The Girl Who

Don't Make Meg Cry!

2010-03-19T15:26:26Z

I've meaning to introduce you to Meg. She and I are both producers at FOX in Salt Lake City. We were both pregnant at the same time so her daughter Scarlett is a month younger than Violet.

_{Beaver and Turtle}

I generally try to assume that people at work do not read this blog. It's just easier that way, you know? I know for certain my boss reads it nearly every day, which, oh my God, what if you knew your boss, who you very much respect, read your blog every day? I think most coworkers are aware of the blog but I don't think they read it much. Dude, if I knew a coworker had a juicy blog I would be all over it every day. But that's me.

A couple months ago I became aware that Meg reads the blog every day. Loves it, even. She's funny as hell, makes me feel like a celebrity, within the confines of my cubicle walls, anyway. She'll talk to me about stuff I've written as if it's the most amazing thing she's ever read. Mark Twain? Meh. Did you read that thing about zits Monica wrote the other day? You guys, isn't that the cutest? My own little fan club of one!

Last week, after talking about it for months we finally had our first play date and I got a chance to snap lots of photos of Meg and her beautiful little Scarlett.

Meg's husband was there too. He's actually a rocket scientist. Like, you know when something is really easy people say "it's not rocket science." He's actually doing rocket science type things every day. His coworkers even call him Beaker at work. If you don't know who Beaker is you should be ashamed of yourself.

Meg met Beaker at a high school dance when they were ridiculously young. Like fifteen years old or something. Isn't that annoyingly sweet? Also? They were wearing spandex. She told me this the other day and I spent some time wondering why Beaker The Rocket Scientist was wearing spandex at fifteen before she clarified that it was a Halloween dance. Um, Meg? Isn't that a detail you might have mentioned? But that's just Meg.
Oh! One more thing. Meg gets really upset whenever she reads the mean comments some people leave on the blog. One time she cried, even. Seriously!

A month ago I acquired a new stalker, some hateful weirdo, you know how it goes. There was something about how I should put a bullet in my dog's head and kick it into a ditch like I did with my abortion. There was also this gem:

So you HAVE been gangraped before! I had a feeling that was the case. Is that where the abortion came from? Oh no, thats right- you already shat out the gangrape baby. And you know famous people!! you are so special. Was it Ice Cube and his crew that busted into that shit like the KoolAid Pitcher? It doesn't look like a mud race baby in the photos. Your writing is neither edgy nor hip. It is sad to see that you have no talent for story arc, syntax, diction, or proper and effective use of denouement. Your style is pedantic, and your stories are so greatly hampered by your ego and desire to come off as some sort of arbiter of cool that it all ends up as second rate Pahlanuik- and that is a compliment. Give it up before you hurt yourself. Fuckitty Bye Now!! (Big Julie Andrews smile included with exeunt)

I wasn't too upset about my improper and ineffective use of denouement but the realization that I was not the arbiter of cool was a blow. I managed to keep it together but Meg got all teary because, bless her heart, she isn't as familiar with the internet as I am. She was absolutely devastated that someone would say such things to me. Meg was stomping around the newsroom, pushing her sleeves up and grumbling about psychotic people and that I'm the most amazing person EVER and how dare anyone say such things to me because she will track them down and break their bones and stuff.

She was so upset and so serious I damn near wet myself I was laughing so hard. Seriously, you guys, Meg was crying. Sorry Meg, I had to tell 'em.

Isn't that sweet? Anyway, Meg, thanks for making me feel like a celebrity and The Greatest Writer In The World. You are the most adorable, charismatic, hilarious, inappropriate gal ever. A girl after my own heart. So don't leave mean comments because you just make this beautiful girl cry. And somewhere, an angel won't get its wings.

Starting Her Young

2010-03-18T02:13:56Z

Hey, get started on those dishes, missy. Ain't like they're gonna do themselves.

Life On The Farm... Or Something

2010-03-16T01:48:19Z

For what it's worth, Serge says my hair is much lighter in person and everyone at work immediately noticed a difference. I'm happy with it. It still probably isn't as light as I'd hoped but the positive side of that is less maintenance. Also, enough with my hair. If I have to talk or think about my goddamn hair any time soon I may just go Britney Spears on y'all. Let's focus on the positive: the wussy grew a backbone and done got her hair did, again.

Speaking of hair, yesterday Serge got his hair cut off. I was nervous to see it as I didn't marry a Mormon boy for a reason. You know, they tend to be short hair wearin', chronic flip-flip sportin' no beard havin' cookie cutouts of each other. Right, brah? Right. I like 'em hairy and beardy and kinda dirty. Plus, he gets the cutest little curly curls at the nape of his neck and when he gets sweaty they kind of do this thing where they...

Sorry about that.

I didn't get so much as two consecutive hours of sleep last night. Violet is trying out this new sleep method that requires her to wake up every ten minutes and yell. Not cry. YELL. Serge and I take turns cursing and dragging ass into her bedroom where we drape ourselves over the crib and ~~fall asleep again~~ attempt to soothe The Queen. I swear to God I heard her chuckling the last time I left the room. I think she's playing us, y'all! On the bright side, all this yelling and screwing with her parents' sanity must be hard work because she is now sleeping in until eight instead of five-thirty or six.

Also, it's fertilizing time and all these awake hours during the night gives Serge a chance to plow the field, if you know what I'm saying. Apologies, my friends. If it's any consolation, I too, cringed when I wrote that sentence. It was either that or he be tappin' that shit, yo, so I opted for the relative white girl banality of the farming euphemism.

But I didn't come here to talking about farming or sex or any unfortunate combo of the two. Class, today's topic is acne. Or more specifically, nickel-sized zits that won't quit. What is the deal, y'all? There are maybe four other times in my life that I can think of that were worse than right now. These are large, angry spots that keep cropping up (there goes the farming terminology again) on my chin. I'll have one, two or three at a time and just when I'm bidding adieu to the last one another big bastard gets his mojo goin' and I look like a before picture on a ProActiv commercial.

Help me. Does anyone have any kick ass home remedies? What's worked for you in the past? I'd give ProActiv another shot but I'm trying to get knocked up and I hear that's no good for growing fetuses and whatnot. None of these fancy schmancy high falutin' acne fighters. Mama wants the home remedies that your mother's sisters cousin's best friends step-sister told her about. What's your secret? What d'ya got? Not only zit remedies, what do you know about getting rid of the red areas the zit bastards leave behind? They bother me more than the zits.

Massively Passive III

2010-03-15T01:55:21Z

So, it cost me another $20 tip, but what do you think?

BEFORE:

Massively Passive II

2010-03-12T03:22:34Z

You guys! I'm glad I posted about my hair trauma. By that night I was already talking myself out of doing anything about it. It's only hair, I thought. At least she covered my grays, I rationalized. But because I posted and because so many of you gave me the business for being such a wussy I had to call! I felt each of your comments propping me up, xylophoning together to lend me the backbone I so desperately need!

So I called.

I very nicely explained that I had paid $150 for lighter hair and two people asked if I'd darkened my hair. And my mom didn't even notice I'd done anything. I told them that while I love my stylist I really hoped that we could work something out? And maybe fix my hair? Yes, I ended every sentence in that annoying, questioning tone that is common to valley girls and spineless wussies such as myself.

Turns out my stylist could only fix it today or next week. As I work today and next week they are putting me with a different girl on Saturday morning. Which is kind of nice for a spineless wussy such as myself because I don't have to feel like an ungrateful jackass while my own stylist fixes my hair. I can revel in the safe anonymity of a stranger's capable (hopefully) hands! Thank you, internet, for lending me some much needed moxy!

Death By Hollywood

2010-03-10T14:09:04Z

It's not as if no one saw it coming. We all saw it coming, like, twenty years ago, right? The death of Corey Haim. From a drug overdose. In a shitty L.A. apartment complex, no less. It was in the cards. Even he knew it. Still. When I read the news today my heart jumped into my throat and I shouted for Serge, who was just walking out the door for work.
"Serge! Corey Haim died!"
I heard him pause. "Heroin?"
"Dunno. TMZ just says drug overdose. Maybe accidental. Mom! Did you hear that? Corey Haim died!"
"Oh!"

She met him once. Said he was a sweet, fun boy. He was filming a movie in Provo. Fast Getaway, I think it was called. He and Feldman had long since parted ways and their careers were on the fast track to no where. Mom was with a friend in Provo and stopped to watch them film the movie. She called a thirteen year old me from a pay phone and said, "I am looking at Corey Haim right now."

In my naivete, I thought he might stop by our house. You know, to hang out and stuff. I actually rushed to the bathroom and put on make-up (blue eye shadow and Chapstick) and curled my bangs. I don't need to tell you he never stopped by. Later, mom told me how Corey and his bodyguard had helped pop a dent out of her car. A blue Camaro, for those of you old enough to smile about curled bangs and blue eye shadow. A bitchin' blue Camaro with a spoiler and black, window louvers. If you smiled about the blue eyeshadow, you're most certainly laughing now.

In sixth grade my best friend and I wrote a fan letter to Corey. I still have it somewhere because we didn't know where to send it. If I recall correctly, it included the very earnest sentence "if you're ever in Orem, Utah you should swing by and we could hang out." AS IF! Weren't we the cutest, though? If you're ever in Orem you should swing by... It was the first and only fan letter I ever wrote.

At the end you could barely see the ghost of the cute boy he used to be. What a sad life, to peak at fifteen. God, Hollywood blows.

Massively Passive

2010-03-09T15:52:42Z

My passiveness is a trait I'm not quite sure about. On the one hand, I grew up with a mom who had no trouble giving folks the business if the situation required it, often to my great embarrassment. But she got what she wanted. Still does. I don't know if she started out that way or was forced into action because she was a single mom of four, working full-time for next to nothing. Either way, I didn't see her as a woman who just wanted what she paid for, I saw her as embarrassingly aggressive.

Perhaps that's why I am so passive when it comes to getting what I paid for and avoiding confrontation. Give me the wrong dinner? Oh well, I'll just eat what you brought me. Oh, I'll bitch about it, to be sure, but only to my fellow diners, never to the waiter that screwed up the order. Confrontation at work? I seem to be more concerned with offending someone or making sure that people like me than I am with being a proper manager. This is something I'm working on as this type of behavior is beginning to blow up in my face.

It's been a year and a half since I last got my hair colored. I had it darkened to brown a month before Violet was born so I wouldn't have to worry about maintaining it in the first few months of her life. Then I realized how much money I'd been wasting on blonde hair and just kept on with the brown. I like the brown well enough, but I just don't feel like myself. This feels like me. Except that is high maintenance hair and I'm over that. Over caring so much about a stupid hair color, over spending that much for a stupid hair color.

But I haven't felt like myself in such a long time. My body has changed, my hair is grayish brown and I have this acne that won't quit. Although I'm trying to save money I realized it all means nothing if I feel like shit every day. Feeling like shit doesn't just affect me. It affects Serge, how I relate to him, how I treat others and basically how I conduct myself throughout the day. Oh, it may be subtle. I may go months and months without consciously acknowledging it but it's always there dragging me down.

So yesterday I decided to color my hair for the first time in more than a year. I drove up to Salt Lake City and sat for three hours while my stylist (who I adore and who has always done a great job in the past) wrapped my head in foils. I'm no dummy, I brought a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and Jennifer Aniston to illustrate the shade of dark blonde I was after. You know what I'm talking about: dark blonde, some honey tones and a few blonde wispies here and there.

My hair looks exactly the same. Oh, I can tell she colored it upon close inspection, but overall, it looks the same. Because my hair is long and thick it generally requires there times the amount of color the average woman requires so I end up paying through the nose. She charged me $125 (which is still half what those hair rapists charged in New York City) and I tipped her $25. A grand total of $150 for my mom not even to notice that I colored my hair. She did say my hair sucked up the toner more than she expected and that it should lighten after a few washes. So I didn't say anything about how it looked darker than I expected, I just tipped her and left.

As I drove home I dialed Serge to rage about how upset I was. When I arrived home he took one look at me and said "Oh I like it. It definitely looks darker." Poor sweet soul, only trying to be helpful. "DARKER?!" I raged. "I paid $150 to look like this!" I banged down a magazine picture of Jennifer Aniston's blondish hair. "I was going for lighter!" Serge was smart enough to shut up after that.

Here I sit, post lecture from mom and Serge about how I need to call up the salon and make her redo my hair. Honestly, I'd rather eat a bowl of toenail clippings and milk for breakfast. Serge's toenail clippings, even. Because as much as I know that I paid good money for something I didn't get, I dread even more being the whiny complainer who will then feel so awkward every time I visit the stylist for so much as a trim.

So I need your help. I will do what you tell me. Here is a before photo. Sorry it's not a better shot, but for reasons described above, I haven't been very into photographing myself lately.

Hold on, let me try and find a better before photo... This is all I could find which is strangely indicative of how I've felt about myself. I used to be into snapping shots of myself all the time. Makes me kind of sad now that I realize there aren't that many photos of me and Violet. Okay, yeah, so here's another before.

Here is the after photo:

AM I A PASSIVE WUSSY? HELP!

La Famiglia

2010-03-07T14:40:34Z

Baby On The Brain

2010-03-05T03:50:34Z

I guess I don't mind telling you that I want another baby.

Like, now.

There is no spring chicken-ness in these here bones. In fact, by Utah standards, I should be welcoming my first grandchild right about now. I often think about a high school friend of mine who got pregnant at sixteen. Her baby is sixteen now! I found him on Facebook and everything. A girl I know has a sixteen year old. Whoa. Heavy. I guess I also don't mind telling you that I am exuberantly participating in the sorts of activities that lead one down the path of eventually having another baby. You know, Serge and I are holding hands when we nap. And stuff.

Serge and I have been engaged in this unprotected, willy nilly, freewheeling, procreating type of behavior since January. Which means I have officially ovulated two times without getting pregnant. Yes, I got my period today and cried. I know, I know. Some people try this procreating type of behavior for years without seeing results. It will happen in due time, but I can't help it, I get all foot stamp-y and impatient. I have a plan, dammit! Twice before in life I got knocked up on a dime so this? This waiting? It isn't part of my plan!

It is admittedly fairly humorous to contemplate the cartwheels I turned in my youth in order to avoid pregnancy. Dreaded pregnancy. All the trying over the years NOT to get pregnant. I always figured I was a fertile, Mormon bunny, a wide-hipped, birthing machine. BUILT FOR PROCREATIN'. I mean, I had sex with my underwear on (you know, Mormon style) and got pregnant at seventeen for crying out loud... And now, when I want it more than anything, I may be forced into all this taking of temperature to determine ovulation and so forth. That karma, she's a bitch, ain't she? Or maybe my lady parts got tired of waiting around for sexy time and have begun to shrivel, who knows?

I know folks are generally fairly secretive about whether they're trying for a baby and once pregnant they don't like to share until they're at least three months along but it doesn't bother me to tell you these things. Hellfire, you will be privy to whatever occurs anyway. So all aboard the pregnancy train, y'all! WOOOO WOOOOO!

As Serge and I did the ol' Violet shuffle this afternoon, me on my way to work while he is heading home from work, he mentioned he was stopping at the store to buy juice for Violet, so I asked him to pick me up a box of tampons. Every husband's dream, right? But he's a trooper, my fella, and dutifully asked me to describe the box. The big, blue box, I told him. Says Tampax in big letters and there is a rainbow of colors indicating super aborbency, regular and lite. Get me the box with all three. The menstruatin' combo pack, if you will.

Also, is it just me or doesn't light really seem lighter when spelled L-I-T-E? It's just so airy it could float.

About an hour later my cell rings during the afternoon editorial meeting at work. We're all huddled around the anchor desk discussing the top stories of the day here in Utah, U.S.A and which reporter will be assigned to what story. This one gets the Hey! Lets Make Abortions Illegal Bill, that one gets the Mitt Romney Interview that's sure to draw 'em in like flies on shit. Utahns love their Jell-O and Mitt Romney, and not necessarily in that order. And those are actual stories today, people. The news in Utah does not disappoint. It's exactly what you'd think it would be.

I usually don't answer my cell during these work meetings but Violet's been really sick and when I saw it was Serge calling I worried something may be wrong.
"Hello?" I whispered. "I'm in the meeting, people are looking at me".
"Oh. Sorry." Serge whispered back. Why was he whispering, I wondered then realized he was unconsciously whispering because I was whispering. "I just need to know if I have the right box. It's blue, right?"
"Yeah." I mumbled. "Big, blue box." I glanced around at my coworkers. "It should have, like, an orange, yellow and green splash of color across the box. Or maybe it's yellow, green and purple. Anyway, you'll see the words super absorbency and regular..." My voice trailed off as I noticed my producer, Whitney, looking at me.
"Yes. YES! I HAVE THE RIGHT ONE!" Serge stage whispered as if he'd just won the lottery.
"Okay then, gotta go." I hung up and proceeded to giggle my way through the rest of the meeting as I pictured my grizzly bear of a husband strolling grocery aisles, holding our sweet pea and a box of tampons, furtively whispering into his cell about super absorbency. Nearly makes up for getting the damned period in the first place.

Patience Personified

2010-03-03T16:32:15Z