It doesn't get much better than this...

The genetic counselor called.
The baby's screening came back perfectly normal.
It's a girl.
Her name is Vivian Mae.

Gratitude doesn't begin to describe it. Neither does joy.
For Husband, for this baby, for our families, for my life, for all of it... I am completely and overwhelmingly joyfully grateful.

I could not ask for more.

:)

Damn Husband with his stupid logic...

Email to Husband:
I want her!!!
http://search.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=8557550


Husband's Reply:
What are you doing on this unapproved website? Get back to work! ;)

Me:
Silly Husband!
I am not that easily diverted!
WANT. THAT. KITTY.
Dammit.

Husband:
Ummmm...Not trying to point out the obvious, but we are about to have another baby running around the house. Not to mention the cat and nearly 200 lbs of dog. We might already be at full capacity. Maybe.

Me:
Full capacity? I think not.
Besides, I am just trying to restore order and balance to our home. We have
two of us, we have two dogs, we plan to have two kids... we need TWO CATS.
See? Give it up- duality is ingrained in our Western way of thinking.
Resistance is futile.

Husband:
But we don't have two kids yet. You see MBM (that's my-baby-momma), this duality that you yearn for is a process. An ongoing transition. We can't expect to achieve it immediately. Be patient, Grasshopper. One day you will find the duality you seek.

I'm going to catch hell from someone for this...

As a parent-to-be, I know it’s dangerous to say “I will NEVER (insert parental action here) to my kids!” Like “I will NEVER call the Wiggles a God-awful band of narcissistic merchandising whores in front of my kids!” Wait… that’s probably a poor example. I can’t even pretend I have any intention of honoring that one.
We’ve all heard parents proclaim their high ideals for handling the wee lil’ buggers- only to find later that the wicked realities of parenthood are undoing their good intentions. Live and learn and then give them the damn binkie.
But I am willing to put this declaration of parental policy on record with the Internet because we all know that’s about as good as telling God herself.
I.WILL. NEVER. PIERCE. MY. BABY’S. EARS.
Got that? Never. Ever. Not in a million bazillion years. What the hell kind of parent does that to a baby? Most of the mothers and fathers I know leave those first pediatrician’s visits in tears themselves after their little one cries and cries with every immunization. It’s agonizing to see their baby in pain, but you do what you have to do to prevent them from… oh, DYING. And yet some of those same parents will hop up on a chair in a boutique at the mall to inflict an even thicker needle in an even more sensitive part of the body on their kiddo FOR VANITY. And not even the kid’s own chosen expression of vanity- their own screwed up superficial bullshit need to make their already perfect child “cute”. Why this form of abuse (yes, I said it, abuse) is even legal, I do not know. I’m sorry, but punching holes in your child’s body with no anesthesia for no damn good reason is an awful thing to do. You have to squelch the urge to clobber that kid at playgroup who pinches them, but you’ll do this to them on purpose? For shits and giggles?
Pierce your own ears but leave that poor baby alone. She'll want to do it on her own soon enough anyway- then you can say "I told you so" when she cries. I know it's delayed gratification, but that should be enough to satisfy the Barbie-sadist parents, right?
Yeesh.

This wasn't in my Webster's.....

My new favorite word:

“clitzpah”- meaning strength or bravery or daringness directly related to being female

Some folks in the feminist blogging world came up with this one. They got tired of people using “ballsy” for being nervy- and thereby implying that it was a male trait. Sure, women could be ballsy, but by tying the language to testicles, you create sexist language and give men theoretical ownership on the characteristic.

So another feminist blogger suggested “clitty” to replace ballsy. It’s fine, I suppose, but it doesn’t really roll off the tongue. (Insert crude jokes and imagery here.) And then a Jewish feminist suggested “clitzpah” as a feminista’s take on chutzpah.

I.love.it.

Wait for it....

I am at that point where I am pregnant enough that none of my regular clothes fit, but I don't necessarily need maternity clothes. But I am too cheap to buy an entirely new set of "in-between" clothes in a larger size. So I busted out the maternity jeans this week. True, wearing a belly panel this early in the game is a little depressing at moments, but I'm comfortable, dammit. And trust me when I say you need me in the best mood possible these days.

But the maternity jeans, they don't make a gal feel particularly sexy... but leave it to Husband... my "glass-half-full" guy....

*Sliding his hands down the back of the jeans*

Husband: Mmmm... maternity jeans.... easy access! All right!

Me: Leave it to you to find the sexy upside to MATERNITY JEANS.

*Pause*

Husband: This is going to wind up on your blog isn't it?

Me: Oh, totally. Yeah.

Husband *still groping in the jeans*: I figured.

Me: We're not having sex now.

Husband: I figured.

Hello? Social Services?

We are truly nice people.
Just not very BRIGHT people.
There are some days when I am truly afeared for our poor child.
Case in point:

*As Husband and I are settling into bed…*

Me: Hey, I think that bag of jelly beans is on the counter. It’s rolled up and at the back of the counter… but do you think we should go down and move it? What if Bleu wants a snack?

Husband: Hmm….nah, I don’t think they’ll mess with it.

Me: *half asleep already* Yeah… and worst case, they’ll just poo in technicolor for a day or two.

Husband: Exactly.

*Next morning- Husband has gone downstairs*

Husband: *calling upstairs* Hey Honey….. remember how I told you they wouldn’t mess with those jelly beans?

Me: Were you wrong?

Husband: No…I was right… they didn’t mess with the jelly beans…

Me: Crap. What DID they mess with?

Husband: Nothing… just that ENTIRE BAG OF DOG TREATS we left out too…

See? Told you. Not that bright. But oh-so attractive. And humble.

We're auditioning for foster parents. For the dogs AND the kid. If you think you can keep them reasonably clean and not let the kid have an entire bag of sugar donuts at 11 p.m.- please call. You're already ahead of us.

Hey, anybody know how to construct a safe crib from a Dell computer box?

Of Dogs, Donuts, & Parental Paranoia

As documented in my masthead, one of my great guilty pleasures in this world is a bag of those little sweet sixteen powdered sugar donuts. (They can’t really be called doughnuts- they’re donuts.) I love them. I do not share them. Husband made a special early Sunday morning trip to Publix for them just to cease my progesterone-induced bitching.
As documented at the end of this post, we have also learned that our newest doggie can and will help himself to things on the kitchen counter.
Do you see where this might be going?
I came downstairs around 11:00 last night (long story- got tired of listening to Husband’s stomach growl). In the half-light, I caught a glimpse of some kind of debris on the kitchen floor. Pushing past my ogres- er… dogs, I turned on the light.
Scattered far and wide across the linoleum were… PIECES OF THE SWEET SIXTEEN DONUT BAG! *GASP*
And nary a donut to be had. Not one scrap. My 80-some-odd-pound monsters had consumed every last bit. There wasn’t even any powdered sugar on the floor. (Daisy did have a touch on her snoot- tres cute!) There they sat, all waggy tails and happy faces. (I mean, of course they were happy. I’d be happy too if I’d happened upon HALF A BAG OF SWEET SIXTEEN DONUTS at 11:00! )
Let us please note that the beasts could have partaken of a number of other human foodstuffs on the counter including club crackers, raw potatoes, spinach wraps, and chai green tea. Those items were untouched, pristine in their wrappers without so much as a slobber spot.
The damn dogs have good taste.
Dorks.
I called Husband downstairs- we had a little laugh and a shake of our heads while we cleaned up the carnage. We wondered if the pups would eat breakfast in the morning. And we went to bed.
Fast forward to five-thirty this morning. I sat bolt upright in the bed and said to Husband
“I just had a thought.”
Husband (drooling & half-asleep): Whaa….?
Me: OMG, I hope they didn’t eat the little flexy-metal thing that holds the bag closed!
Husband: Who…? Ate wha…? The 18 year… on the rocks, please…
Me (getting out of bed): That thing! On the donut bag! It’s METAL! It could perf their intestines! I didn’t see it last night- did you see it? I have to go check! Is that magnet with the emergency vet number still on the fridge? Maybe it was under their beds- I didn’t check there. You don’t think they’d eat it, right? Can well call your Mom this early?
Husband (following me): *mutter* might as well get my ass up…. *grumble* alarm goes off in 15 minutes…. *mutter mutter* damn dogs … *grumble grumble*… f____ing tired…
And there, in the trash, still attached to the top of the bag, was the metal flexy thing that holds the bag shut.
Damn dogs. Good thing they're so cute.
We are SO ready to be parents.

Tinky Winky say "Buh-Bye!"

Oh, Jerry, Jerry, Jerry….
I will never rejoice in someone else’s death. It’s unkind and mean-spirited, things I endeavor not to be. Besides, no matter how awful of a hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit you were, you were somebody’s Uncle/Daddy/Grandpa hypocritical hate-mongering self-righteous piece of shit. Those folks are hurting because you’re gone. I don’t like to see anyone hurt… even right wing freaks. (Well, maybe a little...)
And while I won’t rejoice in Falwell’s death, there is a little part of me that’s wondering how the trip to the other side went for ol’ Jer. I imagine it went something like this:

St. Peter: Welcome to the afterlife! What was your name in creation?

Falwell: Why, you should know me! I’m Reverend Jerry Falwell! And I am here to live eternally in the grace and glory of the Lord! I have done his work on Earth- I fought the gays and the feminists and the Teletub-

St. Peter: Right. Right. Falwell, you said?

Falwell: Yes, REVEREND Falwell. Will I be fitted for wings right away? ‘Cause I brought a nice gilded set that Pat Robertson gave me…

St. Peter: Uh… not exactly. Reverend, would you do me a favor? Just stand by these elevators right here- the ones with all “down” buttons.

Falwell: Down buttons? You’re sending me back? Is this a near-death experience? That’s perfect! Think of the testimony!

St. Peter: You might want to leave that suit here- wool is probably not your best choice of fabrics.

Falwell: Well, fine. I’m normally opposed to nudity of any kind, but I understand. I shall re-enter the world as I first came into it… stripped bare, a perfect and innocent creation, washed clean by faith!

St. Peter: Is that tie flame-retardant?

Falwell: What?

St. Peter: How 'bout the toupee? Will that melt?

Falwell: Melt? Wha- I don't... surely....

St. Peter: Any sulfur allergies?

Falwell: Shit.

St. Peter: Yeah…

Mothers' Day

A woman I know, a very kind, wonderful woman, recently married late in life and was eager to start a family. This lady was very thoughtful in how she approached me after Cecilia’s birth. She was heartbroken for me, for Husband.
Last week, the docs told this good woman she is going through menopause. Her children will not be born of her body. Her age (and her husband’s age) mean she faces a long road to adopting.
I have been through loss, but not the kind of loss she is facing. I know what it is to have nature break your heart, but I do not know what it is to have your hope taken from you. Even at the bottom of our grief, we had “the next time” to look forward to. We knew another child would never replace Cecilia, but at least we could expect there would be another child.
When you start to seek support for pregnancy loss, you inevitably find yourself among people for whom loss and infertility are, unfortunately, a way of life. I took their stories and their frustrations to heart, hoping to learn something and become a better friend, a better person. I wish I could thank all of them today, because I think I may have done right by this nice lady.

I DID NOT do any of the following:
I didn’t say “oh, it’s ok- you can just adopt!”
I didn’t tell her the miracle story of some friend-of-a-roomate’s-relative who conceived against all odds.
I didn’t tell her it was “God’s will” and she should just trust in that.
I didn’t tell her I knew how she felt.

I DID do these things:
I gave her a huge hug.
I told her I was sorry.
I acknowledged her loss, and that she’d need to grieve.
I offered my office as a refuge if she needed to escape the cube farm for a good cry.
I gave her another huge hug.

And then I went home that night and hugged Husband. And we took a moment to realize that even after all that happened with our first pregnancy, we are truly fortunate. Our memories of Cecilia will always be bittersweet and she will always be in our hearts. But she will not be the end of our family- she will not be our only child. Hope and Cecilia’s sibling are growing inside of me.

Happy Mothers Day to all the women who are mothers in their hearts even when nature has other ideas for their bodies. May the world treat you with the same respect and kindness we afford all mothers on this day- and perhaps with a little more for your journey.

A Funny Thing Happened When I Peed on a Stick

Some of the people who read my blog love me dearly and care about the most intimate details of my life. Some of them do not- they’re here for the witty commentary (shut up- this is my world!) and random rants.

The first lesson of corporate training is KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE! (The second is check your fly.) So this blog shall remain my usual fragmented diatribes.

But you should know that I am pregnant. Let’s pause for some answers to the obvious questions:
Yes, me. Pregnant.
Yes, the state plans to let me keep the child.
No, I will not name it after you or your company.
Yes, it’s Husband’s baby.
No, I will not post video of the conception.

Ahem. As I was saying, I’m going to try to keep most of the pregnancy updates off this page, except for the occasional rant about how the world inconveniences pregnant women. Those are fair game for their general subject matter. But the details, the cutesy crap, will go on here:
http://babybonk.blogspot.com/
Family and friends, this is your spot for regular updates, ultrasound pictures, and other baby-related information.

But let me know offer my deepest and most humble apologies for not updating LL&VT more often. See, I’m pregnant and I’m sick and my Mom reads this from time to time which renders most of the language I would use to describe the world right now off limits.

But I will say this.
To the f***stick asswipe guy who took my parking space at jury duty yesterday:
I hope you get a rotten case of the crabs from a hooker who turns out to have a d*** and you go to a doctor who accidentally gives you laxatives instead of the antibiotic and you get stuck in horrendous traffic no where near an exit driving a RENTAL CAR and then you have to explain the bill for the cleanup to your demure and pure Christian wife who sends you to a dry rehab facility for sex addicts where you run into your MOTHER!

Asshole.

See? Fragmented diatribes. Business as usual.

Weirdo Wednesday

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #1:

Sitting next to me in the dermatologist’s office waiting room was a well-coiffed, perfectly made up elderly Southern woman. Think grand dame of the Junior League… probably has a house on Pawley’s Island and makes a mean mint julep before services at one of the many first baptist churches.
Anywho… they called this lady’s name and she replied with “Just one minute, darlin’, I’ve got to visit the powder room.” (Yes, powder room.) With that, our heroine stood up slowly and clacked across the waiting room with her walker.
And moseyed her refined old lady behind right into the MEN’S BATHROOM.
My first thought, of course, was gee, I hope nobody’s in there because I’m pretty sure it’s bad form to laugh your ass off at an old lady in public. Well, that and I didn’t want her to have a heart attack. ‘Cause I’m CPR certified and I’d have felt compelled to help and I was wearing a skirt and I didn’t want anyone to see my drawers while I was trying to do chest compressions. (Yes, Mom, I was wearing drawers. Clean ones.)
But apparently no one was in there. So in my continued quest to preserve my modesty (yes, Mom, I DO HAVE SOME), I stood outside the door and diverted two men who sought out the facilities while Grandma was still inside.
Our Lady of the Mint Juleps emerged a little later, and apparently hadn’t noticed her faux pas. She told the nurses “All right, ladies, I’m ready now.” And off she went through the waiting room doors to the dermatology inner sanctum.
At this point, the receptionist said quietly “I guess the urinal on the wall didn’t clue her in…” And I collapsed laughing.
Extra points to my Mom, who upon hearing this story said “You don’t know… maybe she went in there on purpose… you know…. trying to catch a little peek?”
And if she did, I say more power to her.

Weirdo Wednesday Moment #2:

I’m one of those weirdos who looks at someone’s purchases and spends a few moments analyzing/judging the person in front of me. (Shut up. You know you totally do it too.)
Last night there was young black man dressed in a construction company uniform in line in front of me. He bought this:
A whole fresh pineapple
A bottle of mineral oil
A toilet brush

Three words:
DON’T. WANNA. KNOW.

I'm not dead yet! (But the parrot is!)

Before I even start, let me say this.
Virginia Tech Faculty, Staff, Parents, & Students: I am so sorry. I cannot even imagine..
To the parents of Cho Seung-hui: I am so sorry. You’re in your own hell, I’m sure.

Blog? What blog? OH! THIS blog! Contrary to my ex’s wet dreams, I did not slide under a gas truck and taste my own blood. I am alive and well… just have been horrifically busy.
My middle sister done got herself hitched up over the weekend. I’ll regale you with the details later. For now, we will just say that it was like all the other family weddings: loud, happy, hug-laden fun. But since that post will require far more time and brain cells than I have available right now, I give you…
Ranting about random shit! With your brilliant and (might I add) TOTALLY hot host, ME!

From the “we told you so, you crazy right-wingers” file…
http://www.cnn.com/2007/EDUCATION/04/13/abstinence.study.ap/index.html
So, let’s see… you gave the government $175 million to tell kids “Don’t have sex of any kind until you’re married… because it’s morally correct… and we said so… trust us!” And then it required a government-funded study to establish that this methodology didn’t work? I tell you what… you could have spent $3.75 on a venti latte and obtained the same information from any semi-realistic parent of a teenager. Know what figures I’d like to see? The total amount that will be shelled out to deal with the unwanted pregnancies and STIs of these undereducated kids. My favorite part is the leader of the Abstinence Education Group discounting the study because it was done when the programs were “in their infancy”. (Does anyone else find that expression funny here?) Anyone ever won a game with a kid only to hear “but… but…. I wasn’t ready!”

People, when will we let go of our Puritanical discomfort and start TALKING ABOUT SEX with kids? And I mean really talking about it, not just lecturing on an antiquated model like abstinence and then only wanting to think or hear about the “right” answers (the ones we’re comfortable with) from our kids. When I am Empress of the Universe, we will hand out birth control pills and condoms with locker combinations. We will start in 5th and 6th grade teaching that masturbation is a healthy and age-appropriate form of sexual expression. We will gift every 14 year-old girl with a vibrator. (Seriously! How much fun will the fumblings of a 14 y.o. boy seem like if she’s spent time with the Rabbit Pearl?) Better yet, I’ll just hire the folks at Good Vibes to run the whole shebang. (HA! Shebang… LOL) They know more than I do. Then we’ll raise kids who have some degree of knowledge about their bodies and the human reproductive system, which means they will be far less likely to get pregnant or diseased. OH, and then guess what else? They also won’t come up thinking sex is dirty and bad and related to hellfire, so maybe they’ll TALK TO THEIR OWN KIDS ABOUT SEX. We are not just laying the groundwork for these kids lives, but for their children as well. Clearly cramming the moral agenda down their throats isn’t working.

I think the epitome of all this prudish bullshit is the hysteria over Guardasil. Let me see, asshole-right-wing parents, you are willing to risk your daughter’s LIFE because you don’t want to have a short, highly clinical conversation about HPV? How incredibly f***ed up do you have to be to refuse something that may prevent your child from DYING just to avoid entertaining the notion that your child may one day have sex? And people, we’re not even talking about having to acknowledge premarital sex! Your baby girl may preserve herself in sweet holy chastity until her wedding day and STILL wind up with HPV thanks to an undereducated or philandering husband or (God forbid) a sexual assault. I’m sorry, but parents who argue against making this vaccine part of the immunization cycle because it might “encourage” sexual activity are squeamish, selfish, prudish, ignorant assholes. (And they’re TOTALLY asking for their kid to join a live sex show in Amsterdam, might I add…) This is not about what it might “enourage”, but about conversations and concessions these people can’t handle. Their comfort level does not trump their child’s right to health. Your child will one day be a sexual being. And that includes risks. You have an opportunity to eliminate one of those risks for them. What the hell kind of parent objects to that?

All right… new rant. This one containing absolutely no brand-specific vibrator references whatsoever. (Oh thank God, sayeth my father!)

I work in corporate training. I like teaching/training people. I enjoy it, I truly do.

I hate teaching people to teach.

It’s called “train-the-trainer” in our professional circles and frankly, it sucks. There are several reasons I do not like doing this:
1. The trainers you are trying to teach usually believe that training is stupidly easy and anyone of their lofty intelligence can do it instinctively sans preparation. (Hello? And you pay me for what? My great lasagna recipe?) Seriously, most of them think that effective teaching requires no more than subject matter expertise and org-chart-sanctioned authority.
2. They never read the materials you give them. NEVER. I could insert several paragraphs describing my nefarious plan to destroy all the birds of Earth and to build a giant intergalactic gazebo over the planet blocking out the sun and then laugh maniacally as the smug gardening people cannot keep their precious plants alive… muah ha ha ha ha! You won’t be giving me fun little green thumb tips anymore, WILL YOU??? Stupid happy plant peop-… oh my… sorry. But really, I could put it all in there. They’d never notice.
3. Most people who want to provide training don’t have the personality to do it. You think this kind of sparkling effervescence and wit is handed out to everyone? Puh-lease. It’s a professional commodity- like J. Lo’s booty.

My latest endeavor involves training a few members of senior management to provide diversity training at the field offices. Oy. Motherf***ing. Vay. Several of them are excellent- they’ll facilitate beautifully and the program will be wonderful. Several of them will suck at it and will come back to complain that the program we selected wasn’t effective AT ALL. Unfortunately, most of the folks receiving the training won’t make the distinction beween crappy trainer/training correctly either. Whut-evah!

As my amazing Grandma likes to say, there’s no use arguing with the once-born.

Oh, and here's two fun facts courtesy of our new friend Bleu.
1. The time it takes for an 80-pound lab to reach and eat the 1/2 a pie you left on your kitchen counter is about 3 seconds less than the time it takes for you to make it down the stairs.
2. An 80-pound lab can consume up to 10 oz. of baking chocolate without serious health consequences, but 2 ounces in a pie is enough to make for a few nasty surprises in the backyard.

Ciao, dollies!

It's a Boy! Mazel Tov!

2 soft-hearted doggy parents
+ 1 large dog-friendly SUV
+ 1 busy road
+ 1 dirty, hungry, but VERY sweet black lab
+ 1 visit to the vet for shots and a bath
=
A new happy family!

Everyone, meet Bleu, our newest addition to the House O’ Crazy!

Bleu, would you like to introduce yourself?

Hi, I’m Bleu! I’m a laid back sweet boy with good manners and a soft heart. I love to eat and to spend a nice warm summer day laying on the dec---- OH MY GOD! IS THAT A BALL??? BALL!!! BALL!!! THROW IT, PUH-LEEEEEEEASE!!!!!
Oh, sorry… it was just your empty hand. Coulda’ sworn it was a ball. Anywho… I’m Bleu and I’m two years old, give or take. I’ll be spending some time loping ‘round the back yard with my sister, Daisy. She’s a great friend… I sure do wish she’d quite trying to hump me, though… On the 19th, I’m going back to see the nice ladies at the vet to get “fixed”. I don’t know what needs to be fixed, but if it feels as good as that bath they gave me- TREAT!! THAT WAS A TREAT!!! PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE GIVE ME THE TREAT!!!
Oh, crap… sorry… your hand again.

*Ahem* I think that’s enough from Bleu right now. So we’re a family of five: us, Bleu, Daisy, and Bob. I’d love to have a family picture, but Bob is claiming conscientious objection. I don’t think she really knows what that means, but I’m not calling her bluff because somebody keeps leaving my dictionary of pop culture out…

The Progesterone Prayer

Dear Lord Baby Jesus:

I am trying hard to follow your teachings- to treat all of your children with the same love and compassion you would have shown them and to banish hatred and anger from my heart.

But Lord… verily, I say unto thee… I could use a little help. How about starting up a gal’s period before one of your dumber children meets with a bloody, untimely end?

Your humble, but very bloated, servant,

ME

Announcing the first Pink Velour Cake Award!

Life, Liberty, & Vodka Tonics is proud to introduce a new semi-regular feature:

The Pink Velour Cake Award!

Long-time readers will recall my attempts at making red velvet cake, which resulted in the affectionately nicknamed pink velour cake.

Exhibit A: Crap on a Cake Plate

And so, dear friends, LL&VT will now be awarding the Pink Velour Cake Award for excellence in culinary disaster!

This week’s recipient is my sister’s friend and coworker, Liz, for her amazing expanding meatloaf. Behold…

What’s that you ask? How can something as simple as meatloaf go so horribly wrong?

As I understand it, the meatloaf had a sort of allergic reaction to the topping- swelling up like spray insulation. It seems this particular meatloaf recipe involves Grape Nuts cereal and those little nuggets can expand mighty fast. Do you remember those little capsules we got as kids- you’d drop them into hot water and ten minutes later have a dinosaur shaped sponge? Kind of like that, only apparently quite delicious. (Which I totally believe… because the recipe has THREE POUNDS OF MEAT in it- how can that NOT be scrumptious???)

Anywho- mazel tov, Liz! You are our very first Pink Velour Cake Award winner!

Want to nominate yourself or someone you know for a Pink Velour Cake Award? Just send an email describing the dish, what went wrong, any hilarioius hijinks associated with the creation of the dish, and (preferably) a photo of the disaster in jpeg format. Send submissions to lifelibertyandvodkatonics@yahoo.com. LL&VT reserves the right to reject entries that are boring, sucky, or appear to have been sent by Republicans.

**LL&VT would like to remind you that this award does not come with any cash value, prizes, or any other redeeming qualities. The Pink Velour Cake Award is not suitable for résumés. LL&VT is not liable for any injuries or damages incurred while celebrating this award with alcohol consumption.

NSB 1967-2007

I’ve sort of been at a loss for what to say here lately.
A woman I worked with reasonably closely was laid off Friday before last.
She died of a heart attack the following Wednesday.
She had three children.
She was 39.

Her death has really thrown me for a loop, which I find surprising. She and I didn’t socialize outside of work and we weren’t terribly close. But there was a kind of kinship between us- we were the loud, outspoken, ballsy broads who tangled with V.D. on a regular basis. She was my partner in bitchy crime. Only she was braver than I was and less concerned with being polite. I never saw her intimidated by anyone. Her abject refusal to give a flying f*** what anyone thought about her might have lost her some professional respect on occasion, but she was unapologetically honest and never tolerated someone trying to disrespect her. She called a spade a f***ing spade. Sure, she was extreme and probably needed to tone it down and “play the game” a bit. But she didn’t. And she didn’t care. And it was what I admired about her most. Being around her made me stronger and more sure of myself. She was an enabler for my inner bitch, God bless her. I’m finding it hard to believe that someone who was not only so young, but such a force, such a powerful person, is now gone.

I should mention, too, that she was absolutely irreverently hilarious. And passionately committed to her kids. That was the thing about her- she was tough and blunt and forceful. But she also had a heart of gold and would fight things that weren’t right in a skinny minute. And then she’d come into my office and we’d have a good laugh about it all. I will miss her laugh and her passion. I will miss how brave I was around her.

I think the best way I can honor her is to be that brave ballsy woman more often. And so I will. For her, you know. You can’t disrespect the dead.

So vaya con dios, my strong woman friend. I am a better person for having worked with you. Give ‘em hell up there.

A Death in the Family

This afternoon, a great tragedy has befallen our little household.


the PS2 has gone to the great GameStop in the sky... *SNIFF*

A moment of silence, please.


Husband is distraught, seeing as he resigned from his old job yesterday and they declined his offer to work a notice. So he has a full week to kill before the new job begins. A full WEEK. With NO PS2! And a new Tiger Woods golf game! Oh, the humanity!



In other news, the updates have been slow because I am fighting off the plague. The so-called medical professionals say it's bronchitis, but my money's on the black death. Or in my case, the yellowy-green death, since that's the color of the stuff I've been hacking up. (You're hot for me now, aren't you?) I went to the doc on Monday convinced I just really needed something stronger than Claritin for my allergies, but the kind nurse quickly informed me that allergies don't generally come with a 101.2 degree fever. Huh... go figure. Note to self: next time you hack up your pancreas, take your temperature and get to the doc sooner.

Wild and sort of scary times at work. The W reign of terror has caused money troubles for Medicare and it's contractors. Jobs have been lost and in the end, crooks will take your Medicare trust fund dollars. So way to go, guys! And did you see this business with Gonzales and the US attorneys? Seriously... would someone please just blow W so we can end this already???

God is good! (And pissed at Ann Coulter.)

Dear Lord,
I know it is wrong to rejoice in other people’s troubles. I know I should not feel good when someone I do not like falls upon difficult times. In my heart, I know it is wrong to enjoy the slow demise of someone’s career, even when they bring it upon themselves with their own hatefulness and ignorance. So, Lord, please forgive that little happy dance in my bathrobe this morning when one of the newscasters opened with “conservatives are distancing themselves from Ann Coulter…”. And please know that I am trying hard to be repentant for hollering “take that, beeyatch!” when I saw this.

It is because of her hatefulness and ignorance, Lord, that I cannot help but think that perhaps you, in your infinite wisdom, are smiting Ann Coulter. I realize that it is not my place to judge her, Lord, but is it wrong for me to agree when you do? If thou hast seen fit to punish Ann Coulter by depriving her of the right-wing approval she so craves, then what can I do but rejoice knowing that you are just and fair? Surely, in thine eyes, my faith in your judgment of the wicked outweighs my smug sense of vengeance.

If you are smiting Ann Coulter, Lord, then yea, truly and verily, I say unto you, WAY TO KICK SOME MORTAL ASS! And please don’t smite me for thinking so. I promise, I really am trying to be contrite about it.

Praise be to the kind and gracious God who gave us Jesus, Thin Mints, and Ann Taylor.
AMEN.

Meredith F***ing Viera, AGAIN.

Dear God, I cannot stand that woman.

Meredith had a serious news piece (*snort*) this morning on "hooking up". Seems some young woman has written a book about sex-only relationships and young women, etc. etc. The piece itself was garbage that seemed to be aimed at alarming parents of young girls, as usual.

They had some "expert" on with her as well who kept insisting that it was sooo troubling that love and relationships were being left out of this discussion. You know, 'cause healthy grown women have to have those things- they couldn't possibly choose just to have some crazy mad screw for the hell of it . She also told us that hooking up is VERY different and much worse than the free love of her 60s generation because that had "love" in it and it was a "political statement". Uh-huh. Oh, I should mention that the so-called expert was wearing Melissa's boots and haircut, but she was about 70. Note to expert: the young hip subtlety sexy thing works on a 30-something hot mama. Kind of ridiculous on someone with AARP eligibility.

But I digress. My point was that Meredith's parting shot for the segment was to ask this hard-hitting journalistic tour de force:
"What about that old saying ... you know... why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"
And then my brain exploded. No, seriously.... did she JUST SAY THAT? Did this supposed pro-woman news anchor just perpetuate a horribly sexist cliche comparing a woman to a FARM ANIMAL and implying a woman's value is diminished by lack of sexual purity???? You heard it from Meredith, gals- don't give it away or you won't land yourself a good man!

OH.MY.GOD.
I never thought I'd say this, but please, for the love of God, bring back Katie!!!!! For that matter, get ANYONE ELSE except this woman! How much longer will this kind of inane misogynistic bullshit be tolerated as actual journalism? Is she supposed to pull in that 20-30-something female demographic? 'Cause I'm betting comparing us to defiled cattle isn't the way to go.

Call me Ishmyelle...

Husband and I have a running collection of stripper names. You know… names that inspire thoughts of mirrored walls and the perpetual smell of French vanilla. Seriously! You know it’s true- some kids have names that just instinctively suggest they will be paying their electric bill with singles. Here are some examples:
Destiny
Jade
Cheyenne
Rainn
Sierra
Shawna
Tristan

Other names that qualify are attempts at unique spellings of relatively normal names. They often start with a K rather than a C or they replace the Y on the end with EE, etc. etc. For instance:
Kamryn
Kristal
Destinee
Ebonee
Jewyl
Rayne

We were watching the “Birthday Board” on the local morning news today and there was a 1-year-old baby girl named… TAMRYN. I’m sure Little Tamryn will have hours of fun with the Fisher-Price “My First Pole”.

And behold! Once again, the great almighty Internet shall provide for all our needs!
A Quiz to Learn Your Secret Stripper Name

My secret stripper name? Gigi, apparently. Only I would spell it JiJi.

Comments are open- share your favorite stripper name, Blogites!