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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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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Walking the Dog

I am taking time out of my contest with Kim in order to write something that doesn't seem like a desperate plea to get people to like me. I mean, yes, I am still desperate, but I have cute dog pictures to post. That trumps my insecurity.

Yesterday was the annual "Strut Your Mutt" fundraiser here in Salt Lake, which is why, if you went anywhere near Sugarhouse Park, you got poop on your shoes. The event is pretty much just a very big walk, and then a fair where every manner of pet product is pimped out. For instance, did you know there is such a thing as dog ice cream? It's true. And we wonder why foreigners hate America.

Many of the teams, or "dog packs," chose to dress up their animals, since, as with all good charity events, there was a costume contest, and a owner/dog look alike contest, complete with prizes. As if the dog ice cream didn't make us look bad enough. I chose not to dress up Sally, since I only like to humiliate her around the holidays. So, as we walked around the park both Sally and I got some good laughs...

Pink bandana. This dog got off easy.

These dogs did not.

These dogs are probably in a mah jong league.

These people decided to spare their dog, and humiliate their baby.

This guy decided to take the hit for his dogs.

Yes, this dog is painted. I am not showing her face to save some of her dignity.

The best team t-shirts.

The reason dogs will eventually rise up and kill us all.

I am so glad I was wearing closed toe shoes. Next year? Well, I have already promised Sally we will practice checkbook charity and just make a donation...

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The Only Way I Am Like Hitler

My upper lip is my greatest shame. Well, not my greatest shame, I can't actually write about that on this blog, but it is definitely in the top ten. You see, like a great number of women, I have a moustache, and I have been doing battle with it my entire adult life.

It started when I 13 and the first wiry hairs sprouted from my upper lip. Jolene cream bleach became my best friend. Every two weeks I would mix the cream and the power accelerant together on the little tablet, using the even littler spatula. Then I would put it on my lip and let it sit. And sit. And sit. After about three hours I would scrape the caked mess off my face, and check the results. They were never what I would call "good." I mean, the buzz from the fumes was great, but my hair usually stayed dark. I then decided it was time to stop bleaching my moustache, and start eradicating it altogether.

Over the years I have vacillated between waxing my lip, which is both painful and a kind of psychological torture (oh, yeah, 3-2-1 rip, that works), and using depilatory, which I think is how the government is getting rid of the left over Agent Orange from Vietnam. I would use one or the other until I did myself either emotional or physical harm. For instance, when I was in eighth grade I decided to use depilatory. It didn't work the first time, so I did it again. Oh, and I took off half of my skin. No, my moustache would not be noticed, but the large red blister in the shape of a moustache would. It was my mother who finally came up with the lie that saved me -- I am allergic to Strawberries. Yeah, but only in one place.

Like all hairy women I have been looking for an easy answer to the moustache conundrum all my life. And then, one night last month, I thought I saw it. Smooth Away. I was aghast that Europe had been hiding the fact I could simply buff away my unwanted hair, all while smiling and wearing a wrap around towel. Suddenly I understood the national hatred for the French. I wanted to know where I could buy it IMMEDIATELY! Then I saw it was only sold by phone and lost interest. After all, I would never be that drunk.

Destiny found me when I was helping Tara move to California. We were in a Rite Aid the size of the Superdome when I wandered through the Jesus figurines, flammable Hawaiian shirts, and buckets of Cheez(TM) balls and discovered the "as seen on TV aisle." There, right in the middle of it, calling to my like a siren, was Smooth Away. And it was only $9.99. I would have bought two if Tara wasn't sniggering.

In the commercial the women in the half towels smile as they easily buff the hair away from any body part that is too hirsute. Yeah, those bitches are on drugs. The only way they can smile while using the Smooth Away is if it is not actually touching their skin. After I was done using it, and actually getting hair off, I looked like a burn victim. You see, what they don't tell you is that to take the hair off to a suitable level, the skin has to come off also. Yes, I should have known that, but I still believe in magic and unicorns.

I have figured out why Smooth Away sells so many units though, even though it is like putting a sandblaster on your face: it comes with a vibrator. It is supposed to go in the hand held pad to "work hair from it's root." Yeah, the only thing it's going to do is work housewives from their sexual frustration. And at just $9.99, that's not a bad price.

Maybe I should just move to Greece... Gryos, and I would look like a hairless cat....

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LibbyLogic Hash

It's April Fools Day, which means that anything I write today will be seen as a joke. I mean, most of things I write are jokes, but what if today is the one day I have something really important to say? What if today is the day I want to take a stand against illiteracy, or genocide, or men who wear tank tops without irony? It won't matter, because everyone will just think it's a joke. So, because I don't want to waste me time with a long, thought out post (you know, more than 140 characters), I'm just going to throw together some of the random events/thoughts from my life as of late. These are perfect for those of you who are really drunk and can't follow a long story.... You know, most of you.

• Today was Hawaiian shirt day at work. Of course, it was also 30 degrees outside, which meant few were wearing tropic attire. One of the managers came through the newsroom asking people why they weren't decked out, and specifically questioned my friend Irinna, who is Polynesian. Her reply? "Every shirt I wear is Hawaiian. I mean, once I put it on."
  
• I was looking for a birthday card today when I came across one in the 99 cent section that said "Happy Birthday. May this day bring you as much joy as you deserve." I had no idea Hallmark had gotten so passive aggressive.
  
• I keep all kinds of granola bars in my desk to keep me from eating out of the vending machine or patronizing the hated Carriage Cafe. Recently, I added Planter's Peanut Bars to the mix. Yesterday my Dad called me (yes, I work with my Dad) and asked me to come into his office, and bring a peanut bar with me. I did, and asked him what he wanted as I sat down. "Nothing," he replied, "I just wanted a peanut bar and wanted to see if I could get you to bring it to me."
• Speaking of my Dad, it always takes people a while to figure out we are related. Recently a co-worker was looking at my blog posts about New York and came across a picture of my parents. "Libby," she said, "how long has Tommy been dating your Mom?" I told her they had been going steady for about 38 years, but they weren't really serious.
  
• Ryan is currently teaching World Religions, and discovered that ancient Greeks had 120 holidays a year. This is why I have built a large statute of Zeus in our backyard. Scoff if you must, but religious freedom is a right in this country, not a privilege.
  

Happy, now? Good. Tomorrow I will be back with treatises on war and Capri pants. Because really, aren't Capri pants the true cause of war? Think about it.

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April, Ugh

I hate the month of April. I know, I know, that is probably going to piss of everyone born in April, and I am sorry. It is not your fault your birth month sucks. If it makes you feel any better I was born in August, which is pretty much universally acknowledged as the sweaty ass crack of the calendar year. But we aren't talking about August. We are talking about April, and why it sucks.

Just look at the way April starts: with April Fool’s Day. The month is just setting you up for a prolonged misery with a day of lame and/or hurtful jokes that are all excused with the words “April Fools!” Yet, if you punch the jokester in the face, you can’t use the same rationale to get out of assault charges. How fair is that? Not fair at all. Thanks a lot, April.

I am always either too hot or too cold in April, no matter what I am wearing. A cute blouse and shorts? Freezing. A cute blouse, shorts, and a sweater? Boiling. I spend the entire month alternating between being covered in goose bumps or sweat. Neither is attractive.

Oh, and what about the colors associated with April? This may be all in my head (many things are), but isn’t April all about pastel yellow and tangerine orange? It’s like the whole month is an ad for 70’s bridesmaid dresses.

Taxes are due in April. Now really, who likes taxes? I mean, besides homo, baby hating, Atheist Democrats. And they don’t count.

The final indignity of April? The birthstone is the diamond. Yeah, April, the month that leaves me covered with sweat, unable to find a decent colored spring dress, and the butt of jokes, gets diamonds. What does August get? Peridot. Yes, a stone colored like bile. Well, at least no one gets their hands chopped off for trying to steal them. The diamond miners in Sierra Leone must hate April more than I do.

No, I take it back. That isn’t possible. Wake me when it’s May.

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Walkin' the Beach

I really love the ocean. There is something about it that just fills my soul with song, and makes me want to use really corny phrases to describe my emotions. During our visit to Florida we went to Sarasota where I got to glimpse the Gulf of Mexico for the first time. It was truly a sight to behold. Even better though were the people who packed the sugar sand beach lining it...

Most of the people brought ridiculous set-ups, that showed they had no intention of going in the water.

Some were just there for a nap.

This is me and Ryan in 50 years.

Even hippie freaks retire to Florida.

This is called skin cancer waiting to happen. There were many. many crispy fried people on the beach.

And then some people were wearing all the covering they could to avoid getting burned.

When a kid is wearing a bigger bathing suit, it might be time to rethink your attire.

I am pretty sure this was some sort of cult suicide, but I didn't get close enough to confirm my suspicions.

This guy was the best. He ran up and down the beach, weaving in and out of the people,
looking like he was about to collapse at any moment, carrying an orange.

Really, this was almost more entertaining than Gatorland. If the running orange guy had let me sit on his back that would made the day perfect...

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Junk Mail

Ryan likes to go fishing. I like to buy him fishing related things for birthdays and other occasions. This, unfortunately, usually means I have to go to stores that specialize not only in fishing, but also hunting, boating, and even spitting (no, really, have you ever been to Cabelas?). These stores, like all others, have sold my personal information to other stores they think I might be interested in. At least, I think that has happened. How else can I explain how this ended up in my mailbox:
I really doubt my contributions to the Human Rights Campaign sparked the interest of the "Smoky Mountain Knife Works." After all, this is a catalog that carries TWELVE PAGES of items that cannot be sold in "California, Massachusetts, and anywhere legislators have more sense than guns." That isn't Utah, so I sat down with the catalog and my credit card, ready to order some knives. After all, it is almost Christmas, and who wouldn't want a stocking of weapons? I mean, add kids cracked on candy canes, and parents with a little too much nog in them, and you have a holiday to remember...

I found the perfect gift for my Dad right away...

Or this one if he's feeling fancy...

This would be perfect for Tara. After all, how often am I going to find a gift "as tough" as she is? I mean, unless I happen to find a ninja hamster breeder...

And finally, a gift that seems to be made for my Mom, the hardest person to buy for on my list. Finally, something that says "I think you are a really talented teacher" but doesn't include fake school kid writing, or illustrations of pencils and apples. I mean, I guess I could have those stenciled on, but it would probably be extra.

You can whack AND punch with it. What a multi-tasker.

Now, I know I am coming off sarcastic, but I think I am really going to order something from ole Smoky Mountain, even though Ryan is upset that they don't feature nunchucks, and only one type of ninja star. After all, I do live in Utah, and after my ATV adventure this weekend I am thinking I should start embracing the culture more. Also, I just want to see what catalogs will come once they sell my info. I'm betting taxidermy and home schooling. Or maybe one that features breeders for that elusive ninja hamster.

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Olympic Sperm

What do you see here? I don 't think I'm seeing what Google wants me to see...

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Frankenberry

I was preparing my very healthful breakfast of yogurt, strawberries and Kashi for work tonight when I came upon a freakish abnormality of the fruit world. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Siamese Strawberry.


Separation was really the only option for this poor bi-lobed berry -- not even my mouth is big enough for that. The shape of the cross section was quite pleasing.


If only there were a sideshow for fruit. I'd be rich! I guess I'll just have to keep working with Sally on her banjo playing.

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Non-Sequiturs

This has been an odd weekend filled with family visits and random sights. For instance -- do you know where the following picture was taken? A farm? A petting zoo? Haiti? No, no, and thankfully, no. It was taken outside of my sister in law's house in Riverton. You can build a multi-million dollar development in the country, but that doesn't mean it isn't still country...


Then today we were driving home from Riverton after a family lunch when we saw the following on the freeway. At first Luke thought we were talking about a real walrus on a truck, so the statue was a disappointment. But it got me thinking -- we live in Utah. It is landlocked. Why would anyone want a sculpture of a walrus?


I pretty much expect to see a unicorn tomorrow.

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