Jesus Isn't Laughing

Dear person who keeps leaving the Book of Mormon on my desk,

Knock it off.

Five times now I have come into the office to find the book on my desk. Five times now I have moved it, telling everyone around me it is a spare copy that landed on my desk the first time by happenstance, and that it is up for grabs. Five times now I have moved it off my desk.

I do not want to do any of this a sixth time.

If you are trying to get me to read the book, just know that I already have. I've lived in Utah my whole life, do you really think I've gone this long without reading it? Don't worry, if I suddenly decide to convert, I'm sure I will be able to find another copy.

If you are doing this as a joke, please know I'm not laughing. Once again, this is Utah, so my office has lots of Mormons. If it looks like I'm making light of their religious beliefs, that could mean trouble for me. I have enough trouble at the office as it is, and I like being able to pay my bills. So, let's find something else to joke about -- like Republicans. Wait, no, not Republicans, that wouldn't go over well either. How about puppies?

Is it a deal?

I have a book you can swear on to make it official...

Libby

Four Year Old Memory Shark

I think we all know the only reason to play a game with a child is the secret knowledge that any time we could crush them. Yes, yes, we play games to foster creativity, and for interaction, but what is really enjoyable about it is that we know we are letting them win, and that at any moment we could snatch that away from them and leave them crying. It's sad, but it's true, and it has made Parker Brothers millions of dollars. It's only when that knowledge leaves us that the games are no longer fun.

That is what happened to me last night.

It was all so tempting. A new memory game featuring brightly colored candy, a warm sitting room, a fire in the fireplace, and, best of all, a bright eyed four year old girl. I thought I would sit, drink wine, talk to my friend (the unwitting child's mother), and magnanimously let her win, all the while enjoying my benevolence. Really, could you pass that up? I thought not.

I didn't really pay attention during the first game. It was all so fast, and I was drinking wine. The next thing I knew it was all over, and I had only three pairs: circus peanuts, candy necklaces, and some sort of nonpareil. Not only had she beaten me, but she had only let me take the crappiest candy on the board.

She wanted to play again, so I took the challenge. I put down my wine glass and concentrated on the board. Every move she made I watched, trying to burn the location of every candy into my brain. I started wondering why the hell we need so many types of candy in the world. I began to imagine that some of them had to be made up. The child started to make chewing noises every time she turned over another pair, letting my know she was not only eating candy, but my self-esteem as well. I wasn't going to let her swallow it whole.

I picked up red licorice. She picked up Good and Plenty. I picked up peanut brittle. She took candy corn. Lollipops. Taffy. Some kind of candy that looked like rabbit turds. One that looked like Czech cough drops. The cards were flying fast and furious. Finally, only four remained -- and it was my turn.

I turned over the first card -- jelly slices. I knew exactly where it was. I had seen it at least 20 times during the game. Also, there were only four cards left. I grabbed the second card and deftly turned it over revealing gummy -- wait for it -- WORMS.

The chomping noises she made while gathering up the last cards still ring in my ears.

The worst part of the story? At the end of each game, in order to name the winner, we had to stack our cards next to each other. Once stacked the four year old, who now appeared to have the eyes of a demon would say "look Libby, mine's bigger." Not only did she win multiple times, but she publicly shamed me too.

On my way out the door, my friend patted me on the shoulder. "She always beats me too," she said. I know she was trying to make me feel better, but I swear I heard a hint of pride in her voice.

My memory training starts now. Retribution will be mine. Oh yes, yes it will.

Family Can Be Fun

I work with my Dad. I don't know if I have mentioned that before, but I probably haven't because it isn't something I like to readily bring up. I mean, the minute I say that everyone thinks I got my job through nepotism, rather than hard work and lots of sucking up. So, there's that, oh, and the fact my Dad's restraining order only allows me to mention him in my blog a limited number of times a year.

It's always interesting to watch new people try to piece together exactly what our relationship is. I've had people tell me, when looking at pictures of Meg, that Tommy (my Dad) has an adopted granddaughter as well, and maybe I should talk to him about it. I've had people ask why we go to lunch together so often. I've had people who see us outside the office together widen their eyes and do double takes, unsure if they are seeing something illicit. One time I had a new co-worker come up to me and say "did you know Tommy has a picture of you in his office?" I put on my best shocked face. "Does he have one of you too," I asked. I let her off the hook then, but for a moment it was glorious.

Last Monday the most recent hire was being shown around the newsroom, and it was my time to be introduced.

"Have you met Tommy," I asked, knowing that my Dad is his boss. "What a jerk."

"Really?" His eyes became the size of saucers. Why was I saying this? Was I disgruntled? Or crazy? Or really concerned about him?

"Oh, yeah. Stay away from him as much as you can. Nothing but bad news."

He turned and started to walk away. One of my co-workers came up and took his arm, speaking low, letting him in on the joke. He turned, looking back at me. I smiled, and waved. He shook his head, both relieved and annoyed.

I picked up the phone to call my Dad in his office to tell him the story. He groaned.

My Mom thought it was funny though.

Fear of Silence

I talk, a lot. Now, I know you're thinking "oh, everyone thinks they talk a lot," but let me tell you now, they are wrong. The story in my family goes that I didn't start talking until I was almost three, and I haven't stopped since. I can't help myself. I really love to talk. When I am not talking to someone, or something, I am talking to myself. When I am not talking to myself I am talking to imaginary people, having conversations I think we would have, if we ever met. I talk in the shower. I talk back to the TV and the radio and the computer. I talk in my sleep. I talk, a lot.

I am not just telling you I talk a lot to have something to talk about. I mean, that sounds like something I would do (and in another time and place I probably will), but today I actually have a point. You see, one of my Internet friends, Jennifer, is suffering my greatest nightmare: she is being forced to be silent. She has been doing this for 15 days, and is supposed to be doing this for 15 more. I can only imagine the horror.

Seriously, since I started following her odyssey into silence I think about it constantly. My recurring nightmares of not being able to talk (see, I wasn't just being hyperbolic) have been happening more frequently. I monitor how long it has been since I have said a word, and wonder if I could double, or triple that time. The obvious answer is, no, I can not; and each time I start talking again I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Thank goodness Jennifer has an awesome blog where she can vent. I just hope that, unlike me, she doesn't have to read her posts aloud and discuss them with the air as she writes. Or, if she does, that the air reads lips.

God speed, Jennifer. I would love to promise you I will keep silent out of solidarity, but I think we all know that would just be talk...

In The Event of My Death

I am getting to the age where I am attending funerals on a more regular basis. I mean, not weekly or anything, but more than I have in the past. They are funerals for parents of friends, or friends of parents, and, while none of these people are ancient, no one at theses events says things like "they were just so young," or "what a tragic accident." Like most people at funerals, I usually stop thinking about the deceased pretty early into the service, and start thinking about myself. More specifically though, I start thinking about my funeral, and how I really don't want it to be so boring people stop thinking about me, and start thinking about themselves.

To that end, I am laying down these ground rules, to be followed at my funeral/memorial service/shooting of my ashes and/or frozen head into space:

1. Drinks and food will be served before, during and after. No one is going to have to sit through the whole thing in order to get a glass of wine. In fact, I think the whole thing should start off with a drink. Also, if someone needs a nosh right in the middle, I don't want them having to dig through their purse for a stale breath mint. Nope, not at my funeral.

2. No one gets to speak for more than four minutes. Let's face it, brevity is wit; and I don't want my funeral to be anything other than witty. I figure that four minutes allows people who really knew and loved me to share something from their hearts without getting maudlin, or saying something unintentionally mean. It also is short enough that people who are just attending out of courtesy don't feel they are being held hostage.

3. The words "she loved life" must not be uttered. I mean, duh. Of course I loved life, that's why I stuck around as long as I did. Also, I didn't love life all the time, no one does. If anyone has to use such platitudes, they probably don't even need four minutes to talk about me, and should be made to stop talking immediately. Oh, in this same vein, if I die of some horrible disease, no one is allowed to say I "fought valiantly." I know me. I probably fought whinily, and bitchily, so that's how I want to be remembered.

4. No pictures, please. If people don't know what I looked like, then why the hell are they at my funeral? Also, I don't want them to feel like I'm watching them, and making sure they are grieving properly. I mean, I will be; I just don't want them to know.

That's all I can think of right now. I mean, I'm sure I'll have more ideas later, but I think you get the general idea. Of course, in the end, no one actually has to follow any of these rules. They could have a five hour ordeal, filled with Hallmark card sentiments, no bar, and my picture printed on napkins, and there would be nothing I could do about it.

After all, I'll be dead.

Doctors of the Round Table

A friend of mine found this flier hanging up at work.

Yes, that's right, it is a flier for "medieval" sword fighting lessons, taught by a person who admits he has been he has been doing this since he was 12, and is now much older than 15. It is an invitation to revel in geekdom -- in a public park.

Now, as much as I would just like to roll my eyes, do some light mocking, and then move on with a "to each their own" shrug, I can't. You see, there are several things about this flier that scare me. First, there's the fact the friend you found this is a doctor, and he found this in the doctor's lounge. Second, there is the fact some of the tabs on the bottom have been taken. This means there could be an abundance of health care professionals are spending their weekends beating each other with Nerf swords in the park. That should scare everyone out there. Doctors could be making life and death decisions -- with the help of 12 sided dice.

Still, I guess I would prefer this to Twilight fans in the operating rooms. You know they're just there for the blood...

Civil Discourse

Is Sarah Palin responsible for the shootings in Arizona? No, she's not.

Is the GOP or the Tea Party responsible for the shootings in Arizona? No, they aren't.

Is FOX News, and all of their venom that is spewed on the airwaves responsible? Nope, they aren't either.

Is a mentally ill man who likely suffers from paranoid fantasies and was just looking for a target responsible for the shootings? Yes, he is.

Despite the fact that no political or media outlet is directly or indirectly responsible for this tragedy, should we allow America to continue on it's vitriolic and destructive path? I'm going to go with no on this one.

Should we instead take this moment to rethink the current public discourse before a politician or media outlet can be directly or indirectly blamed for violence? I'm gonna say yes.

Even if it means not taking easy potshots at FOX News? Damn it. Still yes.

I hope everyone else agrees. I hate taking the high road alone.

Eighteen Months

Meg is now a kid with attitude.

This was Meg on Christmas morning waiting, not so patiently, for her Aunt to open her new doll. We are seeing this face more and more often, be it because we have presented her with food she does not approve of, have taken away an item that she should not have in her little hands, told her it is time to leave/go to bed/get up/take a bath, or have used the dreaded word "no." Really, we're never sure when we will see the face, since what pleased her just a moment ago could all of a sudden be seen as a major inconvenience.

While Meg doesn't like hearing the word "no," she sure loves saying it. Not in a babbling baby way either. When she says "no," she means it. Sometimes she will say it in a playful way, say when we ask her not to throw food on the floor, but she still is resolute in her meaning.

Oh, and then there is the flopping. When all else fails Meg has determined that the best way to get what she wants is to throw herself to the ground and yell. It truly is a sight to see. If it weren't adorable we would probably be annoyed.

I don't want to give the impression Meg is a pill all the time. While she can be willful, she is also a lovely little person who loves to give kisses, and hugs, and "pat pats." She doesn't mind running errands, or trying new things, or meeting new people. She is good at sharing, and does so without being asked. She has a multifaceted personality, and we love watching it develop every day -- even the kind of bratty parts.

Oh, how we love our girl.

No Snow Days

This morning, a flooded parking lot made me question my entire career path.

For those of you just joining us, I work in television -- television news production to be exact. This morning, one of the stories we were reporting on was a broken water main. Thousands of gallons of water had spilled into the parking lot of an office building, and the building had to shut down for the day. Everyone arriving at work were told to turn around and go home, because the building had no water, and they couldn't be there. The cars practically floated as they made U-turns -- the people inside were so happy. I could feel them planning their unexpected free days.

I have never been so jealous in my life. That will never, ever happen for me.

Power outages, massive snow storms, traffic jams the size of Kansas -- nothing stops the news. After all, without the news how would other people know about the disaster they need to avoid, and we have to overcome to get on the air? Actually, the worst the disaster, the more likely it is that I have to work. When something goes really wrong it is an "all hands on deck" situation. I could be on vacation, with a newborn, nursing a broken leg, on Christmas, and people will still question why I didn't come in for the "big story." Oh, and if that isn't sick enough, I would feel bad for not being there!

Yes, that's right, I love the madness! I love the rush of a big story, and making sure we get the most accurate information on the air, FIRST. I love the graphics, and the maps, and first pictures and comments. I love the trading of stories about handling big stories in the days, months, and years after they happened (ask me about Monica Lewinsky, sometime). I love how energized I feel in the moment, and the absolute exhaustion when it is all over.

If the big one ever comes, I am going to check on my family, and then find out if we have a camera set up and a transmission path to broadcast. I can't help myself. It's a sickness. "Television news employment" should be a category in the DSM.

Still, this morning, there was a moment when I really wanted to be one of the office workers, on my way home for a mid-morning nap, and a glance at the mid-morning news.

I sighed deeply, and went back to work. After all, I had to make sure there was something for them to watch.

Robot Love

I admire people who are willing to put it all on the line to make something cool. People who are able to push aside the fear of failure, and are willing to try something new, no matter what it takes.

People like my friend Murphy.

I think I have mentioned Murphy before here, usually in the sense that we both were in D.C. at the same time, both love bad T.V., and both speak sarcasm fluently. However, I don't think I have ever mentioned that he is also very creative, very funny, and has a drive that would be admired by Ghengis Khan.

Right now, Murphy is working on his latest project "Boop Beep," a cardboard robot romantic comedy short film. You know, because there are so many of those around. Oh, wait -- NO THERE AREN'T -- and that's what makes it brilliant. Truly, truly brilliant. What makes it suck? The fact all movies, no matter how long or short, cost money to make. Murphy has two adorable kids, and we all know those don't come cheap, so he's asking for a little help in the film fundraising department.

Wait! Wait! Don't go!

I am not asking you to give him thousands of dollars. If I thought you could do that I would be asking you to give thousands of dollars to me. No, what I am asking is that you at least "like" the film's Facebook page. Maybe go to the film's Cafe Press store and buy a coffee mug. You like coffee, right? Or, if you are really feeling like a mogul, you can make a TAX DEDUCTIBLE donation and possibly be listed in the credits.

C'mon! I bet you give to the NPR pledge drives, and you don't even get a tote bad any more from those! Also, this push won't last for two weeks! Plus, you'll be a part of something really cool. How could you not love that?

I know I do.

2011 Will Be Awesome! I Know It!

Oh, hell. I have New Year's delirium.

Yep, that's right, for the past two days I have been doing nothing but thinking about the changes I am going to make in 2011.

About the projects I am going to undertake.

The bad habits I am going to end.

The good habits I am going to replace them with.

The book I am going to write.

I have been filled with that sense of self righteousness that fills so many around the world on January first, usually starts to wear off around the 15th, and is almost always replaced with a "fuck it, I'm okay the way I am" feeling of malaise by Valentine's day -- which is perfect, because there is plenty of candy around to use as consolation for giving up.

This year my delirium is even more serious than in years past. My god, y'all, I made a LIST. A LIST! I didn't just drunkenly mutter something about wanting to lose 20 pounds and be nicer to people, I actually wrote shit down! There is evidence! Luckily, I started it with "make a list of plans for the new year," just so I would know I reached one of my goals.

The list does feel incomplete, though, so I'm still not sure if I can cross that one off.

Maybe in 2012.