Meg Takes Manhattan

Being with Meg is like being with a rock star, only with fewer temper tantrums and less vomiting. Everywhere we go people stare at her, and faun all over her, and tell her how wonderful she is. They are willing to give her anything they want just to get her to smile, and hate to see her upset. Up until now I thought this was just a Utah phenomenon since it is less, how do I say this, um "colorful," here than in other parts of the world. Our recent trip to New York proved I was wrong.

People were stopping on the street to stare at her. Waitresses were slipping her lollipops as we came in. Cops were giving her high fives. Street musicians were playing just for her. The way things were going I fully expected Mayor Bloomberg to show up at our hotel with a key to the city. The only person who didn't think Meg was darling? This guy:

This guy not only looked like Michael Jackson, he thought he was him. He was dancing on Broadway and 36th, right outside of Macy's, with a huge crowd around him. The minute Meg saw him and heard the music, she wanted to shake her groove thing. We got her out of the stroller, she started dancing, and no one saw Michael any more. The murmurs in the crowd went from "look at him dance" to "look at that baby dance." Ryan started getting concerned people were taking pictures of Meg. This did not make Michael happy. He came up to Meg, took her hand, and walked her back to Ryan. "They came to see Michael," he said.

We didn't tell him we saw people leave once Meg stopped dancing.

As I said, she's a rock star.

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I'm Like Oprah

Pe-OPLE! The holidays are up-PON us! And that means it is time for O-PRAHHHHH to unveil her "Favorite Things" and cause normally rational, functional people to become babbling morons, -- and cause the rest of the world to envy them because they have just been given thousands of dollars in gifts. This year though, I am not letting Oprah steal the spot-LIGHT! This year, I am sharing my OWN favorite things! AND EVERYONE WHO READS THIS BLOG GETS ALL OF THE THINGS LISTED!*

Let's kick things off with something I think you all know I enjoy a great deal. It's tasty, it's economical, and it's green way to drink. Yep, I am talking about box WINEEEE!

Every sip makes you a better person because instead of leaving behind four glass bottles you are leaving behind one box! All your sips are cheaper too -- unless you regularly buy bottles of wine under five dollars each. And because it's a box you don't have to watch the wine level go down and feel bad about all those sips! Win! Win! WIIIIIIN!

You know what I really love doing when I am drinking? Yep, that's right blog-GING. And do you know what's better than just blogging? STEALING BLOG TOPICS FROM OTHER

PEOPLE!

That's right everyone! For instance, I stole this blog topic from the lovely Wendi Aa-RONS!

I could probably just put her blog on my list of favorite things, but I don't want to her to think I am selling her into slavery. Not yet.

I like to be comfortable when blogging. I mean, who doesn't, right? Aren't we all just looking for a little comfort, whether we are Utah based bloggers just trying to stay sane or Chicago based billionaires aiming for world domination? Of course we are. That's why one of my favorite things are pa-JA-ma PANTS!!

The pants above are from the holiday collection in keeping with the season, but pajama pants come in all themes, colors and sizes. Yes, comforting is that accepting and accommodating. No matter how much weight you gain or lose, they are there for you, like a secret fleecy lover. I'm not going to say any more, because this could get awkward.

Of course, I can't just sit around the house all day in pajama pants drinking wine and blogging. I have to go out in the world, if for no other reason, than to buy more wine. When I do that, I like to put my best foot forward, and that mean BOO-OOTS!

No, I have never spent time in a prison rodeo. Nor have I been a hobo. I am just clumsy and end up kicking things I should step over. Ryan keeps asking me when he can polish my boots, or burn them, and I just let him know I am keepin' it real -- boot style.

Our last, but not least item is being modeled by the lovely TA-ra. I think you will agree it is the e-PITO-me of class.

Not only can you express your love for the tiny hamlet of Beaver, Utah, but you can laugh like a 12 year old boy while doing it. I carry mine in my purse wherever I go. I never know when I might need it.

There are so many more of my favorite things I wish I could share with you in full. Road trip dough-NUTS. Mocking cele-BRI-ties at their low point and ignoring that even then they make more MO-ney than I ever will. Getting a pedicure at a salon where they are DEF-initely talking about me in Vietnamese, but not caring because they have good maga-ZINES. Really, I wish I could tell you all about all of those in detail, but this is only a one hour show, er blog.

I just hope that my little glimpse into my favorite things has brought you as much happiness as it has brought me. And I hope each and every one of you will enjoy taking them home with you, and loving them as I have.**

*No, you don't.

**No, really, there are no gifts.

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You Should Be Reading These

I am not a fan of the blog badge thing. I think I have made that clear. I mean, it's a nice idea and all, but it just makes me uncomfortable. You know, like hugging in public places. No one needs to see that shit. If you want to do more than a handshake, or a high five, go somewhere private. And yes, I am including "elaborate" type handshakes that include fist taps, hip bumps, or any kind of finger wiggling on the list of things better done away from the public eye.

Still, while I am not a big proponent of public displays of affection, there are a couple blogs I have been wanting to recommend for a while now. I have pimped a couple of them on my Twitter feed, but I think it's time for me to give them full frontal exposure on the blog. I mean, how ever much exposure one can give on a blog this size. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the "I like you enough to say it publicly" badge:

It's not too flashy, is it? I don't want to go overboard here. I was a little worried about the typeface, but I figured the lower case i balanced it out.

I would like to offer this badge to seven blogs that I read and love on as regular a basis as I can manage with a toddler. They can do whatever they want with the badge: ignore it, pass it on to blogs they think more people need to know about, or get it tattooed on their butts...

Monkey Soup A teenage daughter, a toddler, and grandchildren at the age of 36. Kelly should be doing nothing but bitching, but she loves her life, and makes me love it too. Also, her Mea is Meg quality cute.

View From the Crooked Letter I love this blog because Jen is taking chances most of us only talk about taking. She is back in school, and working on writing. Oh, and she's a mom and working. Since I got tired just writing those sentences I think you can see why I like her.

I Am Writing You Today This is a new blog I just found and love. Daniel takes the concept of "Letters From A Nut" and makes it not psycho. I also love seeing the responses he gets. Plus, Mormons love him too!

Hippo Brigade Beckey's picture is of her stuffing a cupcake in her mouth. Enough said. Want more? Read her stuff.

One Smary Mama I don't know why you all don't know C.Lo yet. She is grace under pressure defined. Oh, and she's a theater geek, which makes it even better.

Little Dragon Fruit Another drama geek, and this one is brave enough to still be auditioning. Oh, and when Sam isn't entertaining me with tales from the stage her daughter Jarrah always has a great adventure on hand.

Pining for Nordstrom Ton of kids. Stuck in the middle of nowhere. Great sense of fashion. Jill can even make a household disaster riveting.

So, those are your reading assignments. After all, you have to have something to do when I'm funky, or grumpy, or trying to keep Meg off the roof. You know, most of the time...

And I promise not to be so mushy in the future.

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Little Cult

I have never been a "joiner." I wasn't a brownie or a girl scout. I wasn't a cheerleader, or a "spirit booster." I didn't pledge a sorority or dress all in red to go to football games, with big "U"s painted on my face. I didn't join the Junior League. In short, I have never been part of a group that has regular meetings, sings songs everyone knows, and engages in certain rituals with glee.

I think this is why I am so uncomfortable at Little Gym.

First of all, everyone is sooo chipper. The first time I went in I was really concerned they had been drinking and should NOT be playing with children. Then I realized that's just how they are -- all the time. Now, part of that could be that most of the teachers are 12 and therefore haven't learned about the hardships of life, but really, I think I have just stumbled upon the mecca of all former junior high pep squad members.

They tumble, and twirl, and spider crawl, and log roll like they are training to be in a Russian circus. Every activity, no matter how small, is presented and praised as if it were the most difficult high wire act ever conceived. I know it's important to praise children, but sometimes even they look at the teacher like "I just crawled through a tunnel, you don't have to alert the media."

And the songs! They love all the songs, and they sing them with glee -- and EVERYTHING is a song. Getting the balls out? Song. Putting the balls away? Song. Playing on the mats? Oh, you know there's a song for that. Saying good-bye? Practically a Vegas review.

All the songs are extremely catchy, too. You can't help but memorize them immediately, and NEVER, EVER forget them. I find myself singing about everything I'm doing for at least 12 hours after Meg's class, which can get awkward if I'm blogging, or trying to sweet talk Ryan. Oh, and I notice that if I am unconsciously singing one of the songs out in public, like in the grocery store, any parent who has EVER had a kid in Little Gym will start singing along. They can't help it. They have to.

The thing I am really worried bout though, is how Little Gym could be warping the mind of my child. She loves every minute of it. She cries when we leave. Am I trading her future as a sardonic outsider, questioning everything and yelling "dam the man" at inopportune moments just so she can learn to do a somersault? Will my desire to have my child embrace exercise early lead to her donning all pink ensembles and wanting to change her name to Kimberlee?

I guess time will tell. Until then I will carry our Little Gym water bottle with pride -- and only occasionally fill it with wine.

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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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Father's Day

I complain a lot, and often wish that things were different in my life.


Then I actually look at my life, and realize just how damn lucky I am.

Happy Father's Day, Ryan. I couldn't, and don't want to, imagine raising Meg without you.

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Five Years Later

Five years ago we didn't have Sally.
We had our old couch, our old ratty dining room table, and our old bed.
Five years ago we hadn't ever been to Vietnam, or Costa Rica, or Mexico.
Jane was still alive. Tara hadn't moved to California. Stan and Lana hadn't moved to Florida.
Five years ago I didn't like the President.I had no idea we would have a problem having a baby.
Five years ago we didn't have Meg.

A lot has changed in five years, but one thing has not; I am still head over heels with the man I married on May 7th 2005. I will be for the next five years, and the five years after that, and all the years to come.Happy Anniversary Ryan. I love you, and I want the whole world to know it -- or at least the 137 people who read my blog.

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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.

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Frank: My Silver Lining

We all have heard the saying about the dark cloud having a silver lining. We all have figured out that saying is pretty much bullshit. That's why after my accident yesterday I was expecting to spend at least 450 dollars on my stupid mistake. I didn't count on a silver lining named Frank.

Frank is a chain smoking Albanian immigrant slight shorter than I am (I'm 5'0"). He chain smokes, has trash in his office since the mid 1980's -- including multiple copies of a promotional calendar he had made in 1995, and calls everyone either "Sir," Ma'am," or "Sweetie." Oh, and in less than 24 hours he fixed my car, and only charged me 65 dollars. I think I'm in love.

I was fully expecting to get screwed, at least a little, when getting my car fixed. I mean, you go to Costco, you get free samples; you get your car fixed, you get screwed. My first meeting with Frank didn't really change my opinion. He cooed over Meg's cuteness, but really, that's like saying the Mona Lisa is a nice painting. He said he could get the part -- if it was in stock. When I asked how much it would cost he said "under 50-thousand dollars" and laughed. Then he called me "Dear." I got my punching hand ready.

When he called me 45 minutes later and told me he had the part, I started thinking 50-thousand may have been an underestimate. When he said I could bring it in any time, I started thinking about taking out loans. However, I figured I had already come this far, so I might as well go forward. When I dropped off the car this afternoon, I asked one more time how much it would cost. "About 60 bucks, unless you want to pay me more, Sweetie" he responded. I figured he was joking again.

I took Ryan with me when we picked op the car, just in case I needed back up but I said I wanted to go in first. Frank was sitting there, his cigarette dangling over a Pepsi can ashtray. He called me "Honey." I curled my fist. He printed out my bill. I clenched harder. "Oh, I made a mistake here," he said, looking at the bill. I saw the number -- seventy five dollars. "I told you sixty, Dear" he said, and crossed out the number writing the new one in.

I told you, I love him.

Oh, if you want to love Frank too (yeah, that sounds bad, I know), just check out Empire Body and Paint in Salt Lake. Tell him Sweetie sent you.

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By Jiminy

Winter is dragging on, and I am bored.

Yeah, yeah, Meg is adorable, and every minute with her is a miracle, and blah, blah, blah. However, changing diapers, cleaning up spit up carrots, playing "So Big," and reading "Peek A Boo in the Barnyard" aren't exactly challenging my mind. Oh, and Meg doesn't quite get sarcasm yet, so my best jokes are totally lost on her. And Sally has heard them all before.

I have thought of ways to amuse myself, but none have really risen to the occasion. On Friday, I considered eating nothing but tater tots. Then I remembered I have lost 11 pounds on Weight Watchers and don't really want to have the old ladies at the scales shaking their heads in shame. On Saturday, I considered taking up running, but then I picked myself up off the floor from laughing, and thought again. On Sunday, I thought about going to Home Depot to buy five bags of lime, a tarp, and a hacksaw, just to see what people would do. Ryan put a stop to that one. Jerk.

Today, I came up with the answer: hobo names. And I am surprisingly good at them.

I could tell you how I came up with this plan, about the "Wiretap" podcast, and the interview with John Hodgeman, but can't we just pretend it was divine intervention? I mean, how else did I come up with my hobo name so quickly? I would be known as Hominy Pete, because I would always have a can of hominy in my bindle. Oh, and I would share it -- because that's the rule of the road.

Since I was talking to Tara at the time I came up with hers: Boxcar Jill, the rambling gal. Ryan? Mumbly Jim. Meg? The Bean. Oh, and Tara's partner Kent? Professor of the Open Road. I thought that was my best name, but Kent didn't like it. He wanted Doctor Soup Can. When I heard that, I had to acquiesce. I mean, that is even more awesome.

So, now, I have decided I am the queen of all hobo names. Male or female, I can find the perfect moniker if you want to hit the open road and grow a perfect three day beard. Oh, and eat hominy (or beans) without ketchup.

If only I could make money. Then again, no hobo needs that worthless paper. They just need the rails, the skies, good friends, and an oil drum fire.

Damn, hobos are dumb.

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Our Girl Giggles

This face is the best part of my day. And when she's laughing? Game over, I am slayed.

Meg is the ultimate de-funktifier.

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Hugh Jass

I am a total geek for "The Simpsons." I mean, I am sure I am a geek in many other ways, but I am willing to admit to the Simpsons thing. I don't care that it should have probably should have gone off the air seven years ago, or that you have to suspend disbelief of disbelief in order to keep up with the changes they have made over the years, I still think it's the best show on T.V.

I still mourn Troy McClure. And Maude Flanders. And the original voice of Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon. And yes, I spelled that last name from memory. I also can tell you the layout of the Simpson's house.

I have Simpsonized myself. I have Simpsonized my family. Actually, that is the only representation of the entire family I have (circa 2008). I would Simpsonize Meg if the Simpsonizer wasn't broken. I am actually thinking that I will write to the illustrators to see if they could do it for me for a small fee. Or large fee. Really, it doesn't matter -- that is how important it is to me.


I have all the DVDs, and the movie on DVD. I own Simpsons chess. And Simpsons Monopoly. And Simpsons Scene it. I have both Simpsons albums. I have figurines. I have all books -- even the one about exploring philosophy through the Simpsons. I even have the Simpsons bath salts, which I still use even though they gave me a rash. If I could have one wish granted, well, it would be for world peace. Of course, if I was granted a second wish because my first wish was so noble, I would wish to be a character on the Simpsons.

I love the Simpsons so much I don't even care that the fact it is now 20 years old makes me feel ancient.

Ooooh, Simpsons....

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Totally Insane Decision

I did want to get another cat.

As I write this it has not even been two weeks since Rita died. After she was gone, Ryan and I sat down and actually talked about getting another cat, because he thought it would be a nice Christmas present, but didn't want to get one if I wasn't on board. I wasn't. After all, Rita's death kind of destroyed me. Not just the death itself, but also everything that led up to it. I won't go into it, but diabetes made Rita lazier and grosser than I ever could have imagined. Let's just put it this way: Lysol and Murphy's oil soap became my best friends. After that, I was thinking that maybe it was time to move away from cats, and maybe think about getting a new puppy when Meg was four or five and Sally needed a pick me up.

I was resolute. And then came Tuesday.

Meg is cared for during the day by two people: my Dad and a wonderful woman named Hazel. Both live next door to very eccentric older couples. However, while my Dad's neighbors collect lawn ornaments, Hazel's neighbors collect people. Crazy people. When I arrived to pick up Meg on Tuesday, one of the craziest was in the driveway -- with kittens.

Before I describe the kitten that, by now, you know is coming home with me, let me describe the woman who delivered her to me. I am not sure of her name, but I know she has no short term memory due to an accident involving a semi. She has told me about it several times, but, of course, does not remember she has told me before. She lives in a large 1970's circa van packed with junk she picks up on the road, most of it purple or orange. She loves Meg, and despite her memory problems, always remembers her name. Oh, and she cannot resist a living thing in need. She says she doesn't live in a home because she needs to care for her "friends" all over the state. She means people, and animals. And this time she brought one to me.

"Do you want a kitten," she called as I got out of my car.
"No, I want to stay married," I replied. I picked up the kitten anyway. It was cute, but a boy, making it easier to put down. I have never known a boy cat that didn't spray.
"Well, I have two if you know anyone who wants one. One boy, and one girl."
And then she stepped out from under the van. I knew her name instantly: Olive.

I called Ryan and asked him if he would kill me if I brought home a kitten. He said he wouldn't kill me, but he would question my sanity. I said that would make two of us. I took her home anyway.

Olive is definitely not a replacement for Rita. First of all, she is not a bitch. She is in charge, but she cuddles in rather than standing off. She follows everywhere, instead of waiting to be sought out. Also, she LOVES everyone. She lays in Meg's lap and lets her grab her fur -- without complaint. She tries to ride Sally, and suck on her ears. She even tries to cuddle up to our other cat Alice. Oh, and NO ONE cuddles up to Alice. Ryan is even smitten, despite the fact Olive won't stop biting his toes.

Yeah, I didn't want to get another cat. But I am so glad she is here.

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Melon of Destiny

One of the high points of the summer is the annual float down the Provo River. It's two and a half hours of beer drinking, trash talking relaxation that gives Ryan, me, and all of our friends a chance to forget the fact that the rest of the time we are parents, teachers, professionals, and all around adults. Every year it takes weeks to plan, negotiating everyone's schedules, and babysitters and such. Every year the entire time we are on the river we talk about how we should do it more than once a summer. And every year, it never does.

It used to be that after the float we would head to a dive bar in Heber for burgers and beers. However, as the crowd has grown that has gotten harder, so now we contain the mayhem to a park at the base of the canyon. Everyone brings something to share. This year, Ryan and I decided to bring watermelon. But this was no ordinary watermelon. This watermelon had a special purpose.

The night before the float Ryan decided that the melon needed to be more than just a cold tasty treat at the end of a cold float. It needed to be a symbol. To that end he pulled out a Sharpie and wrote in large block letters "Provo '09." Then he boldly signed it. His plan was this: he would have everyone on the trip sign it, and then it would float down the river with us. By the time it got to the bottom it would be ice cold and taste of victory. I was skeptical, and so decided to make things more interesting: I promised that if he got the watermelon all the way down the river in one piece I would give him 20 dollars, and perform a certain "adult act" on the bank of the river. I would say more, but I have a daughter now, so you can use your imagination.

Things didn't start off well for Ryan. The melon went into the water, and he was shepherding it along, when I decided it might be a good idea to try and drown. I fell off my inner tube and into the water, smashing my body into a bridge pylon. Then I decided that it wouldn't be a good idea for Meg's Mom to be the first story on the 10pm news, remembered I am a pretty strong swimmer, and pulled myself up. By that time though, Ryan had already dropped the melon, and it was floating off down stream.

For the next seven miles every time we passed a fisherman we would asked if they had seen the watermelon. They all had, and a few even tried to stop it, but it had gotten away. I was disappointed, because I like watermelon, and I was embarrassed that my stupidity had caused it to get away, but I was glad I was going to be able to maintain my dignity and avoid being arrested for public indecency.

And then, I saw it.

I was floating by myself, down river from the group, when I spotted it about 50 yards ahead, stuck in an eddy. I didn't know what to do. Should I grab it? Smash it? Try to get it into my tube? Then I noticed Ryan right behind of me, and knew what I needed to do.

I swam towards it, easily reaching it because of the section of calm water, and put it into the center of my tube. Ryan floated up beside me and stood up, coming to a stop. "Oh, good, you found it," he said. I nodded. And then I picked it up, held it over my head, and launched it downstream. "I could go after it," he said, "but I bet it just gets stuck again. I'll find it."

He didn't.

When we go to the bottom and realized the watermelon was nowhere to be found I was actually kind of sad. I mean, I knew I had to protect my interests, but I still thought it would have been fabulous if the melon had managed to make it, if only for the stories we would tell later. And I was pretty sure Ryan would take his prize privately at home, since he likes his stature as a respected educator.

Well, there's always next year.

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Babies Are The Answer

Having a baby is awesome. You would not believe how much stuff I can get away with now. I can be late, look horrible, not return phone calls or emails, and mumble incoherently, but no one cares as long as I blame it on the baby. The baby was up all night. The baby has so much stuff it is difficult to get out of the house on time. The baby wanted to go for hot wings and beers. As long as I start my excuse with the words "the baby" no one listens to the rest of the sentence, and if I actually have Meg with me I don't even need to start talking.

Meg is more than just a permanent excuse though., she is also the perfect gift for the person who has everything. No, I am not giving my baby away, then I wouldn't be able to use her as an excuse any more. Rather, I am giving away adorable pictures of her away. I mean, no one is going to say they don't love a picture of this beautiful girl. Relatives? Friends? Ryan? All are getting Meg related gifts. And thanks to Kodak Gallery when I am done with pictures I can move on to Meg key chains, Meg mouse pads, Meg puzzles, and Meg t-shirts -- all of which will have to be updated as Meg gets bigger and changes more. I will never have to set foot in a mall again thanks to this kid. Maybe I'll get her a fleece throw with her face on it to say thank you.

Meg could also be the answer to all of our money worries for the rest of our lives. Well, not just Meg, but babies in general. You see, I think I have found a way to harness their cuteness for my monetary gain. One word: Babycam. Picture it, a web site where people can go day or night, and gaze on adorable babies. No crying babies, no angry babies, just cute, cuddly, smiley babies. I know brilliant. Really, I think the only thing I need to decide is whether or not to make this a subscription site, or if it will make enough money with ads alone. Those LOL cats better watch their backs.

Okay, I gotta go. I would write a better wrap up to this post, but the baby needs me. I'm sure you understand.

Awesome.

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Taking a Shower

I am not a fan of baby showers. The stupid games, the precious cupcakes, the watered down drinks, really, not my scene. Don't get me wrong, I like throwing them, but mainly because I enjoy torturing my closest friends. There is nothing like watching these women, for once fattter than me, sweat as they wear used wrapping paper on their heads in festive "hats." Also, I like cupcakes.

Today though, we were given our first baby shower, by the lovely people at Ryan's school, and I have to say, I really loved it.

Since Meg was born we have been innudated with gifts. Trust me, I have the list of thank you notes to prove it. However, tonight it was about more than just the gifts, it was about the celebration. Everyone there was just so glad to see us, and to see Meg. It wasn't like people coming to visit us at home, because no one felt they were intruding, because it wasn't our home. They felt they could just sit and enjoy Meg. And we could enjoy it too. I finally got it. And I enjoyed some hummus and little quiches.

Of course, the gifts were nice too. We got a lot of books, but also so awesome clothes. I had no idea teachers were so stylish. My sister took pictures of us opening the gifts, but I look like I just gave birth, so we'll skip those. Instead, check out Meg modeling some of the loot...

Yeah, she looks awesome. Ryan said that I should't use our daughter for laughs, but Sally was all for it. She actually picked out the shoes...

Seriously though (and I say that much too much now) we are so blessed for out community who loves us, loves Meg, and wants to celebrate our new family. Oh, and thank god they always bring booze...

Don't worry, we'll wash them out before we use them for Meg. No, really, we will...

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Saying Thanks

Wow, Meg has really raked in the gifts. In the past three weeks my friends and family have really proved they are not the cheap bastards I make them out to be. They have sent clothes, and shoes, diapers, and toys, books and thousands of pairs of extremely tiny socks. Ryan and I have cooed over every new item, lovingly laundered them, and found homes for every single one in our increasingly crowded tiny house. Oh, and each and every gift has been cataloged, along with the sender, so that a thank you note can be sent.

Now, if the world were fair, Meg would be the one writing all of these notes. After all, none of this stuff fits me. However, we all know that nothing in this world is fair, and therefore Meg will not be writing a damn word until she is at least 18 months, and then she will probably be too busy working on her memoirs to be bothered with thank you notes. So, it is falling to me.

I am not really a fan of thank you notes. I think they are a huge pain in the ass. I don’t even really like receiving them. When I receive one I normally glance at it and then toss it in the trash. I think that most people do the same. However, if I don’t get a thank you note for a gift, I get peeved. Again, I think most people feel the same. After all, thank you notes are one of the few things that separate us from the animals. Well, that and the lack of butt sniffing. And so, I will write.

I think the biggest problem is that I never know how much is enough, and how much is too much when it comes to the note. I know that it has to be longer than “Thanks, sucka,” and shorter than a treatise on the first time Meg soiled the item in question (and I am pretty sure she will soil them all at some point). Where is the fine line though? Should half the card be filled? All of it? Just the section below the printed greeting? Above it? I am never quite sure.

In addition, there is the fact that my handwriting it far from stellar. In fact, today someone who won’t be named referred to my penmanship as “Navy Seal like.” That’s actually one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about it. I don’t want to scare the person I am trying to thank by sending them a card filled with writing that looks like it came from a ransom note. I imagine people opening their cards, seeing all of that handwriting filling the page, and vowing never to send another gift, so they don’t have to be assaulted by my writing again.

In all honesty, sincerity, and a touch of exhaustion, I am glad to send these notes. With each one of them I realize just how wonderful our community is, and how much they love and support our girl and us. Nothing I will write and place in a small envelope will ever adequately express my feelings.

Now, I gotta write a man about a duck. A duck bank, that is. It’s really nice…

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Better Than Christmas

Today is the highest of Mitchell family holidays: the celebration of the birth of Luke. Yes, six years ago on this day we all looked down at that little baby and handed over our hearts, and our wallets. His birth changed our lives forever. I remember about 15 months after he was born I looked at my Mom and said "what did we talk about before Luke was born?" "I don't know," she answered, "but it couldn't have been that important."

The birthday festivities actually started on Saturday. That is when around 30 screaming five and six year olds, along with their parents, stormed my parents' backyard for a party. My Dad set up the pool, and my Mom put out enough food to feed an army. Of course, year round they have all kinds of toys, and a pirate ship play yard that is every child's dream. My parents bought it from an Amish company soon after Luke was born and it was shipped across the prairie on a flatbed truck before weighing anchor in a bark pit specially built to house it. What I am trying to say is there was plenty for party guests to do. However, that wasn't enough for my Mom and Sister. Oh no, not for Luke's birthday.

I don't know if I have mentioned it before, but my Mother is an evil genius. She can make things happen that no one else can. Seriously, I think it has been raining in Utah for weeks because my Mom looked up one day and said "I like this rain." It is that power to change the weather that brought firemen to her house, just for Luke's party. Well, that and three huge pizzas.

You should have seen the kids' eyes when the fire truck pulled up (they were almost as big as my parents' neighbors who assumed there had been some kind of terrible accident). Those little bodies swarmed the truck, wanting to see and touch everything. Luckily, the firemen (no ladies) were game, loved to talk, and pointed out everything the kids wanted to see. Of course, they had to take a moment to talk about fire safety, telling the kids about when to call 9-1-1, and what to do if they happened to catch on fire (I think they just wanted to see them rolling on the grass). One of them even showed them how quickly he could put on his suit, and all the Moms (and some Dads) gasped when he stripped down to his t-shirt to start the process. The best part though, was the fire hose.

There was nothing funny about what happened at Kent State. However, watching little kids get plowed down by a high powered stream of water is absolutely hi-larious. I mean, it was funny until one of them sprayed me, and then I went all Tianamen Square on their asses. After all, I was the one who cut the crusts of the little sandwiches, motherfuckers!

Actually, I didn't. After all, I am friend to man and beast. I just took pictures of them all to sell to their prom dates in later years. Then I lead in the hardy round of applause for the fire fighters, and went back to serve cake.

The rest of the party was the regular bullshit. Cake. Presents. Ice Cream. Crying. You know, everything you remember from your 30th. After all, my Mom and Sister may have the power to get firemen to bend to their wills, but they cannot stop people from buying stupid plastic toys that will be discarded within weeks, or bakers from using lard in frosting.

Honestly though, the best part of the day, was when the kids left. The clouds came in half way through the party, but the rain didn't start until right after Luke blew out the candles. Then the kids snarfed their sweets, and their parents rushed them out, afraid of flash floods. It was as if God said "Happy Birthday, Luke. Party's over." Or maybe that was my Mom...

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Not Amused

I am with Luke and Amaya today at the local amusement park -- Lagoon. I swear to God people morph into hicks the second they walk through the gates. I don't see these types of people anywhere else, except maybe the fair. It makes me wonder how I appear to others while I am visiting this vat of humanity. Has my shirt gotten tighter? My pants, shorter? My hair, bigger? I do feel like I am covered in some sort of film, but that could be the snow cones the kids have insisted on having, but that they don't want to hold.

I really wish I could show you some of the sights I am seeing. I mean, the parenting moments alone are priceless. TWICE I have heard someone say "I will give you something to cry about." Unfortunately, I forgot my camera.

Of course, my lack of photographic equipment has afforded me the opportunity to play some of my favorite games. The first, of course, is "Your Team." You play it by pointing out the people who are on other people's teams. For instance, teens making out in inappropriate places are all over the park, and they are all on Tara's team. Kids pouting, while wearing black, and cursing their parents for making them come on a family outing are all on Ryan's team -- especially if they are carrying a book. Oh, and anyone who has spilled on their shirts in an overly conspicuous way is wearing a "Team Libby" jersey.

My other favorite game is "Rocker Couple or Lesbian Couple." This one takes more skill. You come up behind a couple, preferably mulleted (easy to find at any amusement park) and make your guess. I would say I am right 60 percent of the time. Oh, and before you scoff, try playing. Like whack-a-mole, it is harder than you think. Eventually I am hoping to find a Rocker Lesbian Couple, and then I will die happy.

Oh, and I have developed a new game today -- "Which One is the Mom." You see, here in Utah, people breed young, which means there are lots of multi-generational clans. So, what I do is a pick a family pack with one or more strollers, and try to pick the Moms. Once again, not as easy as it looks. You know what, though? Seeing an obvious mother and daughter pair, each with their own baby, made it all worth while...

All I can hope is that eventually I get out of here, hopefully with my dignity, and bank account, in tact. That second one might be more difficult, since I am with two children, and have a "sucker" sign on my forehead.

Okay, gotta go on the log flume. Yes, I have typed this entire post while waiting in line.

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Gloating Is Not Pretty

I WON! I WON! I WON! As of this morning I have 50 followers! I emailed Kim to tell her about my victory, and after some discussions about Florida and butterfly ballots we agreed that the win is legitimate.

I want to thank all the little people, specifically the troupe of midgets I hired to put fliers on people's cars outside of the gun show. I think getting the NRA vote really pushed me over the top. I also want to thank God for taking time out from his busy schedule of helping athletes and movie stars to follow my blog. Oh, and I want to thank Kim. She is a worthy adversary, and if you are not already following Yellow Trash Diaries you really should be. She is hilarious. And now you can follow her without feeling like a traitor...

So, now under the terms of the bet, Kim either has to write a post about how awesome I am, or the subject of my choosing... So many, many things to consider. Any suggestions?

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