Lessons With Libby

There are so many things I like about Meg starting school. Watching her run, not walk to her classroom every day. Hearing her talk about her school friends and how none of them like to share. Watching her become more confident, and more compassionate with every day that she is in class. Realizing that maybe we haven't done a half bad job raising her.

Yep, all of those things are really great.

My favorite thing though?

It's given me an absolutely fabulous new way for me to mess with my husband.

For those of you just joining us, my husband is a high school administrator. For years I have listened to his stories about the overprotective parents, the parents who push their kids too hard, the parents who do not pay attention to what their kids are doing, the parents who think their kids can do no wrong, the parents who are waaaay too permissive, and the parents who are just all out nightmares.

And now? I get to pretend to be all of them.

The other day Meg came home with sand in her hair. She told me a little girl in her class had thrown it at her, and that she had then been made to apologize and help Meg clean it off. Okay, no harm, no foul, move on. That's how I reacted internally. This is how I reacted when Ryan got home:

ME: We need to call the Millers (not their name).
RYAN: Who are they?
ME: Their daughter threw sand at Meg today. I think we need to call them and discuss the situation.
RYAN: Libby, please don't be this person.
ME: Do you think it's because she's black?
RYAN: For f@*k's sake lady! Are you serious?!

See how much fun it is? Okay, okay. So, the classroom has this stuffed bear that goes home with one of the kids every weekend. Meg was VERY disappointed that it wasn't her turn yet last week. We sat down and talked about it; how her turn will come eventually, and laid out some preliminary plans about all the things we will take "baby bear" to do. Then Ryan got home.

ME: Meg didn't get to take baby bear home. Miller (again, not the name) did.
RYAN: Well, she'll get a turn eventually.
ME: Maybe we could call and see if we could just "visit."
RYAN: Are you doing this again?
ME: Or maybe we could just go over and take it.
RYAN: Please stop.
ME: They haven't met us. We could pretend to be Jehovah's Witnesses. Then BAM, we bust in and grab the bear.
RYAN: Can I at least get in the door first before you become that parent?
ME: OH! And then all the kids in class will be mad at Miller. And then Meg can say she found baby bear in a trash can and she'll be a hero!
RYAN: Wasn't there a vow about not doing this at our wedding? 

I'm kinda giving it a break now, because I want there to be an element of surprise. After all, if I use up all the crazy now he'll get immune. And then what kind of reaction will I get when I ask about SAT prep courses at Parent Teacher conferences? Or ask if we should throw a rager after 3 Pre-K graduation?

It's gonna be a great year!

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Bad Kitty

As the mother of a toddler I have seen my share of bad or insipid television. I have also seen your share, and your uncle's share, and your cousin's, sister's landlord's share.* For the most part though, I have kept my thoughts about the shows to myself (and Twitter) and reminded myself that they are not scripted for me, but for my daughter.

When I wanted  to set glue traps for "Angelina Ballerina?" I just smiled and thought of how she teachers Meg about dance.

When I wanted to take the "Wonder Pets" to the pound? I thought about how they teach co-operation.

When I wondered if there is a glue factory in "Pony Land?" Yeah, I couldn't think of anything they really teach, but I was happy that they cam keep her quiet while I make dinner.

I have finally reached the end of my rope though.

I have found the show that has no redeeming value, and is so annoying that when Meg asks if we can watch a movie I reply "anything but that one."

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "The True Story of Puss in Boots."

No, I am not talking about the Dreamworks movie with the voice of Antonio Banderas. That's "Puss in Boots" and looks like "Hamlet" with Sir Laurence Olivier compared to this nightmare.

This "Puss" is a bad English overdub of an even worse French animated film, which I am sure was made just to trick Europeans (and suspecting Americans with Netflix) into seeing a movie they thought starred Zorro. Instead? We got William Shatner.

Yes, that William Shatner. Actually, this is an even worse William Shatner than the one you are familiar with. This one is devoid of any of Shatner's blustery charm, and instead is imbued with a mincing, smarmy, bad John Waters as a cat impersonation. There are fingernails on the chalkboard and then there is this: fingernails on your soul.

And Shatner's cat isn't even the worst part. I can't even believe I just wrote that, but it's true.

The "human" characters are the stuff of nightmares. A drunk queen and king. An "evil" counselor. An ogre. A princess and her "dancers."


After watching that I feel I should ask you to show me where on the doll the video clip hurt you. You should thank me the quality isn't better. It makes it slightly less creepy.

And there's more.

There is one character with what can be considered a "black" accent. He's "from Jamaica."

It's this one:

Yeah, that's right HE'S A FUCKIN' MONKEY! You know, because we are such a post-racial society that it's okay.

WAIT.

NO, IT'S NOT.

I think you can see why this movie, or, for my Canadian friends, film, makes me start Googling "Old Priest/Young Priest combo SLC."

But Meg loves it.

I mean LOVES it.

It's what she wants to watch when she has "been really good." When she has "eaten a good dinner." When she has "won the nobel prize."

Okay, maybe not the last one, but a Mom can hope.

Like I can hope Meg will embrace the artistry of "Breaking Bad." Because that's what I want to watch.
But then THAT makes me a bad Mom.

At least Gus Fring isn't a sterotype.



*Apologies to Denis Leary

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An Open Letter to the Person Who Hacked My Pinterest Account

Dear Idiot,

Yes, I feel that we are close enough that I can call you Idiot. After all, I don't know your real name, and you feel we are close enough to share a Pinterest account. That's right, I know you hacked it.

Now, I am guessing you are new to hacking. Why am I guessing that? First and foremost, because you hacked a PINTEREST account. Is this your first time on the web? Has no one explained Pinterest to you? It is  a website where most women and five men look at pretty pictures and procrastinate about making good food and redecorating their homes. Yes, occasionally we pin things about budgeting and self-improvement, but that's just so we don't look like shallow jerks. Really, the only website that would have been less productive to hack would have been "Club Penguin."

Actually, "Club Penguin" probably would have been better, because they store credit card numbers.

Now, I know, you're saying "but everyone is on Pinterest, and all tubes on the interwebs have to lead to some valuable information." That's cute. Really, it is. I just want to pinch your little hackery cheeks. Let me just clue you in right now: Pinterest is as far away from "real information" as "Honey Boo Boo Child" is from "quality programming."

Sorry. I didn't mean to be so direct. But, otherwise, when will you learn?

I really enjoyed those pins you posted for me though. I am sure my 105 (yep, not a lot, you really picked an influential account to hack) TOTALLY believed I want them to check out "amazing work from home occupations." You know, because that's so me. Because that's so ANYONE who doesn't have the middle name "ponzi."

In closing, I would just like to wish you well in your hacking, and hope you get better at it. Maybe you can get tips on Pinterest. Probably not though, so maybe you can find a recipe for a good low-fat, Paleo spinach dip.

Best,

Libby



P.S.  Pinterest is really good at letting members know when their accounts have been accessed remotely. Just in case you needed a bit more help.

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Cup O' Trouble

Over the years I have been, for the most part, lucky enough to work in close proximity to people who don't make me want to poke out my own eyes. The women, and men, I have had to share space with have had few bad qualities and have somehow not found my bad qualities that objectionable. Either that or they just haven't had the balls to say anything. Both are a win in my book.

Currently, I share seven feet of desk space with a woman named Molly. I don't like to play favorites, but Molly is in the desk mate top ten out of all the people I could possibly share a desk with in the whole wide world. Oh, and I actually love playing favorites.

Molly and I are both theater drop outs with wicked senses of humor fueled by mean streaks neither of us like to admit we have and try hard to conceal. When I write that out it makes us sound bad, but really, we're a lot of fun.

Life isn't all snarky remarks on Twitter and critiquing the "Today" show though. There is a darker side to getting along so well with someone at work. A side few people like to talk about.

Addiction.

No, not cocaine. We work in television news, not high finance. We can't even afford cocaine knock offs. No kokane for us. Ours is a much cheaper, yet just as bloating addiction: Cup O'Noodles.

Molly and I each blame the other for bringing this salty, chicken flavored, oh so delicious scourge from the mini mart downstairs to our desk. I guess it doesn't matter who started it any more though.

When we started it was just when we really needed a pick me up, or on special occasions. Soon though, it was every day. We made excuses to head to the mini mart. Breath mints. V8. To check if the cottage cheese cups had finally expired. We knew why we were really going though. And each time, whichever one of us went made sure to bring back two. After all, it's easier to do something so wrong if you aren't acting alone.

We've gone on like this for month. Pretending we just really like water. Like our fingers are swollen because of the heat. Like the three freeze dried peas are a serving of vegetables.

I knew it was a real problem though today, when I went into the grocery store and this sight almost brought me to my knees:

Okay, not just the sight of it. The fact my first thought was "how many do we need." You know, because one case definitely wouldn't be enough for two women over 30 searching for hypertension.

I have to tell Molly it's over. We have to stop chasing the MSG dragon, or go ask Alice for some diuretics, or look for Nissan Anonymous. There have to be 12 steps for this. I'm guessing at least one is admitting "just add water" is not the answer to all problems.

We'll just have to take it one day at a time.

It's either that, or eventually co-workers will find us under our desk, snorting salt right from the shaker.

Then both of us will definitely go on the "do not sit by" list.

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5 Things I learned while celebrating my 39th Birthday on Catalina Island

I am letting Tara guest post today because: 1. It was her birthday and I didn't get her anything. I am hoping I can convince her this is her "gift." 2. She posted this on Facebook and it really is too funny not to share, even though admitting she may be as funny, if not funnier, as I am makes my blood boil with rage. 

Enjoy

5 Things I learned while celebrating  my 39th Birthday on Catalina 

Island

1. Take the Dramamine. Even if you think you don't need it, you 

know what? Just take it. You won't be sorry.

2. There is no happy hour special worth walking 3/4 of a mile while carrying a 28 pound toddler.  There is a reason those tacos are only a dollar. Let it go.  

3.  Sweaty, shirtless old dudes with beer bellies standing in the sun listening to crappy Santana covers... they're on Libby's team (my apologies to any sweaty, shirtless old dudes who may be reading 

this. I didn't mean you...yes I did.)

4. Dogs should not ride in golf carts. They are clearly humiliated.  And not just by the fact that their owner is wearing a "Wastin' away in Catalinaville" t shirt.  A dog driving a golf cart, however, is fine.

5. Catalina Island is very beautiful and we had a great time and now it can be added to the list other things I need never do again. Like rock climbing, nudist weekends and watching Lars von Trier movies. 

Just kidding-I've never watched a Lars von Trier movie.

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