learning. Now he pushes them, gives time cues to reporters and weather guys, and helps to tune in live shots. When anyone asks him what he wants to do when he grows up he says "my Grandpa's job." I guess he would say my job, but even he knows how unimportant I am.

So, Luke is a lost cause. But I had hope for Meg. That hope is fast fading though.

Meg LOVES the news. Most babies will stare at the television, because of the lights and the sounds, but how many will shun kids shows and pay rapt attention when "News Hour" with Jim Lehrer is on? Really, tonight she got upset because Ryan was holding her bottle so the screen was blocked. He isn't the only newscaster she likes, either. I hate to say this, but my Dad claims she likes the "Today Show." Yes, this is not technically "news" in my eyes, but I have to keep in mind Meg is still under 4 months old. I am sure by January even she will realize an exclusive interview with Kate Gosselin has no journalistic value.

I am hoping that it is just the talking that has Meg so interested. I am hoping that she will take that love of language and become a poet, or a writer, or a singer, or a teacher, or a diplomat. Or maybe I should just start with flashcards of doctors and lawyers -- wait not lawyers, even people in news pity them -- and hope I can break the cycle now.

If I don't, at least she'll have family around. Maybe she and Luke can even carpool.

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Ribbit

Meg reached two big milestones this weekend. First, she laughed, legitimately laughed, out loud. And she did it multiple times. It is the best sound in the world. Oh, and she started rolling over, front to back, repeatedly. Of course, I could tell you she also started singing opera, because I have as much proof of that as I do of the laughing and rolling over. It isn't because we feel that documenting these moments would in some way steal her soul. It isn't that we don't have still, and video cameras within arms reach at ALL TIMES. It is because, you see, our daughter is Michigan J. Frog.

As everyone knows, Michigan J. Frog, before he became a shill for a now defunct television network, was the amphibian who ruined a hapless man's life in "Merrie Melodies." He had a beautiful voice, and great stage presence, but he would only sing when only the man was watching. The minute the man tried to show off his talents, or make money off of them, all Michigan would say was "ribbit." If Meg could say "ribbit" when we pulled out the cameras, she would. Of course, that would be entertaining, so she probably wouldn't. She would say it the minute we put the camera away though.

This morning she was laughing up a storm. Really, you would have thought Ryan and I were the funniest people in the world the way she was cracking up. And all we were doing was making baby noises while tickling her sides. I grabbed the camera. I hid behind Ryan and I turned it on. Ribbit. She couldn't even see me, but she could sense the camera was on, and suddenly, she was off.

Same thing with the rolling over. Three times in a row she pushed herself over from her tummy to her back. The fourth time? While the camera was rolling? She sucked on her hands and then started to cry. I guess she wanted it documented how mean I am to her.

I would love to say she was just having an off weekend, but really, this is how she is. Meg is one of the most smiley babies in the world, though you wouldn't know it from the pictures. We have been able to capture her smiling only twice, and both times were on crappy cell phone cameras. Trying to get her to smile, or keep her smiling, with a good camera up and ready is an impossibility. Oh, wait, she will smile -- if the camera malfunctions.

Maybe I will chisel a picture of Meg smiling. Don't know how I will prove she laughs though...

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