Regular irregularity

Tomorrow will see the Rivetermobile packed up and heading west.

We're going to attempt the highly dangerous (at least to one's sanity and marriage), death-defying "drive it all in one day" feat.

800 miles, one 6-year old, one goat-smelling 15-year old (who is going to be doing some of the driving), one crabby, generally unpleasant 36-year old and one worn down by his shrew of a wife 46-year old, one portable DVD player, two iPods, two seasons of the Simpsons and a giant bag of sunflower seeds ... you think we'll be able to make it?

Or I guess the better question is, do you think we'll be able to make it intact?

The Magic 8 Ball says, "Outlook not good."

I take that as a good sign.

I don't know how much blogging I am going to be able to do. My mom has dial-up ... I know, dial up. Who has dial-up anymore? And the crazy thing is that she pays for a whole other phone line ... but her computer is too old to get broadband. The Mac fairy needs to visit her.

We're taking Bill's laptop in hopes of being able to scam off someone's wireless.

Think good thoughts for us ... we're gonna need 'em.

California, I'm coming home

Well, sort of. We're going to Truckee, which isn't where I grew up, but it's where my parents now live. But we're going to California — I have that Joni Mitchell song running through my head now.

We're leaving Saturday. Driving ... across Utah, across Nevada and its crystally salt flats.

I've driven those roads many times. I-70 west, through the high desert to Hwy. 6 in Green River, Utah. North to Salt Lake City. Then west on 80 until we run right into Truckee which sits nestled in the Sierra Nevadas.

The mountains. That's what we called the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range where we spent most of our summer vacations ... in the mountains, away from the bustle of the city, removed from traffic and pavement.

The rush of the river that flowed along side the campground where we spent those many summer weeks, that's the sound that I still find calming. The smell of the campfire, the pine needles in my socks, the pinecones in my pocket, the skipping rocks I could never get to skip, panning for gold, walking around the campground after dark.

Now I live in Colorado, a place where many hate Californians (or Californicators, as they like to say). But they hate Texans, too, so I don't feel so singled out.

My mom grew up in Southeastern Colorado, Canon City to be exact. She moved to California when she was 18. My dad has never lived anywhere but California. He lived him whole life in the Bay Area until he retired and moved to the mountains.

I never thought I would leave the Bay Area and now I doubt I'll ever move back.

Band birthdays

There are lots of cool things about being in a band and a bunch more cool things about being in an all-girl band.

One of the cool, girl things we do is we make a point of celebrating our birthdays.

Here we all are at the Rockslide last night celebrating KP's (aka Kelley, our singer) birthday.
Yeah, we're pretty cute.

Kelley asked me if I would join her in performing and I happily obliged — I mean, it was her birthday and I had the opportunity to play some music. What better way is there to spend a Tuesday night? Bridgett joined in on the congas which really filled out the sound.
Check out that guitar I'm playing. It's an aluminum Martin. My acoustic electric was acting up, so one of the other musicians lent me his guitar ... I didn't realize at the time I was playing a $1,300 guitar.

Damn, what if I fell off the stool and broke the thing ... oh yeah, it's made out of aluminum. It proly would've been OK, unless I knocked the head off or broke the neck. Yikes, I'm glad I didn't know that then.

It was great fun. I really do enjoy performing. I even sang a song, Peace in the Valley. It's funny because I don't get nervous much anymore, but just before I had to sing, I got a bit of stage fright, even though I've sung this song before — but with the whole band.

It went fine. The other two songs KP sang with her hauntingly beautiful voice. It was great.

After we played, KP's husband's band, Wheel, played a rousing trio of songs that got the crowd a-drinking. They are a really talented group with a fun, funk sound.
I hope it was a happy birthday for KP, because it was a fun night for me.

Girls night out

Yesterday was Margaret's actual birthday. June 26.

As much as I'd like to indulge myself by recounting, dissecting and wallowing in every detail of that fateful day 6 years ago, I'll spare y'all.

I picked up Margaret from daycare yesterday where I found her shoeless and covered in her ever-present film of dirt and grime.

She had received some birthday money from one of her grammas. Since that card came in the mail Saturday that money was burning her like a hot poker — that money mustn't be saved, it must be spent.

I gave her the choice of any store of her chosing. She wisely chose the good toystore downtown.

I let her browse for a good long time and we discussed which toys she could afford and which she couldn't. I didn't rush her or try to talk her into the learn the U.S. states card game.

She finally picked out a coloring/drawing book of animals and a new stuffed dog. She loves stuffed animals. When she goes to sleep at night, she arranges all her "guys" to her liking then she picks her favorite three or four which she clutches to her chest like they are life preservers and she's going down on the Titanic.

After we were done at the toy store, it was time to start thinking about dinner. Bill is out of town, so no one was going to be actually making dinner at home. I told Mar that she could have any thing for dinner that she wanted.

To my shock, she choose Pablo's Pizza which is a fancy, gourmet pizzeria. I was expecting McDonald's and was very pleased with her choice.

At Pablo's, I then told her that we'd get any kind of pizza she wanted.

Again I was expecting pepperoni.

But after spending some time reading the menu, she decided on their Aloha! pizza, which has Canadian bacon, shrimp, mandarin oranges and pineapple. She was very excited to be having shrimp which previously she had described as "nasty."

We had a great dinner and a nice walk around downtown.

Sometimes, I get so caught up in running from place to place that I forget to just savor the moments I have with my not-so-little girl.

Birthday Madness

My neighbor, Jenn, put it best: It's a good thing that Margaret only has one birthday a year, because I doubt I could survive another one of her parties anytime soon.

The little-girl birthday party ... it's a force to be reckoned with.

The little-girl birthday party followed by the McCracken's patented frontyard beer drinking bonanza/potluck BBQ ... is, well, almost more than I could handle.

And I do say "almost" because I did handle it. I forced myself (with every fiber of my being, I might add) to clean up almost everything and even mop the kitchen floor before I went to bed ... which was around midnight (but not before the requisite trip to Weiner dog at 11 for Bill's chili-cheese dogs).

The day started with Mar running into our room and whispering in that super loud, little-kid whisper, "It's my birthday party today."

We gave Mar her present from us before the party.
We got her this keyboard. It's kick-ass sweet and has karaoke on it, too — that's Mar singing "Falling in love with you."It was awesome. She was reading and singing at the same time and doint so with gusto. And believe me, you haven't lived until you've heard a 6-year-old sing "A hard day's night" with attitude.

She had a good time at her party. They played games. They drank sugared juice. They ate Barbie cake.
Margaret opened the many, many presents that she received.
I've seen this clustering of the kids around the birthday girl while she is opening presents before. I've yet to see an effective manner for dispelling the cluster. No manner of encouraging them to sit or stand back ever works, the lure of the present in the state of being opened is greater than the fear of having someone else's mom tell them to sit down.

This is the second year that the small keg we got was not enough and more beer had to be procured. Mar protested being forced to have another keg party, but I think all-in-all, she and everyone else had a good time.

Gross on a molecular level

My dearest Uber-husband called me just before noon today to tell me that he has lunch ready for me at home today.

He spent all morning shopping for Margaret's 6th birthday party/kegger tomorrow (she doesn't want a keg party. She wants to have a normal kid party at one of those horrendously expensive pizza or game places, but we're forcing her to have yet another keg party ... because that is the kind of parents we are).

And he was good enough to bring home chicken, beans, rolls, etc., for a nice lunch. I, of course, immediately begin to bitch about the chicken being of the chicken-on-the-bone variety.

I bitch because I am a bitch and, therefore, must bitch. It's nature's way.

And I bitch about the chicken because it looks too much like a chicken.

Yeah, I've got meat issues (along with a whole bunch of other issues, but today we're going to be discussing my meat issues). I don't like meat that looks too much like the animal it was before it was processed to be my dinner.

Meaning, if meat has too many bones or veins or a head, I'm probably not going to eat it.

Here's an example: Last year at our annual block party, Davy and Bill (mostly Davy) roasted a pig in our backyard. Apparently it was delicious. I wouldn't know. I saw its head and spine and it's lidless eyeball ... and well, you can just guess how much pork I ate.

So I bitched about the chicken on the bone and Bill made some jokes about how he was sure today was the day that I was going to quit being such a picky heifer and eat the food he'd so generously served me.

Yeah, no such luck. But the beans were good.

So after the tumult of the chicken-on-the-bone fiasco, we retired to the sofa to enjoy a delicious diet Vanilla Pepsi and watch Sagwa with Mar.

Just as we got sat down, the dog decided she must join us. And being the skinny, heat-seeking dog that she is, she jumped into the minuscle space between Bill and I and proceeded to turn her stick-figure self around so she could lie between us and watch her some Sagwa.

In the process of turning around, her skinny, dog butt scraped the lip of Bill's newly opened can of soda.
Here he is inspecting the lip of the can for errant doggie rear-end cast offs that may have been taking up residence.

He saw no visible signs of dog-ass transfers. Then he blew sharply across the top of the can in order to remove an invisible particulates that may have been dislodged from the skinny-ass dog's skinny ass.

At which point he realized the error of his ways. With the sharp blowing action, he most likely sent those microscopic doggie-derriere molecules into the can and, thereby, into the soda which he so wanted to drink.

Now he had a choice: to drink or not to drink ... that was his question.

I'm not certain what his ultimate decision was, as I had to return to work, but I bet he drank it — all the while thinking about the enormous amount of time the dog spends licking her little canine heiny.

'the hell?

I was clicking through blogspot blogs (I just finished reading my book and still have a long time before I can go home) and found this blog.

It's completely in Swedish except for the title to today's entry which reads:

"Your poo is a disgrace to mankind"

I've been trying to find (with Richie's help) a way to translate the entry, so I can learn exactly how one's poo becomes a disgrace — and not just a disgrace but a disgrace to mankind.

I love Photoshop

and some day I'm really gonna learn to use it.

But in the meantime, I give you this:
KP delivering a big box o' Riveter hits.

Recording session no. 2

Last night was the second recording session for our new CD.

I love recording. Working with Scott is great fun and his input is invaluable to me.

While I was laying down the guitar parts for two songs, Laurena and KP were working on some new songs. So it was a multi-tasking evening for us.

Last week KP showed up with a tiny, minuscle, regular-sized box of Junior Mints. She likes Junior Mints. I like Junior Mints.

But really, there aren't enough Junior Mints in a regular-sized box to share.

Last night, KP showed up with the "Big Box Size" of Junior Mints.
There are enough Junior Mints in the "Big Box Size" to share.


Lucky me!

Two wheeled tale

Most of my neighbors have known that I'm a couple sandwiches short of a picnic for years, but I've confirmed it for those that were still of the "she's just eccentric and high spirited" school of thought.

My last shreds of dignity rolled out the door when I rode my birthday present home from the bike shop.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll repeat it ad nauseam, but I just can't help myself.

I love this bike.

And therein lies the problem.

I love the sheer act of riding this bike, pushing the pedals, sitting on the comfy, springy seat, steering the handlebars ... ringing the bell.

It's all fabulous.

And the odd thing is that I don't want to ride it to places. No, I just want to ride. I just want to enjoy the satisfaction I get from pedaling myself around. And that's it.

I don't want to end up somewhere else. I just want to ride.

But I only want to ride until I don't want to ride anymore.

In regard to my bike, I'm like a spoiled little kid (OK, in regard to most things, I'm like a spoiled little kid, but let's stay on task).

I want everyone to ohh and ahh over the bike. I only let a select few actually ride the bike and then only long enough to agree with me that it's the coolest bike ever. Then I want them to enjoy watching me ride my bike. And I don't want to go anyone in particular on the bike. Then when I'm tired of riding my bike, I want to not be riding it anymore.

So yeah, I ride the bike around the block ... again and again.

It's perfect really. I'm not going anywhere in particular. My neighbors and family and watch me ride by again and again ... and believe me, they know when I'm coming around again as I can ring that bell like a mutha. And when I'm tired of riding the bike, I'm so close to home that I can stop whenever I want.

So for the past week, I've been riding my bike in a big figure 8 around the block and I ring the bell whenever I pass our house. Sunday, Margaret suggested I ride around 8 times, so I did (I threw in a couple extra just for fun).

And you know what? I've started to get self-conscious.

After a few turns past the same houses I've been riding in front of day after day, I've started feeling like the giant dork that I am — I hate when that happens.

See, when I picked out this bike I was sure it was the coolest bike ever. But after a few Pee Wee Herman comments, I started to think that maybe it actually teeters on the brink between really cool and ultra dorky.

Add the fact that I ride the thing in the same big circle over and over again, goofy grin plastered on my face and I'm pretty sure I know which side of cool/dorky line my bike and I fall on.

I can live with that. But I decided last night when several turns around the block left me unfulfilled.

I knew it had to be done.

I branched out. I started riding across 12th Street and around other blocks. I rode by the park and down Grand Avenue.

It was liberating and exhilarating ... and a little scary. What if I got tired and had to pedal many blocks to get home?

I didn't care anymore. I rode down 12th Street and barely made it through a yellow light pedaling as fast as I could.

I didn't want to stop. I wanted to keep going around the streets where I could look at all the wonderful cottages and bungalows that fill the blocks of our downtown.

I rode until I knew my obligations at home couldn't be shirked any longer and I finally turned down our alley and tucked my bike safely away for the evening.

It was a dry, hot evening last night, perfect for riding a bike.

Camping recap

Yes, camping. Oh how I love it.

Friday saw me following my dear friends, the Flenards (aka Rob and Tracee) up to one of the 400 lakes that live on top of Grand Mesa (which is, by the way, the largest flat-top mountain in the world ... in case you were wondering) where Bill, the kids and Ronnie were awaiting our arrival (Ronnie is Sean's camping buddy — whenever those two are together, there is a lot of giggling).

But before we could get on the road, I had to get gas ... and then I had to pee one last time ... and while I was in the convenience store, I decided to pick up some BBQ sunflower seeds and an iced tea. While I was frantically looking for a snack, I thought to myself, "I hate it when I have to wait around for people to do dumb shit like buy snacks."

Yeah, I hate people like me. (It explains so much doesn't it.)

I had Tracee document this moment of me bonding with the gas pump for a number of really uninteresting reasons but because it's my blog and I can type whatever I want, here goes:

1. It's a new fancy pump and my shirt matched it.

2. We bought that little, red SUV from our friends like ... I dunno, a year ago or something and this is the first time I ever put gas in it. It took me a minute to figure out how to get the gas door open. So you can insert a "Ta Daaaah!" caption for this picture.

Here's the reservoir where we camped. It was very cute yet picturesque in its tiny-ness.
The pink hat was essential in that Mar spent most of Friday evening gathering pinecones (that's what's in the bag she's holding) and she was easy to see amongst the rest of the foresty stuff in which she was rooting around for the bounty of pinecones necessary to fuel a weekend of burnin' stuff.

Supposedly, there are fish in this reservoir and if it hadn't been for the glimpse of a beautiful, red cutthroat trout Randy had hooked for a moment, we wouldn't have believed it. No one caught anything the whole weekend.
But that didn't stop them from trying. That's Rob and Mar trying to land the big one.

Here's a picture of me that I took. Yeah, I wear that hat all summer long. You can find me at the pool, camping or even painting the house (like that's gonna happen) in this hat.

Now, see these bottles? Notice how flat and melty they are? We totally made them that way by using the patented Tracee Clinton Flenard's patented method for making bottles all melty 'n' stuff.
It's a secret process but I'll share it with you.

You place an empty bottle on the outside of a ring of fire (let's all sing, "Ring of fire.") for a good long time while the bottle heats up. Then you move the bottle to the inside of the ring of fire and leave it for a good long time.

It's good to have lots of company sitting with you around the fire and if you drink beer in bottles, you can have more bottles to make all melty using the patented Tracee Clinton Flenard's patented method for making bottles all melty 'n' stuff. Yeah, and it totally makes the "leaving it a good long time" part go faster.

Then you move the bottle directly into the fire coals and leave it for a good long time.

If you have a hot enough fire, the bottles will get all melty and fun to poke with sticks.

Poking melty bottles with sticks rocks.

That, my dear reader, is the patented Tracee Clinton Flenard patented method for making bottles all melty 'n' stuff.

Here's Mar, sitting by the fire waiting a good long time to poke a melty bottle ... and eating a hot dog. Lookit her little ear sticking out of her hat. Fer cute.
K. Here's me doing what I do best — lying down.
I'm pretty sure that I was once an ancient Roman, as I prefer to be lying down ... always. I will always pick to lie down over sit up. I even got this cot for making the lying down that much easier.

The hazard to lying down is that if I fall asleep then I become the game board for Human Jenga.

Human Jenga is a game my twisted friends invented in order to humiliate those who fall asleep while still in a public place (i.e., not your own bed).

The rules are:

When a person falls asleep, others take turns placing any sort of object on the sleeping person.

The objects may not hurt, maim or scar the sleeping person in any way.

The game continues until the sleeping person is no longer asleep.

Yeah, so that's what we like to do while camping. Oh and burn stuff, did I mention that?

Father's Day weekend

Go camping on the one free weekend we have until ... forever, I think.

— or —

Paint the house.

These were the choices before us.

Since we started the house painting project a couple of years ago (yeah, that's right a couple of years ago), we decided it could wait a little longer.

We're going camping this weekend.

I love camping. Growing up we camped for two weeks every summer and then spent weekends camping, too.

My favorite thing is sitting around the campfire.

The smell of burning wood. Mmm. I love that a toasted marshmellow is just a stick and 30 seconds away.

I can't wait.

The glamorous life

Yeah, livin' the dream. The life of a rock 'n' roll star is pretty hectic with all the ... uh, working and raising kids and all.

But it's still so much fun. Really. Being in this band
is such a great thing — sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure this isn't a dream.

Last night was a momentous night for us, we started recording our second CD (our first with Kelley).

Thanks to the professionalism and encouragement from Scott, who is generous enough to spend his time recording a bunch of girls, we got a good start.

And believe me, it takes patience to work with us. Not because we're difficult divas, but because we're a bunch of goof balls.

After a couple of hours of laying down scratch tracks, we hit a stumbling block, a tempo change in one of our songs was tripping us up. While Bridgett and Scott discussed how best to proceed. KP, Luh-Muh-erina and I were doing this:I know, we're so glamorous — but such is life when you're a rock star.

Herbs 'n' stuff

Because I'm a bad person, I get migraines.

It has to be because I'm a bad person, why else would I be inflicted with such a heinous condition?

I had my first migraine when I was living in San Francisco ... a long time ago. It wasn't something that I worried much about as I only got them very infrequently — like once a year or less.

Then as I got older, they came more frequently. Since having Mar, they have descending on me like ants on a honey bear, nagging me, causing me pain, causing me to be dropped at the ER by whomever is unlucky enough to be within arm's reach or on the other end of the phone — on a regular basis.

I have, for the most part, learned to live with this condition. I have drugs that will, given enough time, get rid of migraines.

I've tried many preventatives and none, so far (I'm always hopeful) have worked for me for a variety of different reasons. I was taking a particularly potent anti-seizure (yes, it's so bad that I tried taking an anti-convulsant) medicine. It did a pretty good job of holding back the migraines but it also make me: sleepy, slow, not hungry ... oh and it was ever-so-slowly poisoning me.

It's pretty sucky, but I can deal with it ... most of the time. I do have my moments when I'm having a particularly bad migraine and the medicine is taking a long time to work, that I'll get a bit ... uh, out of sorts over the whole thing (and by "out of sorts" I mean that there'll be some crying and lots of "Why me?" questions being bandied about).

These days, I've been doing pretty good — oh except for the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend when I got to spend a couple hours with my friends the IV drip and compazine — I'm trying some new stuff.

My uber-husband and my doctor have, for some reason that completely eludes me, decided that I should be on blood-pressure medicine. Yeah, they're crazy. I mean, it's not like I have a family history of blood-pressure issues or anything. Well, unless you want to count my father and grandfather ... oh and both my grammas ... but still.

And it's not like my blood pressure is high or anything. OK, I'll admit that it does tend to be a little high when I'm stressed or ill or when the doctor checks it, but I'm sure it's fine the rest of time.

But so I don't have to hear Bill harp on the subject which he likes to do in between cigarettes, I take the damn medicine. But only because one of the side effects is that it's known to help migraines. So I'll just pretend that's why I take blood-pressure medicine.

I've also started taking Dong Quai, an herbal thing that is also supposed to help with menstrual migraines (which I get a lot of).

So now my monthly migraine season is just about upon us (heaven help my family), we'll see how these things that I begrudingly take will do a damn thing. If not, I'm considering just having my whole head removed.

Bicycle!

Friday afternoon saw me riding my new bike home from the bike shop.I have permagrin whenever I'm on it. This bike is so much fun to ride.

And I'm not the only one. The few that have been lucky enough to warrant a ride on my beloved agree, there is something about riding this bike that ... well, makes you feel like goofy-grinned dork.

I think the fact that it's easy to ride and comfortable — that fat mama-ass seat rules! — makes it the coolest bike ever.

Friday as I drove home from band practice around 10 p.m., I called Bill. I told him to be sure that my fancy torpedo headlight had batteries because I was fixing to do some nighttime cruising ... and I did — round and round the block I went.

The neighbors, I'm sure, are pretty tired of seeing me ride around the block again and again; the sound of my bell is probably wearing on their nerves, too. But what's the point of having a bell if ya ain't gonna ring it, eh?

Sunday (the day after our show) we decided to ride our bikes downtown for lunch. We hooked Mar's tagalog bike to mine and off we went.
And it was all fine until the ride home when I got really tired. Really tired.

It was hot and I was pooped out. I kept yelling back at Mar, "Pedal harder." And lucky for me, she did. Sometimes I even coasted while she pedaled us along. Mar kept saying, "Why are we going so slow?"

Sean, having no patience for our snail-like progress, zipped off on his bike and beat us home by enough time to put away his bike, get something to drink and resume his position in front of his computer.

So now after a weekend of bike riding and rockin' 'n' rollin' I'm sore and worn out. But, I don't care. I plan on riding my bike around at lunch time today, too. Maybe I'll even get the nerve to ride it to work one day this week.

Legitimate

After our show last night, two guys approached us in order to lavish us with praise ... such as it was. One guy said, "Yeah, I didn't know what to think of a bunch of gurls, but you guys are ... uh, ... legit."

Yes, we're legit. Good news.

The show was great. Probably the best time we've had playing live music. The band had a great time and the crowd seemed to dig us, too. So it's a win-win for us.

Here are some pictures from last night:






ETA: Because this is my blog, I never really see the need to give other people credit — as we all know, it's all about me. But because I'm such a good friend and I really am appreciative, I'd like to acknowledge that my dear friend, Greedy, took these photos and many more Saturday night. Thanks Greedy!

To the all the single ladies out there, if you're lookin', you can find Greedy out and about — he is a man about town. Don't worry, he's easy to pick out, he'll be the one kissing my husband:

In The Spotlight

It was July 2004, my father-in-law and late brother-in-law were visiting while on their way to California to strike it rich mining for gold (really, I'm not making this up).

On their last night before they headed out, we finagled a deal that left my father-in-law watching Margaret and Bill and I taking Marl to meet Johnny and Bridgett at a club downtown, the Spotlight Lounge.

A local band was playing. That band was Wheel.
Opening for them was a beautiful and talented Kelly Raymond — her fans now know her as KP or Kelly Pants, lead singer for Riveter.

After Wheel's kick-ass set, Bridgett and I approached the booking guy, James and made a pitch for him to book our fledgling girl band, Riveter.

Bridgett presented a professional face for our band that as of then had played three backyard parties and that's it. I, on the other hand, tried to be witty and entertaining.

I'm not sure that I succeeded, but James agreed to let us open for a band that was traveling through from New Orleans, Saaraba, the next Friday.

Our big break! Our first nightclub show.

We had 8 songs then — all of them covers but two, "Ham Pants" and "Something that you're not."

We were nervous and excited.

We promoted the show extensively and asked all our friends to come out to see us.

The room was packed and then it was time to start.

We stepped on stage and were introduced. Then it started.

I was so nervous my hands were shaking, but I kept telling myself that this is what it was all about, this was why we practiced as much as we did, this was why I was in a band.

It was exhilarating.

The crowd was generous and I loved it.

Tomorrow night, we're returning to the Spotlight Lounge. Not only are we headlining, but we're not even having an opening band. We're playing the whole night ourselves.

We've got 35 songs, half of which are originals. We'll be playing a bunch of newer music, a brand-new cover sang by Laurena (who was born sing punk rock) and a new KP original that kicks ass.

I can't wait. It's going to be a good time.

Hog Heaven

Friday, July 14, we're going to be driving west to Salt Lake City ... on purpose and for only the most cool reason ever.

The Supersuckers (this girl's number one favorite band of all time ... at least for right now) and Social Distortion (Bill's ultimatly favorite band on account of him claiming that he and Mike Ness used to be friends "back in the day," but, of course, "back in the day" is a haze of craziness that I just don't like to hear about for the most part) are playing in Salt Lake City on July 14.

We're gonna be there. We = me (of course, duh), Uber-husband, Scott and Laurena. We love traveling with Scott and Laurena. They are most excellent traveling companions.

Laurena and I like to sit in the back and talk about fame and fortune. The boys like to eat catfood-flavored jerky.

I know glamorous good times.

Last March, the Supersuckers played here in good ole junk town and I got my picture made with Mr. Spaghetti.

Then Laurena and I drove to Salt Lake City last October to see him to so solo gigs and I got my guitar signed.

I dare say that I'm a big infatuated with Eddie Spaghetti — but he's so cool, how can I not.

Don't run, please

It was 101 degrees yesterday. It cooled to what felt like 99 degrees last night as I tried to sleep in the stifling heat.

But I hate complaints about the weather. There's nothing to be done about how hot or cold it is, so why bitch about it? Plus, we all know that it gets hot here — it is, afterall, the desert.

To combat the heat, we spend a lot of time at the local pool which is a couple blocks away. After work, we gather our towels, goggles (which Mar used to call "gobbles" much to our delight), noodles and bottles of water and walk over to the pool.

This year, finally, Margaret is taking swim lessons. We intended for her to have lessons long before her 6th birthday, but ... well, you know, the pathway to hell and all.

Her lessons start at 5. Bill took her and I came late yesterday to witness the glory that is the swim lesson.

When I arrived, Mar was already in the pool.I sat along the wall with Jenn (Kate is also taking her first lessons) and Bill. I was promptly given the rules for the swim classes.

The rules for the kids were pretty straight forward — shower before class (they whack you with a wet noodle if you try to get into the pool with a dry suit), no running or food, blah, blah blah.

My favorite was that all students were to enter the pool in a counterclockwise manner.

WTF? How do you enter a pool in a counterclockwise manner?

The claim was that in an attempt to keep dirt out of the pool, they wanted everyone to walk around the pool — counterclockwise, of course — before they enter.

Um, ... what?

I don't get it, but what do I know?Then there was a list of rules for the parents.

They made sense for the most part, but it was the militant manner in which they were presented that annoyed me.

We must not pass the white drain strip thing that was on the deck. We must not talk to, approach or otherwise distract our child during class. We must keep children not in class under our control at all times.

So there I sat, annoyed with the list of demands, I must comply with and yet none of the other parents were following them at all.

One mom interrupted my kid's class so the instructor would adjust her kid's goggles. One girl kept yelling to her mom who would walk to the edge — past the white drain thingy — and yell back.

My point is: If you're gonna make up militant rules then you should enforce them with an iron fist.

The girl who kept yelling to her mom from the pool, should've been dunked every time she yelled — just to remind her that following the rules in the pool will keep your lungs full of air.

And the mom who interrupted class to make sure her kid's goggles weren't coming off, should've been kicked by the rest of the parents ... mostly just for our amusement.

But no one did any type of enforcement. Maybe next time, I'll start enforcing the rules myself. I'll carry a clipboard with the rules laminated and read them to rulebreakers. After which, I'll record their names and their infraction.

Oh, maybe I'll get a whistle, too.

All I want is ...

everything. Now, please.

Yes, on this the day of the beast, 6-6-06, I'm channeling Veruca Salt.

And I'm sure that if I were to be judged a bad egg or a rotten nut, down I'd go to the incinerator.

How did I get like this? I mean, fer Pete's sake, I'm a grown woman and still I think that I should just be able to have what I want — all the time — and everyone should just comply.

Who do I think I am? It's just plain not healthy — especially when I can't have what I want. Because then I spend all my time trying to figure out how I get the unattainable, instead of accepting what I have and trying to being happy.

When did I determine that I'm above the rules? I tell my kid all the time that she has to follow the rules and that she gets what she gets and she shouldn't throw a fit. For me, I'm a fit throwing fool.

Where do I get off trying to have my cake and eat it, too? I mean, yeah, I love cake, but come on. Most people know that once you eat your cake, that's it. Not me, nuh-uh. I gulp my cake then start looking for the next piece.

What do I think is going to come of this? I used to consider myself a reasonable person. Now I just see a petulant child, who is in need of a good spanking.

And finally, why do I know that this is bad, but will, in all likelihood, not do a damn thing about it? Because I'm the queen of everything.

I want to ride my ...

BICYCLE!

Bill's getting me an Electra cruiser for my birthday.

I can't wait to get it.

Bill surprised me Saturday morning with the news that I could get a cruiser.

I've wanted one for a long time, despite the fact that I have a perfectly good, almost-new mountain bike that Bill bought me when we were first dating (by almost-new, I mean not been ridden much - the nubbies are still on the tires).

It's a nice bike but as with mountain bikes, I have to be all hunched over the handle bars. Oh and I never want to ride my bike on anything but pavement or concrete. I have virtually no interest in traversing any of the ba-jillions of world-class mountain bike trails around here. It just seems ... bumpy and hard. Why would I want that for myself?

I test rode one of the Electras they had in stock and loved it. I was actually laughing and saying, "This is so much fun!" while I was riding the bike around.

I could've gotten one they had in stock, but I have a picture in my mind of what my bike looks like and it looks like this:But with a white basket, headlight and a bell, of course.

So happy birthday to me.

Friday's birthday celebration was a great time that included excellent shrimp tacos, Snickers and white cake and a good, old-fashioned watergun fight.

Markel and Special K got Davy and I giant waterguns and to be fair, smaller water guns for others to play with. There were a million little kids and a raucous water fight ensued.

The fight ended with our friend, Josiah, turning the hose on the kids until he got yelled at.

Here's a picture of how much Bill missed me ... er, uh, being home?Bill said to me, "Hey Honey, take a picture of me kissing Greedy." So I did. I'm kinda disturbed in that he'd just got home from a long trip and wanted to have his picture taken kissing Greg, but what the heck.

Happy day to me

Oh it's a happy day!

Let me count the reasons:

1. I slept last night. For 6 whole hours.

You'd a thunk I just woke from a Rip van Winkle slumber. But 6 continuous hours is the most I've had in two weeks. Woot!

I was a veritable whirlwind today. It was like I was all jacked up on meth and Smarties or something (OK, I did have some Smarties today. Woot to the Smarties!)

2. Bill's coming home today. He'll be here in a couple of hours.

It seems like he's been away forever. And still Mar and I are desperate for our normal routine and our man of the house to return.

The longest he had ever been away was 6 days and my mom stayed with me then. He's been away a full 14 days this time and it was way. Too. Long!

3. We're having a big, pow-wow fiesta, soiree tonight at the neighbor's.

Taco bar, beer, vodka, friends and other sundry food ... plus my husband. It's going to be a good night.

4. Why are we having a big, pow-wow fiesta, soiree? It's Davy's birthday today. Oh and it's mine, too.

So happy birthday to me.

Right turn to heaven

My kid goes to a Christian daycare/preschool/place they watch kids while their good-for-nothing moms work.

The school is on a busy street. As you exit the parking lot, there is a right-turn only sign.

I turn left out of that parking lot each and every day.

I never even think twice about making that ill-advised left turn. I turn with carefree abandon. I never even think about the posted right-turn only "suggestion."

Me, the heathen mom, flaunting the rules of the church to whom I entrust the care of my only -begottten daughter — whodathunkit?

I can imagine the knowing smirks of the good Christian moms as they gently nudge their white Dodge Caravans into the aforementioned right turn. "That dressed-in-black mom, driving her all-black SUV, throwing all of God's commandments and traffic signs to the wind ... yeah, she's going to hell for sure," they muse to themselves, Jesus-fish placards shining on the back of their minivans.

Hell — it's where I'll be in the afterlife.