Makes a Wipe Warmer Look Essential

Ladies and gentlemen, I have done it.

I have found the most ridiculous, unnecessary, single use baby product on the market. Oh, and of course, it is touted as the one thing no parent should be without.

I give you, the juppy:


No, that is not a reusable shopping bag with holes cut in it. I mean, I'm sure it was at some point, but now it is a revolutionary baby walking system, that can be yours for just 40 dollars! You aren't using that money for something else, are you?

I just don't see why anyone would want to buy something that removes them from really interacting with their child at a key developmental stage. I am well aware that, since becoming a mother, I have become much softer. I mean, I hardly ever put cats in trash cans for no reason any more. So, maybe that's it. Really, though, I think it's that I cannot imagine any greater pleasure right now than holding Meg's pudgy little hands while she tries to walk on her own. I love how that grasp helps me tell where she is getting stronger, and where she still needs help. I love how when my back gets tired I can tell it's probably time to give her little legs a break, since she is working much harder than I am. I love that she still is my baby, and am holding onto that feeling as long as I can.

Why would I trade that for a sack? Even one that is approved by "doctors?"

Also, the name just pisses me off. Juppy? Is is half jumpy half puppy?

I am sure there is someone out there, perhaps even reading this, who recommends the "Juppy" to everyone, telling them it is something no parent should live without. You know, kind of like how other parents say they can't do without those leash things, or how I recommend not living far from a liquor store. And maybe the "Juppy" parents are better off. After all, in the end they can sew up the legs, and make their money back by getting five cents off at the grocery store every time they refuse to use paper or plastic...

Yeah, I'm still not buying one.

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Yes, I Worked for FOX

Gather round children, it's story time.

Once up on a time, in the year 2000, there was a magical city called Washington D.C., and in that city lived a Princess named Libby. Now, Princess Libby wasn't the most beautiful in the land, or the bravest, or even the smartest, but she had a certain je ne sais quoi. Every day she went to battle with a dragon, a mean, horrible dragon named John McLaughlin. She would do his bidding, arranging meetings with other dragons, and throw villagers into his mighty maw so that he would avoid eating her. Of course, the day came when there were no more people to throw his way to save herself, and Princess Libby found herself chewed up, spit out, and left on the unemployment line.

Princess Libby needed a job.

In the distance she saw a castle. A new castle, shining bright among the older, darker, more established castles -- which had already refused to hire her. That castle was called FOX News. It was new, and it had a certain mystery about it. No one was quite sure what it would do, but it felt like it was going to do something. Princess Libby found herself being drawn to it, and the possibility of a paycheck.

Okay, let's take a break from the story here. I mean, yes, I needed a job. I desperately needed a job, but also, at that time, no one knew the evil monolith FOX was about to become. It was just another cable news network, being staffed by some really respectable people, including a woman named Kim Hume, whom I had always admired. I was actually really excited to be joining the network. I took a job as an associate producer/archivist.

Princess Libby liked it in the new castle, and not just because of the free popcorn and coffee. She was enjoying the excitement of covering the elections, and hearing the copy she wrote read on national television. Her old dragon had never let her write copy without belittling her and cutting it right before air. This new dragon LIKED her copy, and told her so. She thought, while he looked like a dragon, might actually be a Prince. Prince Brit. It had a nice ring.

Soon it came there was to be a giant ball in the land, when a new king would be crowned. King George, or King Al, who would it be? No one knew! The ball came and went, but still no one knew who would be king. The villagers started to grow testy, and the candidates for king began to joust and fight. Oh, and things in the FOX castle started to get weird. Princess Libby didn't know what the change was, but she knew there had been one. Members of the court were angrier, but also cockier than before. Entering the castle every day got a little creepy. The Princess wasn't liking it any more. She had to do something, and finding another dragon to work for was out of the question.

So, Princess Libby decided to pack up her her crowns, get on her noble steed, and head to grad school.

One more break. In actuality, I had decided to go to grad school right after McLaughlin fired me. I found out I had been accepted just days after being hired by FOX. Still, I remember in the days after the election, and before the Supreme Court decision, a definite change in attitude in the FOX offices. People were defensive because FOX had made the call for Bush, and if they had to eat that, it would be egg on the face of the network. Also, as I know now, most of the staff had voted Republican.

Princess Libby never looked back after leaving the FOX castle behind. She watched as it morphed from a shining castle surrounded by mystery into a black fortress of fire and brimstone, with the large fiery eye of Sean Hannity in the center. Each time she saw it she would shiver, and wonder if any of her friends had made it out of the castle alive, or if they were now chained in a dungeon with an imagine of a donkey burned into their foreheads.

She only thought about them in passing though. After all, she was living happily ever after... in Utah.

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Just Go to Provo, Chickens

Glenn Beck is getting ready to, once again, separate conservative nut jobs from their money. And this time, he is planning to do it in Washington D.C. Big, scary Washington D.C. You know, the place where Democrats, and "the ethnic" roam the streets freely, and people who want nothing more to protect the rich with AK-47s die like dogs.

Not to worry though, since the thing Tea Partiers know best is how to harbor, promote, and profit off of fear, they have set up several guides for the fanny pack, American flag shirt wearing crowd, so that they don't unexpectedly wander into the "unsafe" (read: black) parts of the nation's capitol. Basically, they have taken the city, and pointed out to those attending the seven block area where they can be "safe." Not surprisingly, those are also the seven blocks where the majority of chain restaurants, and souvenir stands operate. Surprisingly, they say it's safe to go past 17th street on Pennsylvania Avenue. After all, I hear a black guy lives at 1600.

Now, I lived in D.C. for five years in the late 90's. The year I moved there residents were bemoaning the fact the city had just lost the title of "murder capitol of the U.S." to New Orleans. This was far, far before there were million dollar condos, and a tapas bar on every corner. I was young, and FROM UTAH, yet, I never feared that city, and it never gave me a reason to fear. In the entire time I was there the only harm that befell me was harm I brought on myself through bad decisions (boyfriends, drinking, working for FOX). I was never mugged, never robbed, never had property stolen. Oh, and it wasn't because I was so street savvy. Remember, I was 23, and FROM UTAH. No, I didn't jog at midnight along Rock Creek Parkway, but that's just because I didn't jog. I drank there quite a bit though.

I guess what I am trying to say is, a city is only as dangerous as you want it to be. If you fear something, it will become fearful. I always told my little sister (who also lived in D.C. for a time) that the best weapon she could have was a good "I belong here" face. Everyone protects their own -- especially in a city like D.C.

Maybe the Tea Partiers should even steer clear of that seven block area.

I mean, if they want to make it so obvious that they don't even want to make an effort to belong, both in D.C. and the nation. Maybe they should just bus in for the conference. It will be much safer. Then the only time they'll get mugged is when they hand their money over to Glenn -- and they'll be too busy smiling and taking pictures to commemorate it to realize what really happened...

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Hear Us Roar!

I work with a woman, we'll call her Helen*, who is intelligent, humorous, stylish, sporty, and very pretty. She is passionate about issues she cares about, kind and generous to her friends, and has (so far) led a very interesting life with many fascinating experiences. She is also single, and on my side of 30. So, what do you think people ask Helen most about? If you said will she ever climb Mount Everest to benefit Russian orphans, while modeling the latest in winter gear -- you would be wrong.

Take yesterday, for example. A former co-worker came into the office and was making the rounds trying to convince everyone he is better off in his new job. Why he would be visiting his old job if that is actually the case isn't important. What is important is that he came up to Helen, asked her how she had been and, before she could get one word out said "I still keep waiting to hear some lucky guy has snatched you up." Helen just smiled, shaking her head, and I started sharpening a pen into a shiv. He unabashedly continued: "I just don't think men know what they're missing when they pass on you."

Pass on? Snatch up? I'm sorry, I thought Helen was a person, not a topping at a salad bar. I mean, as if it wasn't bad enough this person was prying into her personal life, he was also being condescending about it. AND, he thought he was being friendly and charming!

I really felt sorry for his wife at that moment.

Today marks ninety years since women were given the right to vote in the United States. Ninety years since women got their foot in the door of equality, and really began to push it open. Yet, almost a century later, we still have jerks who assume that women aren't happy until they are married, and assume they can comment on it in front of anyone they want. That makes me madder than the fact I still make 30 percent less than men doing equal work. Well, maybe not madder, but as mad.

I know that there are women who say they capitalize on sexism, or get off on it, or are trying to reclaim the feminine role for themselves. However, how can we reclaim a role that still isn't fully ours? Male dominated culture still controls the majority of images presented to girls and women of what girls and women should be. To know I'm right, all I have to do is look at movies. What was the last film you saw where the female star didn't have some sort of love interest, or wasn't a castrating bitch? Even the estrogen fest "Eat, Pray, Love," that is supposedly all about female self discovery ends with a man. A hot man, but a man nonetheless. Oh, but it also comes with it's own line of signature perfumes available on QVC, so I guess that makes it okay.

I just can't wait until Helen is at the top of Everest, being lauded for her good work with orphans and her jaunty scarf, waving her left hand, with a ring -- if that's what she wants -- or happily ringless, at the the world below.

I will be cheering loudly.


* As in Reddy, as in the title of this blog.

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Britney Spears Federer

Everyone has an almost but not quite brush with fame that they like to think about: going to a restaurant Julia Roberts supposedly loves, but she isn't there that night, hanging out in the club where the Sex Pistols first played, buying the same socks as Bill Clinton. In my case, I almost ran into Britney Spears as she was slowly going insane.

Picture it. The year was 2008. Ryan and I were in L.A. visiting Tara and Kent along with our friend Jason. We decided to do something totally Hollywood, and get chichi, overpriced drinks in a strangely decorated hotel: the Viceroy. This place was so Hollywood it has the calorie count for each cocktail listed on the menu. Oh, and everything is (was) at least 15 dollars. We went there to see someone famous, but got there too early, and left with nothing but a 100 bar tab and not even a buzz. Luckily, the drinks we had consumed weren't going to make us fat.

The next morning Tara and I got up to check the news, only to find that immediately after we had left Britney Spears had dragged her crazy ass in there, checked in, checked out several hours later, and then gone to Tarzana to shave her head. If we had only stayed a little longer, maybe we could have talked her out of it. Of course, then the world would have missed out on so much. So, maybe we could have gone with her and gotten matching buzz cuts.

Our brush with Britney is a story that Tara and I never get tired of telling. We were telling it again while I was in L.A. this last time, bemoaning the fact that, now that we're mothers, we will probably never get the opportunity to meet an insane pop star again. That's when Tara's partner Kent decided to join the conversation, and things got weird.

Kent: Was she really insane?
Tara: She shaved her head. Her parents had to take over her finances.
Me: And she had to give her kids to Kevin Federline. I mean, you know it's bad when he's the better parent.
Kent: She gave her kids to the famous tennis player?
Me: What?
Tara: Who?
Kent: The tennis player. Why would he have anything to do with it?
Me: You mean Roger Federer? No, she wasn't married to him.
Tara: Although, if you think about it, he may have been the best possibility in the situation.

Yeah, that's why celebrities will never want to hang out with us. Well, that and the poor and old aspects too.

At least we'll always have our brush with Britney.

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This Is Really Ryan's Story

My husband is the kindest, most caring person that has ever walked the face of the planet. I know, everyone thinks that of their spouse, but in my case it's true. I think in certain situations even Jesus would say "dude, you don't have to do that," but Ryan would do it anyway.

Last night Ryan was driving to the store when he saw a woman crossing a street near our home that she obviously shouldn't have been crossing, because she obviously shouldn't have been walking at all. She was at least 75, limping, and had on sandals that were being held together by tape and faith. Ryan, being the guy that he is, pulled over and asked where she was going. She pointed to a nearby bakery. He asked if she was planning to walk back home, and how far it was. She said yes, and about nine blocks. He told her to wait for him at the bakery. He came home, traded out the high truck for the much lower car, and went back to fetch her.

When Ryan arrived he found the woman eating a slice of bread on the patio. This bakery is known for giving out free slices, and she had walked to get hers for dinner. Ryan went into the bakery, bought her a loaf of the bread she was eating, and then told her whenever she was ready to go, he was ready to take her. She was ready to go.

They got into the car, and Ryan asked where she lived. She told him the address of an old hotel recently renovated into apartments for the chronically homeless. It is much more than nine blocks away. They started driving, and sat quietly for a moment before she spoke up. "I hope you are just doing me a favor," she said, "because I don't have any money, and I don't do the sex."

I can only picture the look on Ryan's face. I am imagining he turned redder than his hair.

He says he sputtered something about having a wife and a child, how he works with young people, and never wanting to harm anyone in any way. He thought about showing her pictures. Then she started talking again, this time about all the people out to get her, and he fretted all the way to her apartment about if she was still afraid of him.

I think Jesus even would have been chuckling at that point. Then he would have thanked himself that there are people like Ryan in this world.

I know I do.

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Thirteen Months

Multitasking is now a thing of the past in our house.


Meg is now like a Visa card, she is everywhere she wants to be, and some places we really wish she wouldn't go. She crawls up, and down, stairs. She stands on the changing table. She climbs anything and everything, including her parents, and when she reaches the top of her present Everest she keeps climbing as if a ladder from heaven is just out of her reach. She no longer likes to be held or cuddled, using both her palms and knees to push off and try to escape. The only time she is willingly babied is when she is hurt or tired, and those moments are becoming fewer and farther between, so we are treasuring them all.

Meg's verbal skills are becoming more and more impressive. She now speaks in full sentences, even if most of the time we are not sure what she is saying, or if she is, in fact, speaking Czech. There are a couple phrases that are very recognizable, like "what," and "thank you." We also knew exactly what meant when she said "oh, shit," and have spent the last week deciding who is to blame. I would just admit it was me, but I don't say "shit." I say "fuck." I think it was grandma.

It's strange coming back to such a big kid after spending a week with a newborn. For instance, Meg now looks like Jaws, even though she only has five teeth. She is putting them to good use though, eating everything and anything, and biting her cousin, Luke, when he doesn't do exactly what she wants him to do. I will eventually tell her that is not appropriate, after I stop finding it funny.

My favorite new thing that Meg does though, I mean, even more than the biting, is the kissing. Yesterday when she and Ryan came to wake me for my birthday she leaned in and gave me a smooch. It was the best birthday present I could have gotten.

Oh, how we love our girl.

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432 Months

I am now closer to the age of 50 than I am to the age of 20. That is probably a good thing, since I was an ass at the age of 20, not sure what I was doing with my life, full of insecurity and bravado, desperate for attention, any type of attention, and far too trusting for as cynical as I seemed. I am not sure if I will be any of those things at 50, but, if I am, at least I will hopefully know how to handle being that way with some kind of aplomb.

I have never much cared for birthdays. There is just too much pressure. It's like New Year's Eve, but you're the only one supposed to be enjoying it. If anyone else doesn't have a good time it doesn't matter, because it isn't their birthday. However, if you aren't happy, you've wasted your chance for a whole year. What kind of bogus present is that?

Also, I can never think of anything I want for my birthday. It isn't that I don't want things, I'm as materialistic and selfish as the next guy, it's just that I can never think of any of the things that I want when people ask me what I want for my birthday. I become Ralphie from "A Christmas Story"stuttering out "football" on Santa's lap. Except I ask for picture frames, and then I can't crawl back up the damn slide to say what I really want.

Really though, the best present in my life is my life. My daughter, who burst into tears when I returned from LA last night, and my husband who comforted her and took care of her while I was gone. My family who helped him, and managed to find a perfect patio set for me, and set it up, to boot. Tara, who really tried to have her baby on my birthday, but just couldn't keep her from coming; and who gave me something wonderful, that shows she really knows me, to celebrate year 36:


Really, how can it get better than that? It can't. So, in lieu of gifts this year, I am asking people to donate to Helpusadopt.org. It is a great organization that gives grants to couples wanting to adopt, but who can't afford it. Giving money to them is better than any fancy picture frame. So, if any of want to say "happy birthday" to me, please do so by giving money to them.

See, I never would have asked for such a thing at 20. Maybe by 50 I will just be freakin' awesome.

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I'm A Little Rusty

Newborn babies are a lot of work.


This beautiful baby is Tara's four day old daughter, Wren. I am currently in California meeting Wren, and helping Tara and Kent get a handle on parenthood. You would think I would be a lot of help, having just recently dealt with a newborn of my own, but it turns out I am not.

It turns out that the skill set needed for a newborn is extremely specific, and goes away almost immediately after your child stops being a newborn, and starts trying to climb the kitchen cabinets. For instance, my swaddle is waaaay off. I used to be able to wrap Meg so tightly it was like she was shrink wrapped, all in under 15 seconds. Now, though, I am all thumbs. I couldn't even remember how deep the top corner needed to be to cover her little hands and keep them snug. Rookie mistake. Oh, and I forgot just how fast a newborn will pee once you take off a diaper, and how wiping sometimes makes them poop more. I hung my head in shame when a simple diaper change turned into a full outfit and blanket change because of my slow hands.

Of course, by the time my newborn skills come back, it will be time to leave, and put my toddler wrangling skills back to work. I hope Meg understands when I try to burp her instead of wipe her face, and when I make soothing ocean noises instead of playing "peek a boo." I also hope she doesn't mind when I call her "Wren." After all, Wren hasn't minded the fact I have repeatedly called her "Meg." Of course, Tara has also been calling her "Molly," which is the dog's name, so I don't feel too bad about that one.

After all, newborns are a lot of work.

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