Good Bye, Fizzy Lover

I have to break up with Diet Pepsi. I don't want to. I love it. This isn't for me though, it's for Meg.

Diet Pepsi has always been there for me -- cold, crisp, bubbly, and slightly burny. I love the feel of a can in my hand. I love the sound the pop top makes when I open the first one of the day. I love swallowing the last sip of my first can, and chasing it immediately with the first sip of my second. I love unexpectedly discovering that the can is not as empty as I thought it was. I mourn when I discover the can is empty and I've had my two for the day. I feel a slight pain when I hear someone else open one after that.

I know, it's sick, but it's love.

I have tried to break up with Diet Pepsi before. I have tried to give it up for weight loss reasons. I have tried to give it up for brittle bone reasons. I have tried to give it up because on the rare (or not so rare) days that I have more than two, I end up having six and feeling like a cracked out squirrel. Most recently I tried to give it up because Nutrasweet may be linked to depression. Every time, though, I have come thirstily slinking back.

I gave Meg her first taste of the sweet, sweet nectar about two weeks ago. Like all Moms, I share most things with her. If I am eating or drinking something, she can have some. I figured she would taste the Diet Pepsi, and spit it out, since until that moment the thing she hated more than shots, or having her nose wiped, was carbonation. How wrong I was. There was something about the wonderfulness of the Pepsi though, coupled with it's low calorie magic, that overcame her aversion to bubbles. I looked into her eyes -- and saw the addiction being born. This afternoon was the last straw. I had gotten a Diet Pepsi at the store and pulled it out of the grocery bag to drink in the car. Meg, still sitting in the grocery cart, grabbed her pacifier out of her mouth, tossed it on the ground, and lurched for the bottle. She looked a little rabid.

So, now I have to let my beloved soda go. I don't know how I am going to do it. I just know I have to. After all, I can be fat, have bones that break in a strong wind, and deal with depression. Meg can't. She deserves better.

I hope she likes ice tea.

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Brilliant

There is a man, right now, offering to leave law school at Boston College without a degree -- if the school will refund his tuition. He says he was convinced to go to law school by promises of a good career and high salary, but really, all he is going to end up with is mountains of student loans. So, he doesn't want the degree, or the debt, and will trade one for the other.

God, I wish I had thought of that.

I have not one, but two degrees. I use neither. One I don't use because it's a BFA in theater, which is about as useful in real life as a BFA in theater. The other is an Masters in Education, which I don't use because half way through my program I realized I don't know if children are the future, and have no desire to teach them well and let them lead the way. Yet, despite the fact I don't use either of these degrees on a daily basis, that they have never directly helped me get, or advance in, jobs, I still have to pay for them every year. And because I was raised by a former Catholic who couldn't give up the guilt, I pay promptly and without question.

If this guy gets his money back though, I might have to rethink that. I bet I have even better arguments than he does. When I decided to go into theater I was only 17. They took advantage of a minor! They took my money, well aware the best job I would ever get from said degree was a singing waiter. Sounds like child abuse to me. The education people are even worse. Don't they have a responsibility to tell people trying to leave lucrative careers not to be idiots? Or is their tuition shell game more important than educating the poor hapless souls who wander into their webs? I would appreciate the irony if I weren't paying for it.

Oh, and if I get my money back, I am totally encouraging all of my co-workers to sue their schools as well. After all, they paid to get journalism and communication degrees to work in an industry where someone with degrees in theater and education can not only get a job, but have a rather mediocre career. I think they could get class action status.

Actually, I think we should all sue! Education never! Litigation now!

I'm going to start looking for a lawyer right now. One with good credentials. You know, like a degree from Boston College.

Damn.

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I Got Nothing

Once again, I have to rely on my kid to save my reputation.

I can't even say I taught her those songs; Ryan and my Mom did. And I think you can tell I didn't shoot the video alone. Yep, Meg thinks she's Ben Affleck -- without the boner for Boston.

Later, gators.

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A Door Closes

There is one thing no one ever tells you when you become a parent: that moments of abject terror will strike you all the time. Small things, that normally would be a minor annoyance, not worthy of mention otherwise, are transformed into heart stopping rides to the depth of the soul. Where normally you would swear and be slightly inconvenienced, you are now praying to God that nothing happens, and the DCFS doesn't find out. Take, for example, being locked out of a hotel room -- like I was this weekend.

I knew the second I saw the door closing it was going to lock behind me. I had just pushed a luggage cart our into the hall, and as I turned around to go back in I knew I was too far from the door to catch it before it shut. I lunged anyway, and my hand hit the knob just as the lock clicked.

I didn't have the key. I was lucky I had on pants, as I was dressing for a wedding when the cart caught my eye. I had just plugged in my curling iron to do my hair. And I had just sat Meg down on the floor to eat cheddar bunnies while I did that. Now she was locked in a room, alone, with a hot curling iron. Oh, and glassware. And medications in my open suitcase. And a half bottle of champagne from helping the bride dress. I had locked her in Guns 'n Roses dressing room.

I started to freak out.

I knew I had to get a key, but I didn't want to leave the door. I worried she would come over and try to open it, and walk out into the hall, or slam her fingers. I worried she would start a fire with the curling iron. I worried she would start choking on a cheddar bunny. I started to rock back and forth, and jump up and down. I don't know why I thought making a spectacle of myself in an empty hotel hallway would help, but for some reason it was my first course of action. And then? You have never seen a fat girl run so fast.

All the way down to the front desk I pictured the horrible things that could be going on in that room. I saw fires, flood, and pestilence. For just a moment I was very thankful I had already put on my bra and Spanx, since no one needs to see that much jiggling, but then I was right back to picturing the worst.

I got to the front desk horribly out of breath, since I am not only a bad parent but totally out of shape. "Baby, curling iron, door lock, room 661," I coughed out, hoping someone would go rescue Meg if I collapsed on the spot. Luckily adrenaline kept my heart pumping and my legs moving, and I was off again like a shot.

By the time I got back to the room I was figuring out how to tell Ryan I had caused our child's death. I was thinking of whether or not we could sue the hotel, or the luggage cart company, or my parents for making me so fucking stupid. I hoped Meg's death and/or maiming wouldn't ruin the wedding. As I slid the keycard into the lock I figured at best we would soon have to have a new robotic hand made for Meg due to the horrible burn she had suffered by now. I pictured the telethon to pay for it.

The door swung open.

There sat Meg, eating cheddar bunnies. "Hi," she said, and then went back to the task at hand. I don't think she had even noticed I was gone.

My heartbeat slowed. I stopped sweating. I slid down the back of the door the floor and watched as Meg toddled over to me, bunny in hand, to feed me. I thanked God the worst hadn't happened. The world came back into perspective. My panicked parent goggles went back into my pocket.

Still, I kept the room key in my bra the rest of the weekend. Better safe than sorry.

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Thanks, Interwebs

You guys sure know how to make a crazy girl feel loved.

Really, I was so overwhelmed by your kind words and suggestions that I considered writing some bad poetry about night rainbows and missing unicorns just to keep the love flowing. Then I realized there is a line between depression and reverting to junior high, and stopped work on my painting of Robert Smith done in my own blood.

One of the things that always surprises me when I am in the depths of depression is how many other people do know what I'm talking about. That I am not the only one. It's like the part of my mind that knows that completely shuts off, convincing me that I am the only one that has ever felt this way. Of course, that is also the part of my brain that tries to convince me that the averageness of depression makes me even more worthless when I remember I am not alone in all this. That part of my brain is a real asshole.

I am ignoring the asshole part of my brain right now though, and taking comfort in not feeling alone -- whether it be from Tara reminding me that she knows my crazy so well she could map it -- and match it with her own, or Joe hitting on our common panic button of death from way across the pond. I also did my first day without Nutrasweet in probably years thanks to a suggestion from the Tame One. I don't know if that will work yet, especially since Diet Pepsi withdrawal rage is powerful in my blood, but we'll see. I am even considering Shalyse's suggestion of acupuncture, though I tried it before for fertility, and it just felt like little needles in my face.

It's nice to know the Internet is good for more than porn and pyramid schemes. I mean, at least the non-money making part of it.

Thanks again.

I mean that.

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Spiraling

I think I have mentioned before that I struggle with depression. I think even if I haven't you probably have a pretty good idea. After all, I write a blog, and it's not about photography or cooking. Oh, and I embrace sarcasm, which is a depressive's best friend next to Lexapro and wine.

Over the years I have come to think of my depression as a kind of annoying pet I didn't want. It's always there. Sometimes it is completely asleep, and letting me do my own thing. Other times it just kind of brushes up against me to let me know it's there. Or it will stick out one sharp claw and prick me, just drawing a bead of blood, making sure it has my full attention, even if only for a moment. And then there are times like now, when it feels like I am being crushed in it's jaws.

How I wish I could take the fucking thing to the pound.

I feel almost immobilized by it. It is an honest effort to just keep going. It will call my attention to the smallest thing, make me look at it, and then push me down. Take, for example, today. I noticed Meg's hair had residue in it from a styling product, because I hadn't taken the time to go out and get the good styling product. Annnnnd, we're off! I'm a bad mom. I'm horrible to Ryan. I'm a bad friend. I drink too much. I haven't done enough with my career. I haven't ever finished anything I've started. The house is a mess. We will never sell our house because of the swamp in the back. I will never be thin. I will never be famous. I will never be respected. I'm 36 in a world where every person of value is under 29. I have a blog.

It doesn't matter that in the midst of this there is a part of my mind that knows what's going on. That knows I'm spiraling, and that is trying to stop the descent. That part is so small though, and so powerless over the depression that it's like fighting a Chihuahua and a Doberman; an idea so horrible I can't even find a video of it on You Tube.

Oh, and I've just now convinced myself that a blog about depression is quite possibly the most useless thing on the planet.

Maybe I should do an interpretive dance instead.

Now, that would be really depressing.

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Play Nice

I think it's time we all agreed to stop picking on homosexuals.

I don't care if you aren't gay. I don't care if you think the idea of two men or two women having sex is "icky." I don't care if you need someone to put down in order to make yourself feel better. Making the lives of gay people miserable just because they are gay is wrong, it's getting old, and it's time to move on.

Personally, I blame the right wing for this recent spate of gay bashing. Now, I know some of you are going to say "but there are gay Republicans." Yes, I know, and I think that if they looked into their hearts they could find a way to change and become Democrats, but I am not talking about them. I am talking about the right wing nutjobs. You know, the ones who say they want smaller government, but then want government to trample all over the personal rights of everyone. The ones who don't want to help poor mothers, but want to make damn sure two men can't share a last name and a Brooklyn condo. I don't know why, but this election season they have a hard on for the gays.

There's Christine O'Donnell. And Carl Paladino. And Rand Paul. Yeah, I am going to stop naming high profile, tea party backed candidates because I'm pretty sure that if you can think of one, they have something against gays. Honestly, I am kind of shocked Rich Iott hasn't tried to defend his Nazi costumes by saying at least he wasn't dressing up in drag.

The question is, why the gay anger? Do these people honestly think that allowing gay people to publicly declare love for each other, and enter into binding personal contracts will bring down civilization? Or is it just a show in an election year when everything is shitty, everyone is to blame, and no one wants to take responsibility. I have my opinion. I'll let you choose yours.

Whatever the reason though, can't we just agree to stop making it so obvious, and so harsh. Look, there are still people in the world who think women should be traded like cattle, and that people of color are direct descendants of Cain. They keep their crazy hate to themselves though, because other people let them know those opinions are not welcomed in polite society. I think it's time we make the gay bashers join them.

Okay?

No, really. Okay?

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The Big Purple Mark of Shame/Coolness

A friend of ours was at home yesterday, enjoying the afternoon, when her son came into the kitchen with a mark on his neck. A mark that had not been on his neck before his girlfriend had come over to study, in his bedroom, with the door open. A mark that was purple, and mottled, and obviously caused by suction. Yep, her baby had a hickey.

Like any good mother, our friend freaked out. How could HER son had gotten a hickey? They had the door open! She was less than 20 feet away! He dates a nice girl! She raised him better than that! She quickly sprang into action, letting him know she noticed the love bite, and that studying in his room, door open or not, was now off limits. He was embarrassed. The girlfriend was embarrassed. I don't think anyone was as embarrassed as our friend though. Not only was she having to lay down the law, but she was facing the fact her son is now doing stuff she never wanted to picture him doing, and that in the future he will likely be doing more of it. Oh, and then she had to think of all the things SHE had done when she was young, feel shame about them again, and then fear he will do THOSE things. Sheesh. Talk about mortifying.

After hearing the story I suggested she make him wear a scarlet "H" on his shirt, and assured her that the mocking from the other kids at school would probably be a worse punishment. I knew that wasn't totally true though -- remembering back to when I was his age, and the fact I wanted a hickey more than anything else in the world. I bought mock turtlenecks just in case I got one. I envied my friend Patrice, who looked like a leper with no self esteem. I knew that if I got a hickey I would have trashy, physical proof a boy liked me. My Mom told me nice girls don't, but I didn't want to be nice, I wanted to be cool.

I have no idea what I am going to do when Meg wants to be cool. Maybe by then have platonic relationships with boys will be all the rage, and sexual activity will be seen as tacky. Yes, I know that would mean the end of the species, but it also would mean me not having to worry about my daughter ever worrying about being a slut, or a prude, or having a boy use her physically because she wants him to love her, or deal with disease of heartbreak. I think that's a fair trade.

It hurts my head, and my heart just to think about it. I mean, to her it will just be a hickey, but to me it will be the first signpost on a road filled with dangers that I have already traveled, and don't want her to wreck on. Oh, and I can't provide her with an accurate map, and even if I could, she probably wouldn't take it.

Thank god for my friends -- and the fact they are going through this first.

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Fifteen Months

Meg has become a chatterbox.

At fifteen months she has an ever expanding vocabulary and will make up nonsense words if she isn't sure of just what she wants to say. She now says "thank you" and "uh, oh" and will create opportunities to use those two phrases. She will hand me something, and then demand it back just to thank me, or drop things on the floor just to notice her mistake. She also loves to say "gab-be, gab-be, gab-be, gab-be." We don't know what that means, but Meg obviously does and is just waiting for us to catch up.

Meg also has figured out it is very easy for her to be the center of attention anywhere she goes. All she has to do is smile and dance. At music class she stands in the middle of the circle, smiling and singing and dancing, making sure no one is watching the teacher. At the grocery store she dances in the cart, waving and flashing her pearly whites. Picking up Luke from school she walks the halls, giggling and clapping and making the kids clear a path for her.

Of course, there are times when Meg is not the center of attention, and she tries to remedy that by whining. Take, for example, the other morning. We were trying to get out the door, and Ryan and I were both rushing around, leaving Meg standing in her crib. I went in to say good-bye -- and she burst into tears. She might as well have ripped out my heart I felt so bad. Here I was leaving my baby for the day, and I wasn't paying attention to her in the last few minutes we had together. Yeah, she totally won that one. We are now both trying to be tougher about the tears but is not easy. After all, she's really, really cute.

I don't know that the next months will bring, but I have to say this is my favorite stage so far. Every day she gets funnier, and more clever, and more person like. While I'm sad she's not a baby any more, I am anxious to see the kid she is becoming. I can't wait for her to tell me all about it.

Oh, how we love our girl.

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Forever Yours, Truthfully

I am going to be honest with you right now. I am a terrible liar.

Take today for example, my co-workers and I were discussing driving skills. I said I didn't know why Ryan never lets me drive when we are together, because I am a great driver. Albert said "really," and I replied, without even thinking about it, "no, I'm actually one of the worst drivers I know."

You're probably thinking, "that's not a big deal, I bet she can lie like a pro when she needs to." Yeah, I wish that were true. I wish that when Ryan asks what Meg had for lunch I could tell him whole grain couscous and broccoli without blinking eye; instead I end up telling him about the grilled cheese and sweet potato fries at a local dive called "Shivers," where your arteries clog a little just from breathing the air. I wish I could tell my Mother I haven't been drinking when we talk on the phone some nights without adding "well, it was only one glass," and then telling her it was a big glass to boot. And I REALLY wish I could call in sick to work when I am not sick. The one or two times I have done this in my working history I have come down with some awful illness, probably psychosomatically. The one time I didn't get sick? I called in to tell my boss I wasn't really sick, but just wanted to spend a day with my boyfriend, and was that okay with him. Yeah, I got fired.

Of course, I have met people who think I am some sort of Machiavellian genius liar, hiding behind my declaration of being a bad liar to hide the truth. I don't really know what to say to them except "thanks." I'm flattered that anyone would think I am that smart, and I can't argue with them by saying "no, really I suck at lying," because they just think I'm proving their point. Then my head starts to hurt and I start wondering if it's opposite day.

Maybe I'm such a good liar not even I realize when I'm lying. Maybe it turns out that I'm not even me, but a large Libby suit being run by a small alien in cockpit, that only allows the suit to know what it wants, making it tell all sorts of lies while thinking it's being truthful. Oh, and that it made sure the suit is short, and kind of odd looking so no one would ever suspect after the whole "Men in Black" thing. Maybe it will turn out the alien has a lair inside a volcano and is planning to jettison the Libby suit any day now.

Yeah, I doubt it.

That suit would probably be a better driver.

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Deliver Us From Sarah

I have spent the last hour trying to write something funny about the following leaked e-mail. However, I can't say anything that will top the gut busting humor of the e-mail itself. Just know it is from Sarah Palin's husband (and obvious political genius) Todd to the campaign of Joe Miller -- who is the Republican Palin-backed candidate for Senate in Alaska.

And GO!

The bad grammar! The political misfires! The fact Todd Palin thinks his wife is qualified to be President! The lack of any understanding that e-mails can be forwarded! Oh, and the fact Sarah Palin took all day to write something most 8th graders can finish in 20 seconds! Bravo, Palin camp, bravo. You have rendered me silent with your humor, however unintentional it might be.

Now, excuse me while I go quietly weep for America.

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Bitey

There is nothing sweeter than a kiss from my daughter. Her little upturned face, and puckered lips. The way she closes her eyes just slightly, so she can still see her target. The smacking noise she makes as her lips mine. It fills my heart with joy every time. Of course, as of late, that joy has been tempered, and the sweetness has been a little less sugary, due to the fact that often the kiss is followed by her teeth clamping down on my lip. Or, sometimes she will skip the kiss altogether, and instead bite my cheek.

Yep. I'm raising a shark.

I have to admit, we are partially to blame for Meg's propensity to lead with her teeth. When she first started doing it she only had two teeth. Two tiny, adorable, rice grain size teeth. She would bite and we would scream "ow, ow, ow" and laugh. We all thought it was especially funny when Meg would bite her cousin Luke, giving everyone a huge grin as she did it. We figured she bit him the most because she loves him the most. He said it was "cute" and started calling her "Ms. Bitey."

There's a reason he's holding her mouth...

Now though, with eight teeth and a jaw that could crush cans, it isn't so cute. She bit Luke so hard on the cheek the other day she left a mark. I've already told you about the new dangers involved with kissing. And today, her babysitter told me Meg spent the entire day walking around with her teeth bared, ready to bite anyone who got in her way. She didn't get anyone, but she meant business.

This afternoon and evening Ryan and I spent researching a plan of attack. We figure if she injures a family member that's one thing, but someone who doesn't love her unconditionally is another. We decided that we will tell her firmly "no," when she bites, extract her teeth, tell her she is causing pain, and leave it at that. Too much more attention could encourage the behavior. No more laughing. No biting her back.

While this plan sounds great, I have to be honest, I am not thrilled about it. It isn't that I want Meg to keep biting people, I don't. I just don't want to do anything but absolutely adore my child and tell her everything she does is the most wonderful, and clever, and funniest ever. I don't want to tell her she shouldn't be doing something -- even though she shouldn't be doing it. Don't get me wrong, I tell her not to do things all the time: to stay away from the stove and the stairs, or to not drink white zinfandel. This feels different though, because I am telling her to change something about herself. I know it has to be done though. As Ryan says "you are the person you don't want to be now, so she will be the person we want her to be later." Damn him and his logic.

Sigh. Parenting is hard.

Well, I guess it will make the kisses better. I'll just focus on that.

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