Don't Mess With My Family

I haven't written in a while. I haven't felt like I had anything important to say.

Now, I do.

How dare Ralph Reed think he can criticize my family.

In case you are not familiar, Ralph Reed is a small minded, well funded (and coiffed), bigot with a big mouth here in the U.S. who loves to be on T.V. Today, in defense of the country's ongoing prejudice against same sex couples he made he argument that it is "for the children" saying: "The verdict of social science is overwhelming and irrefutable. And that is without regard to straight or gay. In other words, this applies to one-parent households, it applies to foster homes, it applies to the whole panoply – they’ve looked at them all – that the enduring, loving, intact, biological mother and father is best for children."

What the huh?

First of all, "science" is not a citation. Give me studies, Ralph, give me names. I want empirical evidence here, not just something your buddies heard behind the 7-11 before the latest Westboro protest. And not just one study, I want to see a lot of them. They all better have big sample sizes too. I have seen enough of these "500 hundred first cousins" bullshit surveys to know the difference.

This is my family. 

Also, have you looked at the demographics of the United States of America lately? While you may be living in a "Leave it to Beaver" world, this is definitely more of a "Full House" country now.  I'm not just talking about liberal, commie, granola crunching weirdos either. I am talking about your so-called base of Christian fundamentalists. Families are taking all shapes and sizes, no matter your political or religious bent. No, they may not have two Moms, or two Dads, but they likely will have only one or the other under one roof, and have foster or adopted children as well. Do you really think now is the time to start excluding them from the "big tent?"

Lastly, in your defense of DOMA, and Prop 8, and your attack on families, you are trying to somehow say some are better than others. I agree, some are. But it has nothing to do with demographics; it has to do with love. All families will have good times and bad; whether they share DNA, or live in the same house, or have parents of the same gender. It is how we deal with those times, not the statistical picture, that matters.

I wish any of this would make a difference to him. I know it makes a difference to me. I know that I am raising a child in a world that still has so many prejudices it makes me afraid for her. I want her to know that her family is the one place she is always safe, and never judged. It makes it hard when it feels like people are judging her family.

So, I will fight like a rabid badger until that is not the case.

Come at me, Ralph Reed, and bring all your "science" with you. I will fight you with the love I use to protect my daughter.

The love of a Mother.

Because we are family. And not some discounted family.

The real damn deal.

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Pack Rat

What a difference a month makes!

Meg is growing up so fast. She starts school in two weeks. Her vocabulary is exploding. She sleeps in her own "big girl" bed. Potty training is done. Her tastes are turning from Disney Princesses (disturbing) to Alvin and the Chipmunks (annoying).

Oh, and she is turning into Navin R. Johnson.

You know, the Steve Martin character from '"The Jerk."

I'm not saying this because she was born a poor black child. I mean, the black part, yes, but her circumstances really don't qualify for less than "lower middle class."

I'm not saying this because she has a fascination with the phone book. Hell, I don't think she would know a phone book if it came up and bit her. We, like most Americans now take the phone book(s) straight from the porch to the recycling bin, stopping maybe to take off the crappy magnet on the front. Meg may eventually get excited about a school directory, but definitely not a phone book.

So, what is it about Meg that makes her so "Navinesque?"

She has to take everything with her.


Every morning, as Meg leaves the house, she picks up things she just can't do without. Why can't she do without them? Because she saw them as she was leaving the house.

Duh.

It started slowly at first.

A stuffed animal.

A blanket.

An extra pair of shoes.

A coloring book.

Then, before we knew it, Meg was heading out the door with two dolls, every stuffed bunny in the house, two pairs of princess high heels, three pacifiers, a box of fruit snacks, a DVD of "Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang" and a child sized plastic chair.

I like to think the chair is an homage to the movie.

This morning was a bit better, but her Dad still couldn't get her out without her musical stuffed seahorse, a kazoo, a magnifying glass, and several strands of Mardi Grad beads.

Now, I know some of think Meg must be taking these things with her because she wants to take a long the comforts of home as she heads out into the big, cold, cruel.

Yeah, no. We don't drop her off at the Greyhound station.

That "big, cold cruel world" is her grandmother's house -- otherwise known as the kid Hilton. Oh, and when she's not there she's with my aunt, otherwise known as the kid Hyatt. Seriously, what she is doing is like packing up the lamps at the Motel 6 so she has something to amuse herself while she's waiting for room service.

Maybe it's our fault. Ryan and I are notorious over packers. On our recent week long trip to Big Sur  we took three suitcases. No, we probably didn't need our scuba gear, but we were on the coast, and it is 2012, and you can't be too careful. Also, I packed all of those ziplock bags because you don't know what you might encounter outside of Utah. After all, in California they sell wine in the grocery store. 

Whatever the origin, I am hoping this "Jerk" phase leads to bigger and better things. A love of Cyrano perhaps, a love of art collecting, a devotion to bluegrass music, or maybe even several SNL hosting gigs. Hopefully not a love of movies that bring Bonnie Hunt from a feminist comic icon to a schlocky punch line.

And if none of those things happen?

Well, at least she isn't emulating "Smokey and the Bandit."

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Updated: Lizard Logic

Update: now, by popular demand, with video.

It started Friday night. 

Meg came into our bedroom, her eyes wide. "There's a lizard in my bed," she said. 

     "I don't think so," I replied.

     "Go check," she said, and moved into my spot as I slid out of bed. I was half way to her room before I realized that was what I was doing. Nope, no lizard. I padded back down the hall. 

      "Honey, there is no lizard in your bed, or anywhere in your room," I said, trying to reclaim my spot. 

      "Well, I better sleep here just in case," she replied. She did. On my pillow. 

I thought that was the end of it. It was not. 

All weekend we heard about the lizard. She told me, her Dad, her grandparents, her cousin, and anyone else who would listen about the lizard. When it looked like anyone was getting skeptical, or about to tell her it was just a dream or her imagination, she would demonstrate exactly how the lizard blinked his eyes (very fast), and wiggled his tongue (even faster). 

Pretty sure she convinced more than one person. 



Saturday was the height of the lizard hysteria. Every time Meg needed to go in her room: to take a nap, to get a book, to search for lizards, she would have to show Ryan, and then me exactly where the lizard had sat on her bed. She would show us where his tail had been, and once again demonstrate the eye and tongue movements. She was totally obsessed. I was almost ready to either move her room, or else buy a tiny pair of pajamas for the little bastard so at least he wouldn't be in Meg's room naked. Finally, though, my Mom sense kicked in. 


The next time Meg and I went into her room to look for the lizard I stood in the center in the center of the room and put my arms out. "Lizard," I said, "it is time for you to go home. This is Meg's room and she does not want you here. You need to go home and not come back unless we invite you." I glanced down to see if she was buying it. She looked skeptical. I went on. "We like you lizard, but you can't be here when Meg doesn't want you here. Sorry." A little voice below me yelled "yeah," and I knew that it had worked. 


Don't think we've stopped talking about the lizard. We haven't. At least three times a day we have to discuss the lizard that came into Meg's room and waggle our tongues and blink our eyes. However, now the story ends with "then Mama told him to go home," instead of worries about when he will come back. 


That's fine with me. 


After all, Meg's lizard impression is really damn cute. 

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Work to Quit

I have figured out a way to get rid of any bad habit. Find a way to make it your job.


I think it's safe to say I was a web addict. I was blogging, tweeting, Facebooking, and surfing constantly. A good chunk of my free time was spent online. I was attached to my phone. There's a statistic that says the average Smartphone user checks their device 34 times a day. You know what I called those people? Amateurs. 


I was understandably thrilled when an opportunity came open at my office to put my web savvy to the test. Now all of those moments when I thought "wouldn't it be great to get paid for this," were coming true. I really would be living the fingers flying, connected, doing what I love dream that had been inside my head. I just didn't count on one thing: once something becomes work, it's hard to accept it as play too.


Don't get me wrong, I love my job.  I am doing a show that is all about finding the best of the web and putting it on TV. It's a great show. I feel energized. I am loving what I do. I feel like I am bringing people something different, and that they maybe wouldn't be exposed to otherwise. It's just that now when I go online all I can think about is work. I surf sites not for fun, but to find stuff for the show. And even when it could be for fun, it still feels like work. My eyes still burn from the screen glare, but not in the way they used to. It's harder and harder to play with my phone when my family is home because I am not taking "me time" (my former favorite rationalization for my web addiction), but instead am "putting work before family." 


Two months ago you couldn't have pried my phone from my cold dead hands, but now I am putting it down, or even (gasp) turning it off. All it took was making it part of my work. 


That got me thinking. Maybe I could do this with some of my other bad habits, too. If they became a part of my job, maybe I would be able to give them up as well.


Now, I just need to figure out how to convince my boss we need a show on wine drinking, celebrity gossip, putting off exercise, and impulse shopping...


Maybe I can find the answer online. 

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Seven Years In

As of today I have been married seven years, and I would marry my husband again tomorrow if it were possible.


Mainly because we need new stuff. 


I think that may actually be the source of the "seven year itch." You look around your house and realize the adorable cottage you bought and called your "love nest" is now is desperate need of painting and other repairs. You've broken most of the fancy wine glasses you got as wedding presents, and at least some of the china has chips. Your child(ren) have broken at least one thing you loved, but that is too expensive and impractical to replace. The hand towels are now being used as cleaning rags, and the bath towels that haven't been accidentally bleached just look worn. The chafing dish that an Aunt gave you is still in perfect condition though, mostly because you have never had a reason to "chafe." 


Then you look at your spouse. Like your towels they are worn as well. You both have likely put on some weight.  You've probably lost (or in the case of women, gained) some hair. There is no mystery about what goes on in the bathroom. Every bad habit has been exposed, every argument hashed out at least once, and every nerve has been frayed. If you don't have a strong marriage, I can see why some people would feel something needs to be "scratched." 


Luckily, I have a strong marriage. I can honestly say I love my husband as much, if not more than I did the day I married him, and I know for a fact I like him a lot more. Our friendship has gotten deeper over the years, mainly because the mystery has disappeared. Oh, and because we've never lost our senses of humor. Take last night for example: I was brining a chicken (I am very fancy) and it would not stay under the water. I asked Ryan what he thought I should do. 
      "Put a heavy bowl on top of it." I did, and it worked. 
      "See, that's why I married you," I said. 
      "Yep," he replied,"because I'm a problem solver, and you're a problem maker."


That never would have flown during year two.


I guess that's the trade off. While the shine wears off all of the presents that came with the wedding, over time the marriage itself becomes the gift. Such a gift, in fact, that I don't feel cheesy writing sentences like that one. I actually believe it to be true. Maybe that's what I'll use to comfort myself from now on every time an appliance breaks, or Meg floods the bathroom and ruins the rug, or we realize we need to repair a wall: "this is making my marriage stronger." 


Still, a new down comforter would be nice... 


Happy Anniversary, babe. 

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How to Deal with Crazy

I like to think I have experience with crazy. After all, I've been living with it for more than half my life. At times I have truly believed my biggest accomplishment is not letting anxiety and depression crush me into a cube like a cosmic garbage compactor.

Since I have had to live with crazy pretty much anyone who has wanted to be even a semi-permanent part of my life has had to deal with it too. I known people who have dealt with it well. I have known with people who couldn't deal with it at all. The best ones, though, are the ones who don't deal with it at all, but deal with me instead and help me come through it as unscathed as possible.

So, how does one do that, should one encounter someone suffering from crazy? After years and years of research I think I have come up with a short list that may help...

1. Never assume it is about you. It isn't. It's crazy. Even if the person in question is going on and on about how their life sucks, and you are a big part of that life, it STILL has nothing to do with you. Trying to determine what role you play in causing the crazy, or how it is affecting your relationship is for later, not in the moment. In the moment it will just make the crazy person crazier because they will assume they have hurt your feelings, or that you hate them. Both are rocket fuel for crazy.

2. Don't try to force them to stop being crazy. If they could stop the crazy, they would. Telling them are being embarrassing, or unreasonable, or ridiculous, or that they just need to "knock it off" will just reinforce the thoughts they are already having, and prolong the crazy.

3. If you are worried about saying the wrong thing, don't say anything. You never know what a person in the middle of crazy is going to take the wrong way. Sometimes just being there, and letting them know you aren't leaving is the best thing you can do.

4. Let them cry. Sometimes it is the best thing to wash all the crazy away.

5. Let them know you still see them through the crazy. This is the big one, and the best way to make crazy go away fast. Let them know, in any way you can, that this is temporary, that it is something they are dealing with, and not who they are.

There are other little things to do, like making sure they have taken their meds, telling stupid jokes, eating carbs, and making sure they are cool with the term "crazy" before using it (I, myself, have embraced it), but those are the big five.

Oh, and when all else fails, remember, this is someone you care for, crazy or not. Fall back on that to guide your actions, and everything should be okay.

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And in the end...

Warning: this post gets sappy.

In the past week I have been to a funeral and a wedding. I can't really decide which one I preferred.

The wedding, of course, should be the clear winner. It had a bar and dancing. The only tears that were shed were tears of joy. They gave out favors, took pictures, and served fancy cake. It was a party.

There was little party atmosphere at the funeral. Sure, there was food. Lots of it, all very carby, and fattening. There wasn't a bar though, and definitely no dancing. There was lots of crying, but most of it was that ugly crying with shaking shoulders, hiccuping, and running noses. No favors were handed out. No pictures were taken. The cake wasn't very good, and it was from the grocery store.

For all the differences though, both had one thing is common: they were both about love. I think the funeral even more so than the wedding.

No, I am not saying that the bride and groom don't love each other. I'm sure they do. However, I don't think it can yet compare to the love I saw at the funeral. The love my uncle had for my aunt, that led him to nurse her through five years of cancer. The love her family and friends have to support her husband and sons now that she is gone, the same way they supported them through her illness. The love everyone in the church had for those around them, realizing that in just a second, the most important things in your life can be taken away, and how they should be treasured at all times, even after they are gone. There was so much love there it had me thinking about it all week, and now has me writing this post.

I hope we are all lucky enough to have love like that in our lives. Oh, and that we are smart enough to recognize and cherish it.

See, I told you. Sappy.

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Yogi Better Watch His Step

When I grow up, I think I want to be my cousin Carissa.

Now, yes, I know that doesn't make a lot of sense, seeing that she is eight years younger than I am, but if it's possible that is what I want.

She's a Park Ranger. How cool is that? And she's not just one of the rangers who tells you how old Old Faithful is (hint, look at the first part of the name), she's one who gets to carry a gun and enforce "the law." Bear gets out of line? Pepper spray. Tourist gets out of line? She introduces them to the bear that just got pepper sprayed.

Nah, she is much too responsible to do that. When I am grown up like her I will be too.

She's in there somewhere...

Carissa doesn't even mind all of the stuff that goes along with being a park ranger that would send most people (me) running. For instance, she's spending the summer living in a cabin with no electricity. You know what that means right? No Internet. Carissa doesn't seem to mind that she won't immediately be able to learn if Lindsey Lohan has died, or who Perez Hilton hates, or what things funny babies and/or cats are doing. Nope, she just wants to make sure she has enough books to read.

I know, some of you are now starting to question if we are actually related.

Oh, and despite the fact that Carissa is outdoorsy, and doesn't abuse the authority given to her, she's actually fun to be around. She likes telling stories about all the dumb stuff she's seen people do in the parks, and doesn't go all "Smokey the Bear" on you. And the stories she tells? Better than any that I have about T.V. After all, I've never busted anyone walking naked in the newsroom.

I can hardly wait until I have stories like Carissa's to tell.

I just hope that when I'm grown up I get to ranger in a park with Internet.

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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.

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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.

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Fourteen Months

Ladies and gentlemen, she walks.

Oh, you weren't thinking I had photographic proof of her walking, were you? Yeah, at this time it would be easier to get a picture of Bigfoot, or a properly spelled Tea Party protest sign. Every time we get out the camera to get a picture or video of Meg walking she drops down and starts crawling to grab the lens, or gives us her cutest pose. Yes, we are raising a ham.

Meg's social life has EXPLODED this month! We have joined the local baby gym, where she enjoys the tumbling and singing almost as much as she loves kissing the other babies. She mostly kisses on the nose, but there is one boy who always gets a big smacker right on the lips. Really, it's like something off a cheesy sepia toned Hallmark card. Sometimes I feel like I should stop her, but right now I am just enjoying the fact that such acts are cute, and hoping they don't continue into her junior high years.

Of course, the kissing is a better alternative to Meg's other favorite thing right now -- biting. She now has eight teeth, and is anxious to sink them into anything, or anyone, around. Feeding her now involves prying the spoon from her jaw at least twice, and playing with her is punctuated by little love nips. We are trying to discourage her, but she thinks biting is really funny, and is egged on by her cousin Luke, whom she worships. Well, I guess she'll stop after the postman complains.


Meg is also learning how to turn on the waterworks. Last week Tara brought baby Wren to meet her family, and ours. Meg seemed very fond of her, staring at her in the bassinet and calling her "bebe en." She wasn't even jealous when Ryan or I held Wren. That was not the case with my Mom holding the baby though, and every time Wren was in my Mom's arms Meg's eyes would well up with huge crocodile tears as she cried for her "gamama." Really, Sally Field would have been proud.

I understand why she was upset though, since every other day the immediate universe revolves around her. And how could it not? Did you see that first picture? She is by far the brightest star in a number of galaxies.

Oh, how we love our girl.

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Meg the Badger Tamer

My little sister, Cate, is a pistol. She works in an industry where she deals with Teamsters all day, and usually leaves them crying. There is no contract she can't negotiate, no problem she can't solve, and no budget she can't cut. Oh, and she does it all while wrapped in a very cute, small, bright red haired package. That is why we call her the badger.

Think about it. Badgers look cute. Cuddly even. There are badger stuffed animals. However, cross them, and they will rip out your throat. Cate can be described the same way. Honestly, I am surprised that badgers haven't started calling themselves "Cates."

Tonight, the badger called to talk to Meg. We put the phone to Meg's ear, and she started with her new greeting of "hiiiii." Cate started talking, telling Meg about her day, and Ryan and I started urging Meg to say "badger."

And then she did.

It wasn't totally clear, more like "badder," but Cate heard it, and it melted her heart. Yes, even the badger has a heart.

Maybe those Teamsters will get a break tomorrow. I doubt it though.

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An Open Letter to Time

Dear Time,

Please slow down.

I know, in the past, that I have asked the exact opposite of you. When I was 12 I begged you to speed up and get me through junior high. I made a similar request when I was 15 and thought high school would never end. In college I asked again, so sure that if you didn't move faster I wouldn't make it out alive.

I think it was around the age of 21 that you finally took my pleas for speed seriously. And I have willingly let you whip through the past 15 years, even helping you along in my early 20's with large quantities of wine, and days spent more asleep than awake. When I noticed thing were moving so fast, about six years ago, I didn't complain, even though I felt it unfair that the time I was spending with the love of my life felt more fleeting than the times I had spent wondering when I would finally find him. I figured it was par for the course, and that things would slow down again eventually.

So, now I would like it to do just that.

My daughter is now seven months old. Tonight she is sleeping in her crib, in her own room, for the first time. I would keep her in the bassinet in our room a bit longer, but to do that we would have to cut holes in the end for her legs to stick through. It seems like only yesterday she was a little potato, sleeping on my chest, waking only to eat and look around, wondering where the hell she was. It isn't that I don't like watching her grow, and don't look forward to the changes ahead, it's just I don't feel like I am getting time to savor everything. I want to feel like I have embedded every stage on my soul, not like I just caught a glimpse as it roared by.

And it isn't just Meg. I want more quality time with my parents. Why did you move so slowly when we were at odds? When I couldn't wait to get out of the house? Why now, that I appreciate them, and want to spend time with them does time seem fleeting? I mean, fleeting to the point that at night I sometimes panic, thinking I should drive out and climb into bed with my Mom and just hug her. Or wake my Dad and tell him dumb jokes.

Yeah, Time, it would be great if your speed didn't make me crazier too...

So, here's my proposal: you slow down, and I will never again ask for you to speed up. Not even on weeks when I can feel my fingernails growing, and swear the clock is moving backwards. I will never again use the phrase "TGIF," even when Friday feels like years from Monday. I will appreciate every minute, and accept each one as a gift.

Deal?

Thanks,

Libby

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There She Is... So, What?

Saturday night was the Miss America pageant. What? You weren't home watching? Neither was I. And, looking at the ratings, neither was anyone else.

I used to love the Miss America pageant. My sisters and I used to wait for it for weeks, dreaming what the gowns would look like, what the hairstyles would be, and hoping at least one contestant would attempt "Ave Maria" with disastrous results. On the actual night my Mom would make us a special dinner of finger foods that could be eaten in front of the television without ruining the carpet. Then she would watch with us, wrapping our hair up in socks so it would be curly for the next day.

I come from a very sarcastic family. However, during the Miss America pageant, all of that was turned off. We were all rooting for the contestants, envious of their poise, and wondering what miraculous things they would go on to do. We were all under the spell of Miss America.

I don't know when that spell was broken. Actually, not broken, busted to all hell. Now, no one watches the Miss America pageant. And, if they do, it is to make fun of it, or play a drinking game.

I am not trying to defend the pageant, or to knock drinking games. I'm just trying to figure out why something I love in my childhood is now a cultural joke. I know it's not because we have become more feminist. People might say that, but it isn't the truth. My Mom was, and is, a feminist. The mothers of all of my friends were bra missing, Gloria Steinem loving, armpit arm wearing feminists. All my friends loved the Miss America pageant though, and all their Moms watched with them.

I think what really has happened is pageant overkill. When I was a kid the Miss America pageant was the only one out there. Then there was Miss Universe. And Miss U.S.A. And Miss Teen U.S.A. And local pageants. And reality television shows about local pageants. Now, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a potential pageant contestant -- especially if you are in a trailer park. And really, you shouldn't be swinging a dead cat anyway.

I wish I could say I will eventually watch the Miss America pageant with Meg, eating Vienna sausages and mandarin oranges. I doubt that will happen though, and not only because Vienna sausages and mandarin oranges are disgusting. It isn't because I won't want to watch, or spend time with Meg, but because I don't think it will be on. I think these are the last days of beauty pageants. They have reached critical mass, and will soon start dying off. And with what they have morphed into, with the spray tans, and the 2 year old girls worried about "making weight," I don't think that will be a bad thing.

I hope Miss America waves gracefully as she leaves the stage.

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Strangers at the Manger

Today, we took down Christmas. Yes, I know it is more traditional to wait for Three King's Day, but I couldn't stand to have that tree in the house one more day. While Ryan was stripping the tree of lights, I took down the nativity. It was then I noticed there was something very wrong in the town of Bethlehem.


For those of you who failed the Highlights "hidden pictures" contests as children, in addition to the Holy Family, wise men, and shepherds, there are two monkeys, an abnormally large bat, a turtle, and Bigfoot. Yes, that's right, according to my manger, Bigfoot was at the birth of Christ.

First, I assumed Ryan had done it, moving things around from the mantle to create the David Lynch Christmas scene. Then a dark horse in the blasphemy race emerged: my Mother.

I called to ask her about it, expecting her to be insulted and ask me to do hail Marys in order to win her forgiveness. Instead, she laughingly admitted it. Yes, the woman who goes to church every week, doesn't eat meat during Lent, and could teach most Catholics a thing or two about guilt, was responsible for the desecration. And she was proud of it. She thought the Bigfoot was an especially brilliant touch, such people had been putting another mythical creature (Santa) at the creche for some time.

I guess you don't really know a person until you leave them along with your plastic Jesus. I am just so glad I don't have a Crucifixion set she can mess with at Easter. Because that would be REALLY disrespectful.

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There Will Be Rolls

My family does not think I am a good cook. Probably because I am not. I mean sure, when I follow a recipe I can make things that are edible, but who really wants to follow a recipe? I am a free spirit, going where my culinary whims take me, and enjoying the results. The fact that other people can't enjoy them as well is not my problem. For instance, I will never believe that a grilled pretzel, butter, peanut butter, and cheese sandwich is not a taste treat. And I will not be ashamed that is the pinnacle of my cooking adventures.

While I am not ashamed of my cooking adventures, I am always a little hurt that they don't ask me to bring anything to family dinners. While my sisters and Mom divvy up the dishes, the answer when I ask what I can bring is always the same: wine. It doesn't matter if I have just perfected a recipe for roasted brussel sprouts and apples, or figured out a way to crust pork with Cheetos without making either mushy, they just want me to bring wine. Oh, unless I am working on wine recipes, then they say they just want my company.

This Thanksgiving though, they messed up. They asked me to bring rolls. And I am going to make this Thanksgiving all about bread.

You think I am just going to pick up a couple bags of rolls from the grocery store? You don't know me very well. I will be baking them myself. Oh, and I will not just be baking one kind. There will be white AND whole wheat. Oh, and there may even be buttermilk biscuits. Or maybe some type of "herbed" roll. Of course, none will actually shaped like rolls, or at least what you call "rolls." I see turkeys, and flowers, and Cloverfield aliens. Family members won't want to eat the rolls, because they will appear to be works of art, but they will have no choice, because they will be so delicious.

This year: rolls. Next year: the turkey. The turkey which will be stuffed with pretzels and Kraft singles. Victory will be mine.

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Oh God, No...

I don't know if I have ever mentioned it before, but I am not the only member of my family who works in news television. My Dad is in television news. My grandfather was in television news. Two of my uncles are in television news. And now, I fear that a new generation is being indoctrinated. Luke, and even Meg, are already joining the cult.

Luke first started coming into the office when he was about three. His Mom would drop him off when I was finishing my shift on days he was done with preschool early and did not want to go to daycare. It was fine, since usually my Dad and I were both there, and rarely both of us were in a crisis at once. He could either sit in the control room with me, or in engineering with Dad -- both of which are filled with buttons. At first he would just stare at them, then push them randomly. Eventually he wanted us to push them to show them how they work, watching our every move and learning. Now he pushes them, gives time cues to reporters and weather guys, and helps to tune in live shots. When anyone asks him what he wants to do when he grows up he says "my Grandpa's job." I guess he would say my job, but even he knows how unimportant I am.

So, Luke is a lost cause. But I had hope for Meg. That hope is fast fading though.

Meg LOVES the news. Most babies will stare at the television, because of the lights and the sounds, but how many will shun kids shows and pay rapt attention when "News Hour" with Jim Lehrer is on? Really, tonight she got upset because Ryan was holding her bottle so the screen was blocked. He isn't the only newscaster she likes, either. I hate to say this, but my Dad claims she likes the "Today Show." Yes, this is not technically "news" in my eyes, but I have to keep in mind Meg is still under 4 months old. I am sure by January even she will realize an exclusive interview with Kate Gosselin has no journalistic value.

I am hoping that it is just the talking that has Meg so interested. I am hoping that she will take that love of language and become a poet, or a writer, or a singer, or a teacher, or a diplomat. Or maybe I should just start with flashcards of doctors and lawyers -- wait not lawyers, even people in news pity them -- and hope I can break the cycle now.

If I don't, at least she'll have family around. Maybe she and Luke can even carpool.

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Good-bye, Kitty

Our cat, Rita, died last Friday. We had her put to sleep after her diabetes got the better of her. I wasn't going to write anything about it. I mean, I was, but then the weekend happened, and I got pissed about other things, and I thought I was okay. After all, she was 13, and sick, and it's more about quality of life than quantity.

Then yesterday I came home from work, put Meg in her pajamas, put on my nightgown, got in bed, and fell apart. I have been in a funk ever since. So, I am hoping that writing about Rita will help -- at least little bit.

I got Rita in 1997, four months after I moved to Washington D.C. I didn't get her in Washington though, because people there actually spay and neuter their animals. No, Rita came from a backwoods farm in North Carolina on a trip to visit my parents. She, and about 3-million other kittens, were in a guinea pig hutch. I looked in, unsure who to pick, until she climbed up my body to my shoulder and looked at me as if to say "let's go." We were thick as thieves from that moment on.

Yes, those are laser eyes...

I was the only person Rita liked, and even that was intermittent. My Mom claims that at one point she had to call for help when Rita cornered her in my kitchen while cat sitting. I don't know if that is true, but I do know she tried to end Ryan's life several times when he came on the scene. One night especially stands out in my mind: Ryan awoke to find that Rita had used a single claw to open a deep scratch all the way down his side. "Why did that have to happen," he asked. The answer? Only Rita knew.

Rita may have been a bitch, but she saved my life. I was so crazy in my early 20's that I didn't know which end was up. I drank too much, I dated bad men, and I harmed myself in any way possible. However, whenever I thought of going to real extremes, I thought of Rita. Who would care for her if I wasn't around? NO ONE WOULD DARE. So, I had to be there. And she was there for me.

I would tell you about the end, about the seizures, and the turkey we fed her, and about the many times we thought she was checking out, only to have her rally again, but I would rather your last image of Rita not be of her infirm and dying, but alive and sassy. In the first year after I got her, I took Rita everywhere. That meant when I drove from D.C. to N.C., she went with me. Not in a cage though, but looking out the window. She would lay across my shoulders, looking out the window, grabbing bites of Taco Bell burrito, and having the time of her life. I think she even tried to flash her boobs at truckers.

I hope I did right by her. I know she did right by me.

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Welcoming Meg

Ever since Meg was born I have said that if I could I would climb to the top of Mt. Olympus (the one here in Utah), and hold her out "Lion King" style to show her off. This weekend we did the next best thing, and had her christening. We invited all of our friends and family, and, of course, got Meg a completely ridiculously cute dress to wear.

She had some ridiculously cute shoes too... which she tried to kick off every two minutes.

It was really overwhelming how many people came out to help us officially welcome our girl. Ryan and I had stood outside welcoming people as they came in, so we didn't see the church fill up. When we walked in and saw almost all the pews were filled I was so overcome with gratitude and love I was rendered speechless -- and I think we all know how rarely that happens.

The feeling in the church was just one of such intense joy. People who knew what we had gone through to get to this point, and even those who didn't, came together to celebrate this wondrous thing that has happened. This beautiful little girl who has come into our lives. Tara and Kent even flew out from California to serve as her Godparents.

I don't think they realize this means they have to pay for college.

Meg took the ceremony in stride. She loved seeing all of the different faces, and all of the kids who had come to watch. The light shining through the stained glass really caught her eye. And when it was time for the actual baptism she only squawked for a second.
And then she was comforted by her Dad...

The christening was held in the same chapel where we were married, and, just like with that service, at the end we walked up the aisle greeting our guests. When I walked up the aisle at our wedding I didn't see any faces, just a blur. This time though, I saw every face, and I heard every voice, including our friend Katie's daughter Ashlyn asking "why did they wash baby Meg's hair?" I soaked it all in, so one day I can tell Meg all about it, and let her know that, from the moment she was born, she was welcomed and loved not only by us, and by her birth mother, but by a whole community.

We are so blessed.

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Our Song

I used to be a classically trained singer. No, I'm not kidding. Starting from the time I was 11, until I was in my mid-20's I took vocal lessons and sang everything from show tunes to opera. I was the annoying kid who sang solos you had to sit though in church. I was the lead in the school play. I was the only member of my college acting cohort who got excited when we did musical theater. And I was the one who supported myself as a singing waiter when I moved to San Francisco after school. Again, not kidding.

I stopped singing in public when I moved to Washington D.C. Lessons were too expensive, and no one really cared if a television producer could sing. I kept singing around the house though, and looked forward to the day I would have a baby to sing to as I rocked her to sleep.

Now she is here, and I have found it hard to know what song to sing.

I don't like lullabies. Sure, they sound pretty, but most of them are about gross commercialism, unlucky insects, babies falling out of trees, or lost love. In my imagination, I have always sung show tunes to my baby. I love them, and have known every word to most of the standards since I was a little kid. However, when I look down at Meg, the words go out of my head. I hate to say it, but I don't think she is a Broadway baby.

Actually, when I look at Meg few lyrics come to me. Few words too. She renders me dumb because I am so in awe of her. I think it happens to all parents. I mean, doesn't that explain baby talk? It isn't that adults want to talk down to babies, they just go stupid around them and can't do anything but babble. I think that's the reason one of the only songs I have been able to remember all the words to is "Witch Doctor." You know, the one that goes "Ooo, eee, ooo, ah, ah, ding, dang, walla, walla, bing bang." Yeah, it's just random sounds to a tune -- perfect for someone who has temporarily lost all knowledge.

Today though, I think I found a song. It's from an artist I have always liked, but not loved. It was the free download on iTunes last week, and came on randomly when we were driving to pick up Luke at school. Meg was in the back, and kind of getting fussy. When this song came on though, she stopped. And since then, every time I start to sing to Meg, this is the song that comes out of my mouth.



Isn't it a beautiful song? It has the nonsense sounds that I am, by now, very good at making, and it has a positive message that has nothing to do with mining deaths, or sheep love. Of course, it could change tomorrow, and I could go back to singing the grocery list, or making up songs like "who is a baby head."

Right now though? Meg and I are caught up, and enjoying our song.

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