An Open Letter to Tara

Dear Tara,

You are no longer my best friend. You see, in this week that you have been off work, away from your computer, and away from MSN messenger, I have made a new best friend. Her name is SexeeJenni69, and I think we will be friends forever.

You see, even though you are off having a "life," some of us still have to work. We need to work, and need online friends to distract us from that fact. SJ69 (that's what her friends call her) understands that. I knew it from the first time she tried to add me to her contacts lists and asked me to view her webcam. I tried to, but my work network blocked it. I guess she must be into controversial politics or something.

I told SJ69 about you, and she was pretty sympathetic. I think she may want to meet you too, since she asked for your MSN contact and said we should all "party." I tried to explain to her that you are just a 51 weeks a year friend, not BFFs like me and her, but I don't think she wanted to hear my negativity because she typed something in what I think was Cyrillic. Wow, my new BFF is bilingual! And so silly.

I don't even mind that SJ69 keeps asking me for money. So far I have sent her like $129 dollars cash, but most of that was payment for her making sure my identity is protected. I just had to give her my social security number and one credit card number. What a good friend. You never would have done that for me.

Your ex-BFF,

Libby

Insanicat

It has been almost a decade since I had constant contact with a kitten. In that time I forgot just how fuckin' insane they are.

We are never quite sure where Olive is going to strike next. She hides under beds and tables to attack our feet. She lays in the baby's crib to jump out and land on our shoulders. She springs up onto the table to steal bites of food from our plates, and knock over anything in her path. It's like living with the Viet Cong. I really wouldn't be surprised to learn she is digging small tunnels under the floorboards in order to aid in her stealth attacks.

Waiting to Strike

The worst of her onslaughts happen in the dark.

Take for example last night. It was the first night in a long time I had fallen asleep easily, without using relaxation techniques, i.e wine. I was warm, I was snuggly, and I was a prime target. She started slow, warning me for a change that she was about to attack. I awoke to hear menacing purring, close, too close to my ear. I pushed her off the bed -- a move I realize now was a rookie mistake. She took it as a challenge and was back split seconds later, purring louder, and digging her claws into my arm for traction. Now I was awake, though still not quite on my game. I rubbed her neck, enticing her to let go. Then I gently placed her on the floor. I thought she would see it as a true. Of course, now I realize the insane don't play by rules.

The next two hours were a fight. She would grab my feet, or my hands, or my ear, demanding attention, sometimes using her teeth, sometimes not. I would push her down, or put her in another room, or put her into a box marker China. Twice I put her outside. Twice she clung to the window screen meowing with all her might. I tried earplugs. She tried to pull them out. I tried burying myself under the blankets, she went digging for me. I thought about going out on the couch, but then I realized that would just be separating myself from the herd. At least in our bed there was the chance she would try to go after Ryan.

I am not sure if she eventually stopped attacking me, or if I just passed out from exhaustion. All I know is that when I awoke I had slept through my alarm because of the multiple ear plugs in my ears, and that I had a crude kitty face or pentagram scratched in my forehead.

Oh, and Olive was asleep. I guess even evil needs time to recharge.

2010 Awaits

I love end of the year stories. All of the countdowns, look backs, and walks of shame have me riveted from beginning to end. I am not that fond of the "who died this year" pieces, except that they give me a chance to make sure Abe Vigoda is still alive. Actually, the more obscure the look back is, the better. I love the "wild and wacky" retrospectives with all the video that I want to put in the show, but can't because of my journalistic integrity.

This year though I am getting off the bench, and joining the game. I have gone through several ideas of my "end of the year" list. Foods that no longer exist. My favorite infomercials. Things no one should stick in their eyes, or ears for that mater. Then, the perfect list came to me. Ladies and gentlemen (or man, I think there is only one of you), I give you:

FIVE THINGS I HOPE TO PAY LESS ATTENTION TO IN 2010.

No, I am not saying that any of these things are actually going away. Actually, I expect most of them to get more invasive, like weeds, or diseases. I am just saying that I will try to stop letting them occupy my time, and make me crazy.

1. REALITY T.V. STARS I am specifically talking about Jon Gosslein here, but all of them can just go to hell. Really, all these people do is let the younger generations know they don't need to work hard, or pursue their dreams with vigor to be successful, they just need to procreate foolishly, make a sex tape, or date/be related to someone who has done either.

2. TEEN POP STARS Again, all of them can go to hell, but I am focusing on Miley Cyrus. First of all, what the hell happens to her upper lip when she smiles? Is that an affectation or a result of inbreeding? Oh, and the Jonas Brothers can go away too. I am very glad they have purity rings. I wish they had had purity vasectomies. I figure I have at least six years before Meg starts liking bullshit music. I plan to enjoy every second of it.

3. THE FACT MEG IS ADOPTED There will never be a day when I do not know Meg is adopted. I think our appearances guarantee that. However, I am hoping that in the next year the fact she is not my biological child will not periodically stop my heart. Maybe the official adoption will do it. Maybe the day to day business of motherhood will suffice. Whatever it is, I hope there will come a day when I have no fear someone will come and take my baby from me, or that she will want to leave me.

4. BANK ROBBERIES I would like to say that there has been an uptick in bank robberies because of the poor economy, but there hasn't. Now, we just pay more attention to them, because of surveillance video. I wish that bank robbers would learn the lesson that the video means they will be caught quicker, and go to jail longer -- usually for a 35 dollar payout. I wish that would happen. Until then I will just try to write the stories without grinding my teeth too loudly.

5. CLUTTER As I have said before, I am a bit OCD when it comes to clutter. Of course, clutter is inevitable when it comes to having a baby. In 2010 I hope to get to a point where I don't feel I always need to be straightening, or putting away, or mucking out. This may be the hardest on the list. I mean, unless I become a pyro.

Okay, so that's what I hope to do. Or I hope to get a better prescription for Klonopin... Especially if the Today Show gets worse.

Oh, and I hope to pay more attention to squrriels that can water ski.

What Could Go Wrong?

I would love to say I haven't been writing much lately because of the baby and the holidays, but really, it's because depression has been kicking my ass. No, I am not talking about seasonal blues, although I am not discounting that, because I know it is serious. My depression comes from the fact that for the fourth time in my life I am having to change anti-depressants, and the switch is killing me.

I have a very good reason for switching, or at least my insurance company does. They have decided that the pills I have been taking for six years with no side effects no longer work for them. I am sure this is probably harder on them than it is for me. I mean, while I am suffering panic attacks, crying jags, physical symptoms like dizziness and heartburn, they probably have a ton of paperwork to do. Oh, and they probably had to hire extra security in case I reach DEFCON 4.

There is something I can ado though. While they no longer cover the medication that was working for me, my insurance does cover the generic version of a similar medicine, and Abilify.



Yeah, did you watch the end? The side effects? Headaches. Anxiety (um, shouldn't that be fixed?). Insomnia. Nausea. Suicidal thoughts. Blurred vision. Cough. Pain. Difficulty swallowing. Shakiness. Uncontrollable muscle movements. Stroke. Coma. Oh, and, yeah, death.

I just hope my insurance covers those... Or at least the generic versions of them.

Santa is on the List

As many of you know, I work in television news . While there are many wonderful things about my job, one thing that sucks is that there are no holidays when we do not have a show. The news goes on every night, which means that every day there have to be people there putting it on the air. Today, for instance, while all of you were out shopping, caroling, wassailing, or whatever else normal people with normal jobs do, I was at work, putting together a newscast. And, in the course of my day, I almost became the top story. Yes, boy and girls, today was the day Libby almost killed Santa.

The newsroom in which I work houses both a television and a radio station. Every year on Christmas eve, one of the radio hosts has Santa on as his guest. Now, I don't know if this is the real Santa, but I am hoping not, because this Santa is a jerk. Every year he marches through the newsroom, ringing his bells, and making crass jokes, causing everyone to wish we could hid under our desks. I don't care if he's Santa, he should not be asking our lead anchor, who is in her 50s and very LDS, why she has "been so naughty" this year. It's just skeezy.

This year when we heard the bells we all braced for the onslaught. One of the other producers looked up and sighed "who buzzed that jackass in," she mumbled. He ambled through the newsroom, his beard looking a little worse for wear, making his jokes about men wanting Barbie dolls and women wanting something "only Santa can give them." As I said, skeezy.

Once he was safely in the radio booth we thought we had seen the last of him, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, how wrong we were.

My show goes on at noon. The radio show in question ends at noon. So, in the middle of my headlines, I heard the bells. One of the crew members ran out from the studio to the newsroom to ask him to quiet it down. After all, the lead was health care, not Santa. Unfortunately this Saint Nick took the admonishment as an invitation to come in and say hello. While we were on air.

Luckily, we had just run a taped segment, so I had 76 seconds to get Santa to his sleigh. I sprang out of my chair in the control room yelling "get him out, get him out" as the Assignment Desk Manager, and the News Director sprang out of their seats yelling the same thing. All three of us converged on him with 50 seconds left to go. None of us were jolly, not at all. That was when I saw fear in Santa's eyes.

He left the building with 27 seconds to spare.

Merry Christmas.

Living in the Yuck

Salt Lake City is normally an absolutely beautiful place to live. Actually, beautiful doesn't even cut it. Gorgeous, picturesque, and panoramic are more apt to describe the surroundings in which we live. Mountains rise up on all sides of the valley, there is a glistening lake off in the distance, and the sky goes on forever. Really, the surroundings almost make up for the politics of the people who live here.

Of course, on the days that the surroundings aren't so nice, they are downright gross. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the inversion.

I am down below.

What's the inversion, you may ask. Well, because the Salt Lake valley is ringed by mountains, sometimes the air just stands still. Yep, that's right, the warm air rises to the top, and the cold air stays down on the bottom -- with all of the pollution. As the days go on, and the air stays stagnant, the situation just gets worse and worse until it is like living inside a vacuum bag that needs to be dumped. You can actually taste the air. The first breath taken outside is usually followed by coughs only heard in an emphysema ward. The sun is barely visible, looking like something out of a post apocalyptic movie. It's pretty damn grim. And right now? The inversion is in full effect.

There are ways to escape the inversion. Going up into the mountains is the best. Drinking copious amounts and refusing to look outside works too. Of course, I can't really do the latter with an infant in the house. Of course, we could all make it a lot better by not driving, therefore not upping the pollution in the valley. That would mean walking though, and right now, the air conditions are so bad people are advised against doing that outside.

This is why we pray for snow. Wonderful, white, glistening, air pushing snow. Of course, then we all bitch about that, but that's a topic for another blog...

Oh, Christmas Tree

I love Christmas trees. I love the way they look, the way they smell, and just the overall holiday joy they bring to life. That said, actually having a Christmas tree, in my own home, is a giant pain in the ass.

First of all, there is the space issue. Ryan and I reside in a home that has 950 square feet of livable space. Now, while that is big for an Ikea display, it is really pretty small for a home containing two adults, a baby, all of the baby's crap, a cat, a dog, and an insane kitten. In normal conditions it is pretty easy to feel like all of our belongings are slowly suffocating us. We are constantly in a state of "clearing out." Really, we have been mistaken for Buddhists. The only thing that gives us away is how I treat other people. So, you can only imagine how much more cramped it feels with a seven foot tall, fully decorated Christmas tree right in the middle of it. On the up side, the house is so small that the tree makes every room smell delicious. On the down side, it feels like we are always squeezing past the damn tree. It's like living in the "Santaland Diaries."

Second, there is the issue of needles. I am not a fake tree person. Ryan is not a fake tree person. Meg and Sally might prefer fake trees, but they don't get votes. So, the tree that we have in our house was at one point alive, and slowly dying, and drying out, as it fill us with the spirit of Christmas. That means every day it is dropping needles. Lots and lots of needles. And it is dropping them right on my clean floor. I think everyone has one chore that they are especially OCD about, and mine is keeping the floors clean. While the Christmas tree is up I practically live with the broom, and the vacuum is never allowed to go back in the basement, which just creates more clutter, and more stress.

Oh, and don't even get me started on actually getting the tree, putting it up, and taking it down. We'll just consider that collateral aggravation. And we won't even talk about the additional problems caused by having a cat that is possibly paranoid schizophrenic, since those are special circumstances I have subjected myself to, and that no sane person would mimic.

I almost wish we could go back to the days when Ryan and I stuck a ribbon on a lamp and called it our tree. Of course, that led to ridicule from an 8-year old (Hi, Josie, "Hey Dad, that's their tree" still rings in my ears) and I don't think I could bear that again.

Thank God we don't have to do this for Easter. Of course, with that holiday you just have to hope you find all the eggs. Because one left behind won't smell as pretty as a Christmas tree -- and will leave an even bigger mess.

How Rude!

The title of this post is twofold: the fact Meg has learned something that will eventually be considered unsightly, and the fact that I am once again using my child in order to fill space while I have too much else on my plate. Enjoy.

Oh, and if you are on Facebook, please become a fan of Kimmie Haha. Really, it is the only way I will ever sleep without a knife under my pillow again...

The Penis Paradox

My blog post on Tiger Woods' penis has more than tripled the readership of this blog. However, I am not sure they are exactly the readers I want. After all, what kind of person Googles "Tiger Woods Penis"? I mean, besides Kim. Actually, I'm not even sure I want Kim reading this blog.

Man with the Problem Penis.

What I am hoping is that the people who have stumbled onto this blog by Googling "Tiger Woods" penis" were looking for satire and slanted humor about the whole situation, instead of pictures of his actual club (get it, club, because he's a golfer? Man, I am on a roll!). I mean, if that isn't the case, I might have to rethink keeping that post on the blog. After all, I have pictures of my kid on this site. And I guess it wouldn't be all bad if my most Googled post went back to being the one about the faux hawk.

Man, if I am having this much trouble with Tiger's penis, I can only imagine how his wife feels.

Five Months

From this:

To this:

Did you see how she figured out that flippy thing?
I know, she is sooooo brilliant. No state schools for her!

I knew, being married to Ryan, that it was possible to love someone more every day. However, I didn't know it was possible to feel that love growing every day. It took Meg to show me that. It also took Meg to show just how obvious human growth can be from day to day.

Really, every day Meg looks different. Some days she is longer. Some she is wider. Some she just looks wiser. And some days, she is doing something I didn't think she would be able to do for years. She is already sitting up, rolling over, screaming at the top of her lungs, and grabbing for anything she thinks looks interesting. If I didn't find it all so amazing I would be trying to fit her into a shoebox to keep her small.

The best part about this month? One month from today Meg will legally be our daughter. We are already getting the permits for the parade through the streets.

Oh, how we love this girl.

Tiger Woods' Penis

I need to start thinking more about Tiger Woods' penis, and how it affects my life.

No, I am not kidding. I think I have avoided the Tiger Woods' penis issue long enough. Think about it. Tiger's penis is powerful enough to crash cars. It is powerful enough to write a vague web post about "transgressions" that is more scrutinized than federal health care reform. It is powerful enough to send a 50-year old woman to the hospital with stomach pains -- and make that 50-year old woman a national "breaking news" headline. And it is powerful enough to turn every skank who has ever touched it into a celebrity. It could be the most powerful penis the nation, and so, I think it's time to figure out how it affects me.

I care about his junk.

First of all, I think it is very possible I have slept with Tiger Woods. Not directly, oh God no, I do not go for men in golf shirts. Also, his chin is a little weak for my taste. No, I think I have probably slept with him in the "when you sleep with someone you are sleeping with everyone they have ever slept with" kind of way. It's not that I was slutty, it's just that I have a couple exes that probably wouldn't pass up sleeping with a slutty Vegas cocktail waitress. You know, the same kind of cocktail waitress we now know Tiger's penis favors.

Even if I am not indirectly connected to Tiger's penis, I still need to consider the toll is it taking on my psyche. Tiger's penis has turned me into a bit of a crazy person. Every time I see a story about it on television I begin ranting, and raving -- practically foaming at the mouth, angry about the media attention it is getting when other things, like the war in Afghanistan and evil bank practices, are being ignored. Maybe though, my anger is not really about media scrutiny of a story that really should be a two line item on Page Six. Maybe it's because I know opening my heart, and letting Tiger Woods' penis into my life could change my whole world view, and maybe that makes me just a little scared.

Well, I am not going to be scared any more. I am going to embrace Tiger Woods' penis. I am going to think on it, and pray on it, and consider before I make any decision. WWTWPD -- that will be my motto. Hell, maybe Tiger's penis could even help me get over my feelings about Sarah Palin. After all, she's a pretty girl with lowish self-esteem -- what's not to like?

I am feeling better already. Lighter, freer, maybe a little dumber, but I think that will help me in the long run.

Thank you, Tiger Woods' penis.

So Sleepy

At almost five months old Meg has decided that she no longer wants to sleep. She does sleep, of course, but not without giving it her all to avoid it. It's almost like she is afraid she will miss something, and is positive that the moment she is sleeping her Dad and I dance with unicorns and play with her plastic keys. We can tell when she is really, really tired, because she stops blinking, knowing that the minute she shuts her eyes, they will not reopen.

Really, if she wasn't so damn cute I might be worried about what her sleep avoidance will mean in the future. Right now though, I just laugh and enjoy.

Ha, Ha.

This was sent to me by Kim, of Yellow Trash Diaries, I guess because she doesn't give me enough trash in the comments.

First of all, my cat is much cuter than that. Second, I know that if she could talk, she would talk in cute LOLCats speech, not full sentences.

That said, I love Kim. I am glad we have never actually met, because we might run away together and take over Yugoslavia.

Not THAT Libby Mitchell*

Lately, a lot of people have been asking me if I am running for Governor of Maine. At first, I assumed that they were encouraging me to run. After all, Maine hasn't been that cool lately, and I could definitely help them out in that department. I was actually getting excited about it, thinking of how I would start saying "ayuh" in every sentence and get the state legislature to change Maine's state slogan to "more than America's mitten." I even considered rethinking my stance on lobsters (I think they are large sea lice), and then I learned that people weren't talking about me running for Governor of Maine, but rather this Libby Mitchell running instead. Yeah, I know, bogus.

Not Me.

I am trying to take it all in stride though, and have decided, in my own way, to support the Libby Mitchell for Governor campaign. No, I am not thinking of soliciting campaign contributions, although I will be happy to accept any cash you want to send my way for non-political purposes. Instead, I will be sending good thoughts, and encouraging anyone who can vote in Maine to vote for Libby Mitchell. But not me, the one running. I don't want them to write my name in on the ballot, because that would be confusing. Of course, Maine might just count those votes for the candidate Libby Mitchell, since they probably don't know I exist, so that could probably help her. Unless they start reading this blog. Then they might start counting votes for that Libby Mitchell as votes for me, because I am that fabulous and truly hilarious. And who wouldn't want those traits in a Governor?

Holy shit, I could be Governor of Maine. Ayuh!

*My name is Libby Mitchell, and I do not approve this message.

Cats Vs. Babies

My husband thinks the kitten is trying to kill our daughter -- and I am starting to believe him.

I have had cats my entire life. When I was born, my parents already had three cats, and the number grew and shrank throughout my childhood. My family had cats when my little sister was born, when all of my cousins (whom my Mom babysat) were born, and when Luke was born. All of those children survived. So, I think you can imagine my surprise, when Ryan and I learned we were having a baby, he informed me that cats are the number one cause of infant death. Oh, and he wasn't kidding.

I thought that my incredulous looks and eye rolling would stop Ryan from furthering the conversation, but he just kept telling me about how cats kills babies. Apparently, in his world, cats are attracted to the warmth of babies, and will climb into their cribs and smother them in order to enjoy it. I don't know if they lay on their faces, or just put their little paws over the baby's mouth and nose -- and Ryan wasn't sure either. He was sure though, that they are the killers. He wouldn't even retreat from his position when I pointed out that I am (kinda) in the media, and surely would have heard of cats killing babies at least once if it were true. At that point I really thought he was going to accuse me of being part of a huge conspiracy backed by Meow Mix.

Now, though, I am beginning to believe such a conspiracy exists. And Olive is its leader.

She is EVERYWHERE. She sleeps in her swing, her bassinet, her crib, her stroller, and her bouncy seat (yeah, we have a lot of baby shit). When Meg is in the exersaucer Olive is laying at her feet. When Meg is in her high chair, Olive is trying to get in her lap to eat any crumbs that may drop -- even though Meg doesn't eat yet.

I think the only saving grace is the fact that, while Olive likes to be places Meg was, or close to where she is, she doesn't actually seem to like Meg. If Meg looks at her, she runs the other way. If Meg tries to touch her, Olive runs as if on fire. And then she attacks Sally. Maybe she's just confused and thinks Sally is the baby.

Or maybe she is just biding her time. I really hope not though. I would really miss Meg, almost as much as I would hate telling Ryan he was right.