What Comes Around

Believe it or not, I used to be crafty. Not super-crafty, by any means. Ryan is still waiting for a denim jacket decorated with a sparkly embroidered dragon, holding a kitten, and crying a single tear that he requested the second year we were dating. However, there was a time when I dabbled in things like crocheting and embroidery. Most people who have known me at least five years have some piece of my handiwork: a scarf, or a blanket, a tea towel, or a shirt. None of these pieces are spectacular by any means. Most of them are flawed in some way, and I'm sure a few are only used when I come to visit.

Until this week though, Meg had nothing that I had made.

I had thought about embroidering some clothing, or crocheting a blanket for her, but instead I have just been spending time with her. Also, with the speed I finish projects anything I would have started would have been too small by the time I finished.

Thank goodness for hand-me-downs.


I made that onesie. Well, I didn't make it, but I put the little flower on it. And I put a little flower on another onesie. And cherries on a third. And there is even one with a palm tree. I embroidered all of these onesies when our friend Liz had her baby five years ago.

This week Liz brought us more clothes than I think Meg will ever wear, all now too small for her girl. These onesies were in with those clothes. I am so happy to have them. What a great surprise.

It's baby clothes karma. And it's actually inspired me to finally start on that jacket. Only this one will be a 2T.

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Cookbook?

This is Dave. We work together. Hi Dave! Hey, what's that book you have?

What's that you say, Dave? It's a book about corpses? And about death investigation? Okay, Dave, I won't ask why you are reading it. I will just assume that it is because of an interest in science, and not because you are disposing of a body...

What, Dave? You say you got the book at a secondhand store? How thrifty of you! And you say there is writing in the book? In the back? Whatever could it be?

Why it appears to be a recipe! A meatloaf recipe! Why, imagine that, a meatloaf recipe in the back of a book about corpses. How, um, appetizing.

Um, okay, Dave. I, um, gotta go. What? No, that's okay, I don't want t come over for dinner. I'm, um, a vegetarian. And fasting. And have the stomach flu...

Bye, Dave!

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Conversations With Ryan

I love my husband, I really do. I even love him when he is being feisty. Take, for example, tonight. I told him during dinner that two girlfriends and I would be going out for dinner tomorrow night and asked if he would like to join us. After all, they are his friends too...

Me: Why don't you come?
Ryan: I don't want to interrupt your talk about tampons. (Changing voices) I looove that brand. I can't imagine using another tampon. What do yooou like?
Me: We do not.
Ryan: Well, yeah, you need time to talk about how you manipulate the men in your lives.

Oh, and that wasn't the end of the feistiness. After dinner we were lying on the floor with Meg, trying to get to her to not scream during tummy time. He was throwing her a little blue football someone from the sports department gave me, and she was trying desperately to catch it. It was not going so well. That's when I heard this:

Ryan: Well, Meg, I guess you could be related to your Mom after all.

Yes, dear readers, he was besmirching my catching ability, and to our young, impressionable daughter no less. I guess he is forgetting that I know all kinds of things about him I can tell Meg, like about his love of jam bands, or his constant use of the word "problematic."

He is so lucky I love him. Oh, and that he is smokin' hot.

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Cruel Shoes

I do not shop for shoes often. I am allergic to leather, which means I cannot just walk into a store and pick up a cute pair of slingback heels without worrying about my skin flaking off. Once I find shoes that don't make me itch, I stick with them until they are out of production. Currently, most of my shoe shopping is done in bulk, online, or in bulk, at the Crocs outlet.

However, there is a shoe siren calling me. The future of forward foot fashion. Her name? Zigi Soho.

Do you want the vibe of a dominatrix, but also need somewhere to put change for the bus?

Look no further. Zigi Soho.
Do you miss the style of "Three's Company" in the days before Mr. Farley came along and gayed it all up? Are you looking for a way to express that love on your feet? Do you enjoy strappy sandals that could cause your death if you fall off of them?

BAM! Zigi Soho!


Enjoyed the movie "Avatar"? I mean, like paint yourself blue, trying to learn the language enjoyed it? Enjoy really jangly ankle bracelets? Enjoy having your feet slightly irritated and tickled by your feet.

Get ready to walk the Oscar red carpet... with your date Zigi Soho.

Oh, and what about those times when you just need a little boost? A SIX INCH BOOST! You could just get circus stilts, but those aren't very fancy. After all, you want to be tall AND fashionable. You could go with shoes that have metal studs on them, but hey, go big or go home. You need metal studs AND fake diamonds. Oh, and it would be awesome if the shoe could be used as a weapon, wouldn't it?

I think I know who can help you. Zigi Soho.



Of course, there are some times that you just don't want to be fancy. You just want to relax in some jeans and maybe a nice pair of ballet flats. Nothing flashy, nothing too constrictive.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? ZIIIIGIIII SOOOOOHOOOO!


After seeing these shoes, I am really thinking about buying some aquarium gravel and taping it to my Crocs. Or maybe some razor blades attached by grocery store twist ties.

I just hope that bitch Zigi Soho doesn't steal my ideas first...

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An Open Letter to Time

Dear Time,

Please slow down.

I know, in the past, that I have asked the exact opposite of you. When I was 12 I begged you to speed up and get me through junior high. I made a similar request when I was 15 and thought high school would never end. In college I asked again, so sure that if you didn't move faster I wouldn't make it out alive.

I think it was around the age of 21 that you finally took my pleas for speed seriously. And I have willingly let you whip through the past 15 years, even helping you along in my early 20's with large quantities of wine, and days spent more asleep than awake. When I noticed thing were moving so fast, about six years ago, I didn't complain, even though I felt it unfair that the time I was spending with the love of my life felt more fleeting than the times I had spent wondering when I would finally find him. I figured it was par for the course, and that things would slow down again eventually.

So, now I would like it to do just that.

My daughter is now seven months old. Tonight she is sleeping in her crib, in her own room, for the first time. I would keep her in the bassinet in our room a bit longer, but to do that we would have to cut holes in the end for her legs to stick through. It seems like only yesterday she was a little potato, sleeping on my chest, waking only to eat and look around, wondering where the hell she was. It isn't that I don't like watching her grow, and don't look forward to the changes ahead, it's just I don't feel like I am getting time to savor everything. I want to feel like I have embedded every stage on my soul, not like I just caught a glimpse as it roared by.

And it isn't just Meg. I want more quality time with my parents. Why did you move so slowly when we were at odds? When I couldn't wait to get out of the house? Why now, that I appreciate them, and want to spend time with them does time seem fleeting? I mean, fleeting to the point that at night I sometimes panic, thinking I should drive out and climb into bed with my Mom and just hug her. Or wake my Dad and tell him dumb jokes.

Yeah, Time, it would be great if your speed didn't make me crazier too...

So, here's my proposal: you slow down, and I will never again ask for you to speed up. Not even on weeks when I can feel my fingernails growing, and swear the clock is moving backwards. I will never again use the phrase "TGIF," even when Friday feels like years from Monday. I will appreciate every minute, and accept each one as a gift.

Deal?

Thanks,

Libby

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Get Thee Behind Me Satan, I Mean Jen

Today is the first day of Lent. For those of you who are heathens, that is the 40 day period in which Christians remember the time Jesus spent int he desert being tempted by Satan before he was crucified. In order to mark it people (Catholics in particular, or Episcopalians raised by Catholics in my case) fast, or at least give up something they love so they can suffer being tempted like Christ. Yeah, I know, it doesn't make a lot of sense due to that whole "all you have to do is believe in me" aspect of Christianity, but it brings out the martyr in all of us, which, obviously, is something we love.

I actually haven't given up anything for Lent in years. It isn't that I haven't wanted to (I mean, all that suffering!), I just have had other suffering to do (hormones, IUI, fertility tests) so I haven't pushed it. This year though, I have so much to be happy about, so it's time for a little Jesus based misery, just to say thanks. To that end, I am giving up wine.

Are you still there?

Yeah, I know, you think I'm kidding. If you know me, or have read this blog more than once, you know I like my wine. In fact, on some days it is all I like. And so, there are many people out there who don't think I will be able to go all 40 days without it.

One person in particular is sure I won't be able to do it. Her name isn't important, but it sounds a lot like Jen. Okay, her name is Jen. Today after learning that another co-worker had given up candy for Lent she left the following on her desk:

She's pure, unadulterated evil. Tomorrow she says she is going to do the same thing with wine bottles on my desk. Oh, and if that isn't enough? She says if I make it all 40 days, she will buy me pajama jeans. Yes, those pajama jeans. The pajama jeans that I think were created especially for me, and will never take off if they are attained. I mean, just look at the beauty:



Jen is one of the people who has mocked me because of my lust for pajama jeans. How delicious it will be when she is required to buy them. Oh, yes. They will be mine. And you know the best thing about them? I can spill wine on them and it won't show.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go make myself a martini. It won't be the same, but it might make it easier. I'll even toast to Jen. Oh, and Jesus.

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Presents From the Road

I rarely get to leave the office. Wait, let me rephrase that: in an official capacity I never get to leave the office. I like to think my hermitage is due to the fact I am always needed behind the scenes, but in reality I think there is some concern about the image I would present on behalf of the station. That probably has something to do with the "corner office" I am expected to sit in when dignitaries visit the station. I mean, its nice, there's a plant, but I wish it wasn't in the parking garage. Also, I wish my business cards said something other than "if found attached to person, drop her in any mailbox, postage guaranteed."

There are some benefits to being cloistered. I have never had to move beyond "business casual." Actually, I consider "business casual" kind of dressy. I always know what is in the office fridge, and if anything is growing anything that could be used as an antibiotic in case of emergency. Oh, and I am the only one that knows the name of all of the mice who live in the crawl spaces and feed on the debris of meals stuffed hastily into the faces of reporters as they try to make deadline.

Of course, on the downside, I never get to get outside. I actually sometimes forget Salt Lake City is where I live, and not some magical land where news is made. That's why I love my reporters. They bring me the most lovely little tidbits, and I hoard them like a squirrel with shiny things. The best ones come from Sam. This was his latest find...


It's funny, 'cause it's true. I just hope the powers that be don't get any ideas and make my corner office mobile.

Nah, they can't risk me coming in contact with people...

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California Baby

We spent the weekend in California, seeing good friends, basking in the sun, and introducing Meg to the ocean. While the water itself wasn't a big hit -- she definitely loved the feel of sand between her toes.


This year, standing on the beach. Next year? Surfing. I can just see the urge to hang ten in her eyes...

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Those In Charge

In my job I have to deal with absolutely horrible things every day. I report on stories that make me shake my head in shame, gape in shock, and sometimes question the value of humanity. There are days that I come home so weighted down by the news that I just want to grab Meg and run far away. On those days, the one thing that usually keeps me going is the mantra "it's just a freak incident." Of course there are days that mantra doesn't work -- and most of them have to do with the Utah state legislature.

This year is no different.

The legislature this year is facing a record budget deficit. They are going to have to make HUGE cuts to the budget in order to keep the state in the black. However, is that what they are concerning themselves with? Well, kinda, but most of their energy is actually being spent on bills that either cover their asses, or address "issues." And the ones that do deal with the budget? Well, either they are totally ridiculous, or just maddening.

Here's just a sampling:

• A bill making it legal for parents not to put their small children in booster seats, if they are less than four miles from home, and traveling less than 45 miles an hour. You know, because no one ever gets in accidents in those conditions.
  
• A bill creating a CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT creating a secret board that has to review any ethics complaint, and vote on it practically unanimously, before it is released to the public. It gets rid of that whole transparency thing.
• A measure legalizing the ownership of monkeys. Oh, wait, no it doesn't, because this bill doesn't actually HAVE ANY TEXT. It is being proposed by a lawmaker trying to teach a lesson to his daughter. I am guessing that lesson is how to waste taxpayer money.
  
• A bill requiring all women seeking an abortion, medically necessary or not, to undergo an ultrasound and have all of the features of their unborn child pointed out. I find this one especially insulting because the legislature could instead be fighting to provide the same services to women to want to keep their babies -- and don't have the money for such medical care.
  
• Oh, and finally, the bill making everyone's list: Senator Chris Buttars plan to save money by getting rid of the 12th grade. Or rather, to make it optional. He says kids don't really do much in that last year anyway, so instead of improving the education system so they do, we should just get rid of it. Hell, if we're following that logic, why don't we just get rid of schools altogether?
  

I really try to be as non-partisan as I can when reporting on the legislature. After all, is isn't my job to tell people what to think, but rather to tell them what is going on, and let them make their own decisions. But, when stuff like this is going on, and everyone isn't as outraged as I am, I wonder if anyone if even paying attention, or if it has all just become noise.

I hope not. Oh, how I hope not.

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Seven Months

From this:
To this: Is that fucking amazing, or what? Really, there is no other way to say it. I mean, what have you done in the past seven months? Read a couple books? Gained or lost a couple pounds? Considered learning a foreign language? All of that pales in the face of Meg's accomplishments. Not only has she grown more than seven inches, and more than tripled her weight without ever looking fat, she has also learned to sit up, drink from a cup, say "dog"and "hi," and eat from a spoon. She knows how to splash in the bathtub, turn around in the exersaucer, bounce in the jumper, and has developed a sense of humor that is already better than anyone who laughs at Dane Cook. Oh, and she is getting adept at taking off her diaper, which I am sure will be an absolute delight once she is more mobile. Maybe we can just put down papers.

Every day with Meg is a joy to behold. I hate to wax rhapsodic, but I can't help it when I talk about this wonderful girl. Every day I watch her do something different, and can see her file her new skills away in her head for future use. Today, for instance, she figured out how to pick up a ball using only one hand. She rolled it up her arm until it rested in the crook of her elbow. When it worked the first time she dropped it, and did it three more times. I clapped every time, not only to encourage her, but because it was the best show of the day.

Last night at dinner Ryan was saying how he can't wait until Me starts to talk, and walk. While I look forward to those events, I can definitely wait -- and not just because our house is a child proofing nightmare. I just want to savor every moment while Meg is still a baby. Every moment that she can be swept up and cuddled, and thrown into the air with ease. Every moment when I see wonder in her eyes at the smallest thing. Every moment that her smile cuts through my cynicism and sarcasm and makes me write posts like this.

Oh, how I love our girl.

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Snot City

For the past four days I have done very little other than thwart the attempts of my lungs to escape my body. They have tried to get out through my nose, through my mouth, and, in one spectacular display, tried to burst through my chest wall via explosive coughing.

Now, normally when I am this sick, I will take time off of work, climb into bed, take enough cold medicine to risk blindness, and sleep until I am either better, or until my upper lip is so desperately in need of a wax that I look like Sancho Panza. Or, rather, that's what I used to normally do -- P.M. No, not Tylenol P.M., though I do love that shit. By P.M. I am actually referring to "pre-Meg." Because of my adorable, daughter, I took a completely different tact when dealing with this illness: washing my hands forty times a day, taking NON-DROWSY cold medicine, and chanting the words "please don't let the baby get sick, please don't let the baby get sick."

Yeah, that didn't work. Meg is now fighting her own lung battle.

Luckily, she could no be more different than me when it comes to dealing with a cold. Really, I have never seen anyone so chipper while sick. The only time she isn't smiling is when we have to suction out her nose so she can breathe without sounding like an asthmatic pug. She is sleeping more than usual, but when she's awake she is just as smiley and chatty as normal. If I didn't love her so much I would swear she is trying to make me look wussy. I mean, Ryan hasn't come out and said it yet, but I pretty sure the thought "why can't Libby be more like Meg when she's sick" has crossed his mind. I can see it in his eyes.

Yeah. Well we'll see how judgy he is when his lungs decide to pull a Steve McQueen. I'm giving him 48 hours before he is begging for NyQuil.

And then Meg I will just laugh until we cough.

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My Famous BFF

I am thisclose to being friends with THE Angelina Jolie. Well, the Angelina Jolie of Sweden. Yeah, that's right, I am talking about Regina Lund. THE Regina Lund. Jealous?

Oh, so now you're trying to pretend you don't know who Regina Lund is? Like you don't read "Bröllopsmagasinet." Like you don't know all the classic lines from "Solisterna" or "Göta kanal 2 - Kanalkampen." Oh, yeah, and I bet you don't eat food or breathe air either. Poseur.

So, how I know you are asking, how did Regina and I meet? Well, we didn't, but I am pretty sure that I could meet her any time I wanted. You see, it turns out that she lived with Ryan's friend Ben's family when she was an exchange student in 1990. Ryan even MET her when she came to visit Ben earlier this month. The first thing she said to Ryan? "I am from Sweden." See, I always knew my new best friend would be real like that.

I don't know which aspect of Regina I like the most. I mean, yeah, she's a brilliant actress, but her singing. Oh, her singing! It's like an angel.



The poetry. I mean "bartender, my tender, tending my dreams?" It's like she can see into my heart. I'm sorry, I need a minute just to compose myself.

Okay. I'm okay now.

I wonder if we can duet on her next album? Maybe an ABBA remake.

Now, are you jealous?

Oh, yes you are.

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By Jiminy

Winter is dragging on, and I am bored.

Yeah, yeah, Meg is adorable, and every minute with her is a miracle, and blah, blah, blah. However, changing diapers, cleaning up spit up carrots, playing "So Big," and reading "Peek A Boo in the Barnyard" aren't exactly challenging my mind. Oh, and Meg doesn't quite get sarcasm yet, so my best jokes are totally lost on her. And Sally has heard them all before.

I have thought of ways to amuse myself, but none have really risen to the occasion. On Friday, I considered eating nothing but tater tots. Then I remembered I have lost 11 pounds on Weight Watchers and don't really want to have the old ladies at the scales shaking their heads in shame. On Saturday, I considered taking up running, but then I picked myself up off the floor from laughing, and thought again. On Sunday, I thought about going to Home Depot to buy five bags of lime, a tarp, and a hacksaw, just to see what people would do. Ryan put a stop to that one. Jerk.

Today, I came up with the answer: hobo names. And I am surprisingly good at them.

I could tell you how I came up with this plan, about the "Wiretap" podcast, and the interview with John Hodgeman, but can't we just pretend it was divine intervention? I mean, how else did I come up with my hobo name so quickly? I would be known as Hominy Pete, because I would always have a can of hominy in my bindle. Oh, and I would share it -- because that's the rule of the road.

Since I was talking to Tara at the time I came up with hers: Boxcar Jill, the rambling gal. Ryan? Mumbly Jim. Meg? The Bean. Oh, and Tara's partner Kent? Professor of the Open Road. I thought that was my best name, but Kent didn't like it. He wanted Doctor Soup Can. When I heard that, I had to acquiesce. I mean, that is even more awesome.

So, now, I have decided I am the queen of all hobo names. Male or female, I can find the perfect moniker if you want to hit the open road and grow a perfect three day beard. Oh, and eat hominy (or beans) without ketchup.

If only I could make money. Then again, no hobo needs that worthless paper. They just need the rails, the skies, good friends, and an oil drum fire.

Damn, hobos are dumb.

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