Scattered

I am not all here tonight. I mean, all of my ass is here, but not all of my brain. If my ass could write blog posts that would be great; then again, my ass would probably just write about how flatness is the new black, and ask when we are having ice cream again.

So, enjoy this video. And enjoy your Friday. I mean, unless you work weekends, and Fridays suck because of that.

I used to work weekends. I hated it when people said 'Thank God it's Friday." I always thought they were fucking with me.



You're welcome. Now, I will spend the weekend meditating and focusing my blog energy.

Actually, I'll probably just roll around on the floor with Meg and drink a box of wine. Then maybe I'll write about kittens.

Beerds?

We recently got a new rug for Meg's room...Isn't it pretty? Don't you love it? Don't you look at it and wonder what the fuck those things are flying around the edges?

I know. We do too.

When I unrolled the rug yesterday Ryan commented on the pretty color, and how nice the texture is; and then said "what are those things above the flowers?"
"Birds," I replied.
"Those don't look like birds." He wrinkled his face and tried to cross his eyes to see it.
"Bees?" I didn't know, I was just trying to think of things that are normally around flowers, and they definitely didn't look like hippies.
"Bees aren't pink and green. And don't those things have webbed feet?" Oh, so now he's Darwin.
I fired back. "Look, this isn't a nature guide. I mean, even the flowers aren't accurate. How many flowers do you see that remind you of pink and red striped sex toys?"
He had nothing to say to that.

I won.

Now though, I can't look at the rug without still wondering what those flying things are, and feeling like I bought something slightly obscene for my baby's room.

Still, the green is nice.

Die Another Way

When Ryan and I bought our house five years ago we were young, and free, and not thinking about children. We fell in love with the house for it's new kitchen, mature trees, central location, and big porch. We loved it so much we were willing to overlook everything that made it hazardous for children. Very, very hazardous for children. The pond. The sharp corners. The old heating registers that aren't quite attached to the wall. Oh, and, of course, the death stairs.
That's right, for the past five years we have lived with a seven foot drop immediately off the kitchen. For the past five years every time we have had a child, or a drunk person, visiting we have warned them about the drop off, sucked air through our teeth and grabbed them when they got near the drop off, and prayed no one would fall off the drop off and sue us.

We always talked about getting a railing put there, but just never did it. Then Meg was born, and we knew time was ticking down. When she started crawling, time was up.

I would love to say I did it myself, but I didn't. I did write the check myself though, so I think that counts for something.

All night I have been in the back hall, marveling at the new railing. I would touch it, but Joe (who is now right up there with Rick, and Frank in my book) said not to wiggle it for 48 hours to let the glue around the bolts set. I so want to wiggle it, but I want it too be sturdy more. After all, I have a baby to protect.

Now, I guess we just have to do something about the pond.

SHE CRAWLS!!!

You've heard all about it on Facebook. You've read all about it on the award winning, hard hitting blog Libby Logic. Now, it's time to see for yourself.

Drum roll please...

The world will never be the same again.

Oh, and the horrible racket in the background is railing being built on our death stairs. I'll tell you more about that later. For now, just bask in the wonder of Meg.

Chair Dreams

When I got to work this morning, my chair was not at my desk.

There was a chair there, just not my chair. Actually, it appeared to be a nicer chair. It had a higher back, and a wider seat, and did not have the "map of Antarctica" stain on the back that my chair has. Someone had thoughtfully taken my sweater off my old chair and put it on this new chair, so I assumed that the chair fairy had decided I was deserving of a treat.

Those first few moments in the chair were pure bliss. In most chairs, I have to choose being either high enough to type on the keyboard, or low enough to put my feet on the floor. Yes, I am practically a little person -- deal with it. With this chair though, I don't know if the seat was thicker, or if it was just magic, but I was in a comfortable typing position, and my feet (well, my tiptoes) were touching the floor. I was like a normal person! This chair was making me so happy. So very happy.

Then I noticed something strange was afoot.

I was shrinking.

The first time it happened I had gotten out of my chair and come back, so I assumed I must have accidentally hit the lever. I moved the chair back where I wanted it, and went back to work. Pretty soon, I was typing like Tyrannosaurus, with my hands practically right under my chin, and my knees almost on the floor.

I reset the chair again, not willing to give up what I was sure was a prize. I figured with a piece of equipment this nice I just needed to learn how to use it. Then a co-worker came in and asked if I had called in sick because he couldn't see me over my computer. I might as well have been sitting in a hole.

I really wanted to keep that chair. I wanted it's nicer armrests, and it's fabric that didn't smell like moth balls; the seat that wasn't covered with unknown dried particles of food left by the other people who sit at my desk when I'm not there. I thought I could do it. I thought I could put in the work necessary to keep such a nice chair.

The next time I found myself looking over the table though, my nose level with my keyboard, I knew I wasn't woman enough for a high maintenance chair.

I went looking for Antarctica. And when I found it? I smelled moth balls.

It smelled like home.

10 Items or Less, Damnit

I am a BIG fan of the self checkout lanes at the grocery stores. Ryan says they will eventually lead to the mechanization of the world, and the downfall of the working class, but that really doesn't matter to me since they keep me from waiting in lines and making small talk. Yes, I'm that shallow. Sue me.

I have gotten to the point where, if there is a lane open, I can get out the store in under five minutes with a full cart of groceries. I have produce codes memorized. I know where the bar code is on every product. Once I get in the zone I am one with the machine. I know how to trick it so, when I put in a small item that doesn't weigh much, it still registers and let's me keep checking out. I am that good. I am so good, in fact, that I have a proposal for grocery stores: make people take a test of use before they get to use the self check out lanes.

There really is nothing worse than standing, waiting for a check out station, while some novice tries to find their produce codes while looking through pictures, or tries to figure out why their reusable bags keep setting off the call for an associate. Really, it's like watching someone try to drive a car when they are not sure how to turn the key. We would never let those people drive, so why should we let them scan fruit?

Oh, and after they take the test everyone who wants to use the self check outs should have to sign an agreement to make life more simple for their fellow shoppers. They should agree NEVER to let their kids scan for them, no matter how much "fun" they think it would be. They should agree not to buy cigarettes, since it means the attendant has to go get them, and the lane is out of use for that time. They should agree to grab only fruits and vegetables with code stickers on them, so they don't have scroll through pages of codes recommendations. Oh, and they should agree NEVER buy ice or stamps.

If shoppers break any of these agreement the people in line behind them get one free punch each. Or, in order to avoid lawsuits, maybe the store could hire a "designated puncher." Maybe they could use the cashiers Ryan claims will be put out of work by the self check outs...

Stick With Jumping Jacks, Jillian

I try not to talk about adoption on this blog, because I know it's a volatile issue, and the last time I did people wrote comments that made me cry. However, today I read something so egregious I can't ignore it. I need to say something.
I think we all know who Jillian Michaels is. We have either seen her on the "Biggest Loser," or had her yelling at us in the privacy of our own homes as we do her workout tapes. Really, she makes me cry almost as much as mean blog comments. Of course, I'm out of breath when I'm crying with Jillian, so it's a health hazard. Anyway, today I was reading an interview with Jillian in which she said she doesn't want to get pregnant because she doesn't want to "ruin" her body, and because "when you rescue something, it's like rescuing a part of yourself."

I am begging you, Jillian, please don't adopt.

Adoption is about loving a child, and taking responsibility for it. It is not about rescuing them. If you go into it with that mindset you will always feel like the child owes you something, and they don't. Actually, I think parents who adopt owe their children more, because they are putting them in a difficult situation, where uncomfortable questions are sure to be asked, and hard feelings are sure to be dealt with, and the kid had no say in it.

Every day when I Meg wakes up I thank God for her. I thank God for the woman who gave birth to her and is letting me be her Mom too. I feel rescued, and I renew my promise to pay back what I have received. I think (and it's just my opinion, don't vilify me in the comments if you disagree) that if you aren't willing to do the same then you should not adopt. Actually, maybe you should rethink parenting altogether.

Also, no parents should yell at their kids that "400 pound people" can crawl, so they should too. I guess that means Jillian's out.

Maybe we could all pitch in and get her a fat puppy instead.

Multi-Media Baby

Dear Internet,

I lied to you.

About a week ago I excitedly told you about the fact Meg is crawling, and bemoaned the fact that soon she will be pulling down bookcases, and throwing all night ragers while Ryan and I try to get our beauty sleep. I said the crawling was precipitated by her desire for teething beads. Sweet, innocent, child appropriate teething beads. And that, my sweetest Internet is where I lied. It was not, in fact, teething beads that got Meg moving -- it was something a little more adult.

That's right, she wanted the remote control. She still wants it today. We can wave any number of toys at her, or offer her treats, or hold out our arms, but the one thing that will always put her in motion is the remote. A close second is my Blackberry. Now, I know what you are all saying "babies love buttons." No, it isn't the buttons. She has a number of toys with buttons. Really nice buttons. Buttons that don't turn the volume up to ear shaking levels, or accidentally place calls to Europe. It is only the items that do do those things that hold her interest.

I am so ashamed. I keep picturing her future in television news, and weeping just a little.

I guess it could be worse, though. She could be using the remote to turn to FOX news. Then we would really have problems.

The Hills are Alive With the Sound of Panic

I am not a fan of "The Sound of Music." Never have been. Never will be. There is something about all of that singing about favorite things, and hanging from trees, and making play clothes out of curtains that just makes me itch with annoyance. All the songs are so upbeat. Even the sad ones are sung with smiles. I mean, not even the Nazis really get the Von Trapp family down -- they just see it as a minor annoyance that allows them to go on an extended family hike. It's just ridiculous.

And, if all that wasn't bad enough, this morning "The Sound of Music" almost cost me my job.

Every morning as people are coming into the office I listen to music so I can get my work done. It's a defense mechanism I have honed due to the location of my desk. This morning, I was listening to show tunes. Yes, show tunes. You gotta a problem with that? I didn't think so. Moving on. I was bopping along to Bernadette Peters singing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and feeling pretty good, when the track ended, and on came a bunch of nuns singing "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria." I had a couple of ideas of my own, and I turned to Twitter to share the best of them:

"How DO you solve a problem like Maria? I mean, other than a good kick to the head."

I know, both funny, AND direct. I am truly gifted at zingers under 140 characters. It wasn't until about 45 minutes later I realized that tweet could have been taken in a very, very different context.

You see, my boss is named Maria.

I was talking to my friend Sam a bit later in the morning when he asked why I was annoyed with Maria. I said I wasn't, that we were getting along fine. He then asked if Maria and I were getting along why I wanted to kick her in the head. Alarm bells went off and the word "FUCK" blared in my head. I began to worry that in just a few hours getting fired because of a misunderstood Tweet would known as getting "Libbied." I took to the web again to explain myself.

"Realized my boss is named Maria, and that last tweet could be taken wrong. For the record, I was meant the annoying optimistic singing nun."

I was going to add on how much I love my job, and how I never, ever want to lose it, and how company loyalty is very important to me, but that wouldn't fit in 140 characters.

Thank God for Sam. And shame on you Maria Von Trapp. What kind of Austrian nun is named Maria anyway? What, were you too good to be named Ingrid?

Ugh.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, and good damn night.

Tara the Soon to be Pirate

I know I mentioned that while Tara was here we went and got pedicures. What I did not mention is that during said pedicures the technician working on Tara got a little overzealous working on her callouses, and scraped off some of Tara's skin. Tara immediately stopped the woman, asked if they should continue with the pedicure, and was assured her that it would be fine if she put some antiseptic on the wound.

That was almost two weeks ago, and the scrape is not fine. In fact, according to Tara, it is not healed and slightly red and puffy. When she told me that this morning alarm bells started going off in my head. We've done investigative reports on the horrible bacteria that can be found at nail salons, and how people have gotten ill, and lost toes because of the infections they have gotten. I told her to go to the doctor immediately. I even used CAPS to text my advice. She was unmoved.

Tara: I think its a little infected but not that bad.
Libby: Go to the doctor. Don't mess with staph. I am SO not kidding. Can't you just go to Instacare?
Tara: I'm sure its not staph infection. There are many, many kinds of infections that are not staph. I don't have that. Plus it would take all day
Libby: Well, at least I can call you stumpy later.

I let it go then, because if there is one thing I know about Tara it is that harping on something you want her to do means she definitely won't do it. I know that because I am the exact same way. However, a little later my new found Mom side collided with my perpetual bossy side. Oh, and my sarcastic side chimed in too.

Libby: Did your foot fall off yet?
Tara: Not yet. I figure if that happens I'll save money on shoes.
Libby: Killing me.
Tara: I can also shoplift shoes from Nordstrom Rack.
Libby: Keep it up, funny girl.
Tara: And also I could get a parrot.
Libby: You can have my Mom's.  But you have to take the pigeon too.
Tara: There is no literary precedent for a pigeon.
Libby: There are no pirates who lost feet to pedicures.
Tara: That you KNOW OF.
Libby: Yeah, Captain Ahab just wanted his hands to look nice. 
Now, we are at an impasse. I keep picturing the horrible agony awaiting Tara if she doesn't see a doctor about her foot,
and she keeps picturing the horrible agony awaiting me if I don't stop bothering her about it. I can't really decide who's
agony will be worse.

Either way I guess I'll have something to blog about.

Damn Kids

Tomorrow Utah schools begin their CRT testing. You know, the "oh my God, children really aren't the future" tests. All of the teachers I know have spent the weekend thinking up pep talks, or making funny little signs for their classrooms letting them know they support them, and that doing poorly on these tests means a lifetime of misery and fast food jobs. Oh, and every school has a sign out in front letting parents know the testing will be going on, so they can make sure their kids have a good breakfast, and stress them out at the end of the day by asking how they think they did.

Some of those signs have movable type...


At least they spelled all the words right. They should get points for that, right?

Movement and Snark

Meg has started to crawl. Well, kind of. She crawled once, yesterday afternoon, a distance of about 18 inches. She hasn't done it again since then. Still, I'm counting it. Honestly, I think she hasn't done it since because I freaked her out with my response. She moved forward and I started screaming and clapping my hands like a monkey. She just smiled and looked at me like "Yeah, I like these beads too, Mom. That's why I had to move over here and get them."

After the momentous crawling I (of course) posted the news on Twitter and Facebook, and called my parents to tell them their grandchild is a genius. They were out with my sister and Luke, which meant one less phone call to make to spread the news. First I talked to my Dad, who exclaimed "Meg crawled? Woo hoo!" He then handed the phone to my Mother, who exclaimed the news loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear. She then gave the phone to my sister, but not before demanding she see Meg some time today to witness said crawling. My sister was very happy to hear about the crawling, and offered to give me a baby gate she used when Luke was little. Then she put him on the phone. "So, I hear Meg is crawling," he said, dryly.

Yeah, that's right.

Just "heard it" as if it had been gossip at a cocktail party he had just attended, or locker room talk after his squash game.

Only six, and already so funny.

We'll see how funny he is when Meg crawls after him and slimes his Star Wars figures...

Touché

Facebook is good for many, many things. Posting cute pictures of children. Sharing meaningless, time-wasting crap. Promoting political stances that are unpopular to everyone except those people who think Sean Hannity is brilliant -- making your old camp friends wonder what the hell happened to you. Of course, the best way to use Facebook is to mess with people from work. And the people I work with? Experts.

I don't know if you knew this, but it is very easy to leave yourself logged into Facebook, even if you close the browser window. I know I didn't know that until I mysteriously became a fan of Sarah Palin, Glenn Beck, and Jason Chaffetz. I figured out how it happened about a week later when my co-workers gleefully crowded around a computer where another hapless dupe was still logged in, and made him a fan of Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, and Rachel Maddow (this dupe and that dupe have very different politics).

Of course, the best way to mess with someone on Facebook is not to use their account, but to make a grand pronouncement about that person to all his/her friends. After all, what good is messing with a person if they are the only one who gets to enjoy it? I cannot tell you how many times engagement/pregnancy/relocation/sex change rumors have been started with the click of just a few keys. I would print examples, but they are quickly deleted. However, they still spread like wildfire. You can see them go from desk to desk, as people click on to the forbidden site and read the news. You would think we would be more careful than that, since we all know how social networking sites can get people in trouble at work, and since we report on that trouble. You would be wrong. After all, we have to have some joy in between reporting on hit and runs, and the death of world leaders.

Now, if I could just figure out a way to tell all of my work friends they are fired through Facebook, and make it believable. I mean, before they figure it out first.

Tara in Ten

Today I have a headache, am slightly depressed, and feel like I am developing the gout and/or cirrhosis of the liver. Yes, that's right, Tara was in town this weekend. Now, I could give you a blow by blow account of her visit, running down the activities of each day, or you could just go bang your head against something hard. Instead, I think I will just give you the top ten high points* of her trip.

1. We ate. Oh, how we ate. We went to all of our favorite haunts and are all of our favorite things. Mexican food. Pizza. Pastry. Pasta. Fried cheese. Crazy bread. As we all know calories do not count if you are pregnant or on vacation. Since Tara was both, I took advantage of her extra immunity.

2. We drank. Well, actually I drank. Tara has this whole thing about "fetal alcohol syndrome" so I had to pick up her slack. I can't be sure, but I am pretty sure at one point she yelled "Drink monkey! Drink and dance for me!" as she elted me with wine bottles. I might have just dreamt that though.

3. We beautified. After all, summer is coming, and no one likes to look at ugly toes. While Tara picked a suitable red, I decided to be a little daring and pick a beautiful blue.


Yeah, it looks like a smurf puked on my toes.

4. We conquered her baby registry. No, I did not get her to brave going into an actual Babies R Us. Let's face it, that is not for the faint of heart, even with a newly minted Mom as a guide. You need someone with at least two years experience and maybe a minivan to help navigate that heart of darkness. We did get on the internet though, and set up a registry with enough items to get her through at least the first five days of the baby's life. Then she can send Kent into the belly of the B.R.U.S beast to get anything else needed.

5. We crafted. We had to. We needed an activity for her baby shower, and it was either decorate onesies or make her eat candy bars of diapers. I value my life, so the choice was clear. This is the one I did:

This is the one Tara did:


Whatever.

10. I was mistaken for her mother. At the airport, as she was leaving on Sunday, I helped Tara get her stuff out of the car and to the skycap. The traffic officer came over to tell me to move my car. I said I would, but that I was helping Tara. The woman said that was fine, adding "you're a good Mom." Now, it was early, and no I was not looking all that great, but I did not look like the mother of a 36 year old woman. I have now decided to start mainlining Botox.

Wow, I think those ten points really paint a full picture of the weekend, don't you? The laughter. The tears. The moments when Tara and I realized we are friends because we know just how insane the other person is, and both respect and fear it. Oh, and that soon we will both be responsible for raising children, and that neither one of us is quite sure how we feel about it.

Good times.

And yes, that is how I count to ten.

*The term "high points" is subjective. You may have had other high points. And yes, I know I am using this footnote thing a lot lately. Deal with it.

Nine Months, Two Days*

From this:
To this:

Meg has now entered what we refer to as her "octopus" phase. She is all hands, and lightning fast. Anything within her reach will be grabbed, picked up, and placed directly into her mouth. As she is getting more mobile, scooting and rolling and pulling herself up, the number of things "within her reach" is growing rapidly, which usually means either Ryan or I are constantly playing defense, trying to avert disaster. Most of the time we are successful, but there are definitely moments when we are not. For instance, at lunch the other day Meg managed to knock over not one, but TWO glasses of water. She was very proud of herself. The waitress was less so.

Food is a big favorite for Meg, and she is getting better at feeding herself. Only about half of what she tries to put in her mouth ends up in her lap. Luckily, Sally is very willing to clean up the mess. Both of them are especially fond of Cheerios and puffed rice treats, but are generally willing to eat anything. I find Meg's dining ability especially impressive considering she still has not a single tooth in her head.

Every day brings something new. A new sound. A new look. A new movement. A new trick. One day she will be all about sticking out her tongue, and the next it will be a deep gargling growl. Meg is also getting adept at getting Ryan and me to do her bidding. Neither one of us are very good at letting her fuss or whine, and she used to do it so rarely that we always assumed something was definitely wrong. Now though, she is using it to let us know she needs to be picked up IMMEDIATELY, or she really, really wants to eat the computer keyboard. If she is really working it she can squeeze out a single enormous teardrop to roll down her cheek. We are trying to limit reacting to it, but it's hard. I mean, just look at that face.

Oh, how we love our girl.


*I should have posted this Friday, but Tara was in town. Blame her.

Gimme Five Dollas

The ingenuity and idiocy of the Internet never cease to amaze me. I am so amazed, in fact, I have invented a new word to describe what I see: idinuity. Basically I plan to use it every time I see an Internet sensation that is either ridiculous or totally useless, and that I really wish I had thought of, because it would have made me a millionaire and/or gotten me a book deal. For instance: the website "This is Why You're Fat." The world doesn't need it, and it is nothing but a tumblr blog of gross food pictures submitted by readers. Still, it landed the authors (editors?) a six figure book deal. They are absolutely the kings of the idinuits. Wait, they might actually be the princes. The guy who got a television development deal from his Twitter stream is the the king. Or maybe the guy who invented LOL Cats.

The latest discovery in the world of idinuic web ideas is Fiverr. This site qualifies because it is not only making it's owners money, but also making money for thousands of people who have no discernibly talent in the real world. Here people can post ads for what they are willing to do for five dollars. The possibilities range from the mundane to the sublime. Most have to do with Twittering website recommendations, writing jokes or stories, or designing websites. One person offers to "eat your soul." Another offers to send a picture of her cat that is in need of an operation. I haven't seen any offers for naked pictures, but it's still a relatively young site. They haven't figured out yet that the Internet is for porn.

I am still trying to decide if I should offer my services on Fiverr. Most of all, because I am not sure of the services I could offer. Other than sarcasm, news writing, and talking myself and others out of sobriety and/or exercise are really my only skills I think anyone would be interested in. Maybe I could be a "Private Dancer" taping myself so others can feel better about their dancing abilities. I know Kate Gosselin would sign up. Or maybe I could offer to listen to cat/baby/work stories and feign interest. Wait, Kurt has that market cornered.

I've got it!For five dollars I will tell them about my new word to describe all Internet phenomenon.

Shit, I just gave it away for free... I am so not an idinuit.

The Center of the World

I like to think of myself as a hard worker. I would like to think my co-workers think the same of me. However, I can almost guarantee they do not. This fact has nothing to do with how much work I do, or how well I do it. It has everything to do with where I sit. If the newsroom were New York City, my desk would be Times Square. And everything on my computer screen? It would be the giant billboard hanging right in the middle.

It does not matter how long I work, or how many stories I write, the minute that I take a break, and look at anything on my computer non-work related someone is right there over my shoulder to comment on it. I don't think I would be half as annoyed about it if they came up with an interesting quip, but most of the time it is something like "are you putting your baby's picture in the news," or "working hard or hardly working?" That's when I get stabby. After all, I know every one of these commenters gets to go back to their carefully cubed in desks, in the Williamsburg and Bronx sections of the newsroom, and happily work, or not work, without anyone being any the wiser.

I don't think I would mind the comments so much if I were allowed to work when I was working. However, there is something about where I sit, and my overall demeanor (since I am so lovely and welcoming), that makes people think I am always up for a chat. Not sure about the day's news? Ask Libby. Want to know the latest newsroom gossip? Libby muse have heard something, look at where she sits! Need some sympathy and a shoulder to cry on? Libby has a kid now, so that must have softened her. Want to show off pictures of your cats? Libby, well, actually, Libby might make you eat them; there has to be a line. Just tell her the stories, instead.

I really wish I were kidding.

I guess I could move my desk. It would be difficult, and I would have to "king of the mountain" someone out of their spot, but I scare a lot of people, so I could probably do it. The real reason that I don't move though? Despite all of the annoyances, and aspersions cast, I like where I sit. After all, Time Square is where the action happens, and I am an excellent eavesdropper. Everyone knows location and information are key for anyone wanting to be any good in news. Also, this way I always know when people have brought in free food. Oh, and it feeds into my delusion that the world somehow revolves around me.

So, damn it, Jim, I'm staying. If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.*


*In this instance anywhere refers to any newsroom at a mid-level market television station in the continental United States, that has a soda machine that is never out of Diet Pepsi. Thanks for reading.