I didn't put it there and didn't think Bill did either. I thought maybe someone who knew Bill served in the Navy put it there. But then as I turned and drove down our street, I realized that one of our lovely new neighbors is patriotic as the street was lined with these flags.
One of the things that makes playing with my band so a kick in the pants is my band mates. Kelley, Laurena and Scott are exactly the kind of people with whom I want to be spending my time. We get along amazingly, so much so that we and our spouses are celebrating my 40th in Vegas together.
Instead of deleting it because it's not a nice picture of Kelley, I've been posting it around the Internet with comments that Kelley was having a fit. Because one thing Riveter is, is not very nice. And also because that shit's funny.
Now, we try to say that to each other as much as humanly possible, even if it doesn't make sense which, of course, lead me to type this to Kelley yesterday: "Shut your whore e-mail."Personally, I think forcing an adultish child to go to college is a bit fruitless. But what about other endeavors? Say, would you force your children to start a band?
What about if your superstitious mother had a premonition that you would have daughters that were in a band? Then would make your kids quit high school and start taking voice and instrument lessons?
Yeah, me neither. But that's exactly what Austin Wiggin Jr. did in the late 1960s.
In order to fulfill his mother's prophecy, he took three of his daughters, Dot, Betty and Helen, out of school and insisted they spend their days and nights practicing music and doing calisthenics.
They wrote songs and played gigs at the town hall and local nursing home for several years. Austin even used the family's savings to have the girls record an album titled “Philosophy of the World.”
When Frank Zappa heard that record, he claimed they were better than the Beatles. And even Kurt Cobain listed this girl-band as a major influence on his music.
So who was this band?
The Shaggs, of course.
Yeah, I had never heard of them either until this week when I saw this pictures:
I was immediately intrigued by this girl band from the 1960s of which I’d never heard, but served as inspiration to some serious musicians. Upon doing some web research, I came upon this article by Susan Orlean. It’s a thorough history of the three sisters from Fremont, New Hampshire.
I find the story compelling, not just because when I listen to their music, I find it atonal, awkward and well, … just plain bad, but because many who are involved with outsider music, they find the off-beat, tone-deaf sounds of the three young girls to be epic.
Being in a girl band (uh, I mean, a mostly, all-girl band), I am always looking to be inspired by other female musicians. I believed since I could do it, anyone could. Then l I listened to The Shaggs’ Who Are Parents?
Knowing that these girls practiced day in and day out, playing Saturday-night, town-hall gig after Saturday-night, town-hall gig and yet they could never synch the drums and guitar makes me believe that some prophecies are better left unfulfilled.
I just got back from having lunch with my mom at the Dream Café. For those unaware, the Dream Café is a delightful breakfast/lunch restaurant on Main Street.
Oh, I can hear the sighs and see the eye rolls of those who are avoiding Main Street because of the construction. And to those I say, come on down! Main Street is awesome, construction or not.
Yeah, you might have to walk a little further, but my mom did it and she has cancer in her bones, so …
And really, is walking a little further really such a bad thing? I like walking and especially like walking amongst the beauty of downtown.
Oh, I hear and see more sighs and eye rolls, but I think Main Street is still beautiful even with the construction.
I’ve enjoyed watching the workers transform the worn planters and sidewalks into their new, fresh incarnation. Plus they have left some of the original planter areas intact and they are full of spring flowers.
And they are working all the time. They are working evenings and weekends to get the job done. And for that I am thankful to all of them. It’s the busiest construction site I’ve ever witnessed.
The best part of the construction is that the stores, galleries and restaurants are still open and waiting for our business.
I know it’s got to be a struggle for those merchants to have construction hindering traffic, especially in a down economy. So I have made an effort to visit downtown more than I normally would.
One of the sacrifices I’ve made is eating often at Dream Café. OK, OK, it’s not a sacrifice. It’s a delight.
The café — which has made its home at the former location of the Crystal Café — is, in one word, yummy. They have several variations of Eggs Benedict, which are amazing. Plus their cinnamon rolls are crazy-huge and decadent.
Today, I had the Portabella mushroom sandwich with the absolute best sweet-potato fries I’ve ever had. Mmmm mmmmm!
So I’m still a big fan of downtown Grand Junction and encourage everyone to head on down.
A few Fridays ago, Bill and I decided to get our weekend started right by going to the gym after work.
It seemed like a good idea at the time (now that just seems crazy and we've learned our lesson).
As we sat in the turn lane getting ready to pull into the gym parking lot, we got rear-ended.
Luckily no one was hurt. Our rear bumper did was it was designed to do, as it took the impact and left the rest of the car unharmed.
The very nice lady who hit us was also unharmed, but her car took more of the damage.
The big hole in her bumper is from our rear tail pipe. Ouch.
The other driver admitted that she looked away for a minute and when she looked back, blammo. We all stayed calm and recognized it as sucky, but we were lucky no one was hurt and our cars were still drivable. It could've been much, much worse.
After the accident, we pulled into the parking lot, looked at the damage, exchanged information and Bill called our insurance. They recommended we file a police report which we did.
Then a miracle happened. Without us having to do much, the other driver's insurance arranged an appraiser to come to my work and assess the damage. They sent the appraisal to the auto body shop and reserved a rental. And another miracle happened, I received a check made out for the entire appraisal price with a promise to pay more if more work was needed.
Just like that.
The only problem was the rental car. They gave me a white "crossover" — which essentially is a station wagon. *shutter*
But it was only going to be for two days, so I didn't sweat it that was until I went to turn it on the first time.
This was the "key" that worked the ignition:
Notice that there isn't actually a key there? Yeah, it's just a plastic end that goes into the ignition on the dash.
That was weird and felt a little un-American, even though it was a Dodge.
But the car drove nicely and I liked some of the interior features. Others left me a bit baffled. Like this button:
What the heck does that button do? It looks like a pig snout to me. I pushed it a couple times, but couldn't figure out what it did. And then before I could further investigate, my car was ready to be picked up.
Here's the after picture of our car:
Good as new and you know what the best part was? The auto body place not only washed the outside of the car, but they also cleaned the INSIDE. They cleaned the whole inside of my car which was filthy.
A new bumper and a clean car, who knew a rear-ender could turn out so well.
Just look at those lovely flowers. Bill gave them to me the day after our 10th wedding anniversary last week.
No, he didn't forget. He never does. He just couldn't get them delivered on time because he was in the hospital.
Last Tuesday, Bill was on his way out the door to take Margaret to school when he doubled over in excruciating chest pains. My mom insisted that Bill go the hospital (when you lived with a husband who had heart disease, you know chest pains are no joke).
Luckily, this story has a happy ending. After two days of extensive testing, Bill's heart was deemed in excellent condition and he probably has an ulcer or some such malady. He is now feeling very well and raring to go. I chose to refer to the whole ordeal as "Bill's fake heart attack."
I, however, did not fare so well. After picking Bill up from the hospital, we stopped at the pharmacy to get some Prilosec. Apparently buying digestive medication is my last straw, as I announced in no uncertain terms right there in Rite Aid, that I would not be taking anyone (expect Margaret — nice of me to give exclusions to my own child) to the hospital ever again. Also I wouldn't be going to any doctor's appointment, tests, etc. any more in the future. I claimed I was done with sick people in general and everyone was on their own.
Then I went home and cried.
After three years of sickness, sadness, heart disease, cancer, death and wellness, taking sick days and vacation days to tend to those in need, it got the better of me.
But I knew even then when I was claiming I'd never set foot again inside any health care facility, that I was just whining. Once I got over my bad self, I discussed with myself that life happens. There isn't anything we can do about and sometimes it just plain sucks.
The trick is, of course, how you life your life in and amongst all the crappy parts.
So this weekend, Bill smoked the bejezus out of a whole host of food items in his new smoker (a gift from his whinny wife on the occassion of their uncelebrated 10th anniversary). We had friends and neighbors over. We rode our bikes. We went to see some live music even though we were really too tired.
Unfortunately, I was also stuck grading the exams I didn't get completed during the week while I was dealing with Bill's fake heart attack — but I did so while sitting outside in our backyard and enjoyed the glorious weather.
So when life hands you a fake heart attack, make smoked salmon ... uh, oh, ... you get the picture.
This is how our kid looks these days.
She loves wearing dresses, wheeling around on her Heelies and ... what is that in her hand? Oh yeah, her cell phone.
Gah! We gave in and hooked our 9 year old up with a cell phone. It's something that we said we weren't going to do until she was old enough to keep track of her stuff. But we had to take my mom down to get her onto our plan. And since we were already there and upgrading Sean's phone, we decided to get her a voice and texting plan as well.
Oh man, if there's a way to delight a kid, get her a cell phone. And then wait for the storm of text messages that you'll get. Holy cow!
But it's already been convenient. Sunday she was at a neighbor friend's house and we needed to run to the store. We just called her up and made the arrangements. She wanted to know if she could go to the movies, so we got text message asking if it was OK. When she walks home from school and piano lessons, she can call us if there's a problem or whatever. So there is a sense of security in that.
Plus it was fun just to see how excited she was and is over the whole thing. Plus we can always use it as leverage to keep her on task with keeping track of her stuff!
Now the only problem is that my mom got the new Motorola Droid and I'm so jealous of it.
Bill and I just got nice Blackberries last October and then the Droids came out. Holy cow, do I want one of those phones. Those things are sweet!
I'm coveting my mom's cell phone ... please send help ... and a new Motorola Droid!
And then, of course, I didn't use the picture. But I did find a whole bunch of other pictures that made me chuckle.
This post was written by my friend and jewelry designer, Cari Taylor on her blog The Craft Between. She gave me permission to repost it here.
Last Friday I attended a day-long "Conference for Women" workshop that mainly dealt with assertiveness and self-esteem training for women, but there was one topic that really held my attention: the one about passion and purpose. I've struggled with this concept all my life; last year when I was asked by (then) Scoutie Girl blogger/creator Jan to write a post about passion, it was really the first time I was able to put it into words. Here's what I said then:
"Passion is the biggest gift of my life. I spent years trying to find that ‘IT’ thing–the thing that people around me seemed to have that made them get-up the morning, lose themselves in, and could talk about for hours. I tried crochet, woodworking, graphic design, ceramics–nothing stuck. I had this artist stuck inside of me without an outlet to create. Very frustrating.
And just as I was about to give up and resign myself to a boring 8-5 life with no pizzazz–passion found me. As soon as I stopped looking for it, there it was, disguised as a pair of cheap pliers and a roll of 20 gauge craft wire I picked up on a whim. In those first few weeks experimenting with my new hobby, the fog just suddenly lifted. I had so many jewelry design ideas, I couldn’t sketch them out fast enough. I knew in that moment that what I was feeling was passion.
That elusive, enviable, abstract thing, was finally within me. It sounds very dramatic, but passion hit me on the head and brought me to life and continues to be such a surprising force.
Passion gives me purpose and unbelievable energy. Passion has brought me a sense of self-reliance I didn’t have before, a sense of ownership and confidence that I can take anywhere I go. It gives me the strength to work a full-time day job on top of building a business, and gets me through any bad day.
Handcrafted and passion are inseparable. The spirit of independence and creation is alive in every product an artist makes, every detail.
Whether it’s bags, clothing, jewelry, drawings, photographs, textiles–that essence of passion is ingrained within and comes straight from the artist to you. That’s such a big part of it; feeling the passion is one thing, but creating something and sharing it with the world and the people who appreciate it completes the circle."
Is all that still true? Big Yes. The only difference is my 'day job' is much more satisfying now that I've changed departments--which only serves to help me be more creative off hours. Bottom line: life is too short to not be living your passion. Go find it....ASAP.
Yes, I know this is a mommy blog, but I am also a woman who loves cool shoes — or in this case, boots (but just so you know, Margaret is doing great and I'm sure I'll have something to write about her soon enough).
As I mentioned earlier this week, I ordered myself a lovely pair of Valentine boots from John Fluevog. They arrived yesterday.
Even though I bought them with the intention of wearing them when my band plays and around for fun, I'm breaking them in today here at work. Everywhere I go, I'm singing in my head (to no particular tune), "I have new boots. I have new boots."
Yes, I am 12.
And I have new boots. Look how cute and retro they are:
Back in the day, combat boots/Dr. Marten boots were all the rage. These definitely give a nod in that direction, but they have style points amundo (Gah, I just made a Fonzie reference — help me).
And they aren't just ubercool, they are comfortable, too. They are made of fine leather with supportive insoles. And the outer soles are works of art ... heavenly art:
See? They have Fluevogs wonderful, original Angelic sole that is comfortable and durable. Do you see the angels inscribed into the tread? How cute is that?
Plus if you read the disclaimer, it says:
"Resists: Alkalai, water, acid, fatigue, satan."
My soles repel satan, so they are good for my soul, too.
Can your shoes do that? I didn't think so.
Yesterday I bought a new pair of shoes. Yay! ... What?
OK, that's probably the least shocking news I could share. Any one who knows me, knows I like shoes.
I can scour a shoe-sale rack like no one's business in search of the cheapest and most-cool discount shoes I can find. But these days, I'm much more particular in what I'll bring home.
See, now that I'm 40 (OK, I'm not quite 40 yet, but I'm calling myself 40 because I don't like surprises and I'm fearful that I won't like 40 when it does actually happen to me, so I'm getting used to it ahead of time), I've grown tired of fake shoes. Pleather, faux leather, fleather (as I like to call it) is inexpensive and can make very cute shoes (I'm wearing a pair of fleather boots right now, because I am nothing if I'm not a complete and utter oxymoron), but I'm not buying them anymore. I'm saving my pennies and buying high-quality shoes made to last.
This is why I just had to buy these Fluevog boots last week.
No, these aren't shoes the I bought yesterday. I'm getting to that story, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to mention the new Fluevog boots I'm bought myself to go with the super-cute dress Bill got me for Valentine's Day (can't have a new dress without the appropriate footwear, now can we?).
Yes, I do have a shoe compulsion and that brings me back around to the pair of shoes I bought yesterday.
These shoes are vastly different from any pair of shoes I've purchased for myself in more than 10 years.
They are ... gosh, this is hard to say ... workout shoes. There I said it.
For the last 8 years or so, when I've gone to the gym or some other sort of formal exercise event, I've been wearing a pair of hand-me-down Reeboks from my mom. She didn't like them (I think she said they squeaked), so I took them. They fit well enough ... for the most part.
See, I have no problem forking out my precious money for some expensive, funky boots to wear when my band plays, but I've had a super hard time plunking down the cash for a good, functional athletic shoe that will save my back, feet, hips, etc, from stress and possible injury.
Yeah, it makes no sense to be either. So what made me finally break down and buy some sensible shoes?
Well, it was my toes. They were on the verge of revolt if I didn't do something about my footwear.
We've been going to the gym pretty regularly for several weeks now and if I'd spent any amount of time doing cardio activity, my toes would fall asleep.
I can't say for sure, but it seems to me that that is a bad thing.
We walked around the mall over the weekend hoping to find a good deal, but I was afraid I'd just end up with another pair of shoes that would send my piggies into a coma. So I didn't buy anything. Instead Monday, Mar, Bill and I went to Brown's Shoe Fit on Main Street.
What an experience!
Margaret needed new running shoes, too. Girls on the Run starts this week and the kid need something other than her knee-high Chuck Taylor's to run in.
The extrordinarily helpful and knowledgable saleman measured our feet (Mar now wears a woman's 6-1/2 ... holy cow!) and brought us several pairs to try on. With each pair that we tried, the saleman would feel our feet in the shoe and offer advice on the fit. In no time at all, we both had good shoes that fit well and both pairs were on sale!
So I got myself a good pair of workout shoes and you know what? They aren't even cute, but boy do they feel good.
Just like every family, mine is faced with challenges — big and little — every day.
And you know what? For the most part, we’ve been kicking some challenge booty. And I like it.
I mentioned recently that my mom has been improving and battling back against her cancer. Each day she’s getting stronger. And now she’s even driving.
Driving! Driving herself in her own car, her brand-new car that I was certain she’d never drive again.
So, suck it, cancer.
My husband is on his path to becoming a non-smoker (again), thanks to the miracle drug Chantix and his own perseverance and determination to become a healthier person.
Bill has been an on-again/off-again smoker for years. He likes smoking. He likes hanging out with his smoking friends and smoking. So it has been hard for him to quit.
He knew he needed to quit and wanted to quit, but could never do it cold turkey or even with the patch or gum.
But this Chantix is a different story.
Of course, it doesn’t work for everyone and it does mess with your brain chemistry so if you have to be careful with it. But it does work in a most profound way.
Bill hasn’t had a cigarette in almost two weeks and doesn’t even want one. He doesn’t even want to be around smokers. He came home from a friend’s house recently where there was much smoking and he was disgusted by the smell on his clothes and hair.
A good sign indeed. So suck it, cigarettes.
And then there’s Margaret. She demonstrated her strength of character yesterday in spades.
The three of us decided the snow was too delicious to pass up and starting gathering our gear for a day on the slopes.
Bill (as usual) couldn’t find half his stuff. He thought (as usual) that I’d moved it. Being that I was suffering from my monthly lady malady, I freaked out and spent a fair amount of time stomping around and yelling (oh, I’m such a delight — but really, I’m a hormonal being. I know we’re not supposed to admit such things as it threatens women’s fight for equality, but it’s true. I could go on about this, but I’ll refrain ... for now). Mar kept her disposition sunny and tried to smooth things over.
I got over my bad self and we headed up to the slopes — powder days are too few to let stupid hormones mess it up, even if I didn’t even touch Bill’s gloves.
We arrived at Powderhorn, jumped on the bunny slope lift and headed up the hill.
Just as we were nearing the top, the life ground to a halt. There we sat for 30 minutes getting soaked by the beautiful, yet wet snowflakes. We eventually got off, but the lift was broken down. We headed over to the Take Four lift. The three of us lined up and sat down, but only two of us made it on to the chairlift.
Mar took a scary tumble off the lift and faced planted into the fresh powder. I screamed, Bill jumped off and Mar shouted, “I’m OK mom!”
The lift operators were there immediately, got her up and checked out and the lift was going again. I got off at Midway and waited. No Mar and Bill.
I called Bill (thank goodness for cell phone service on the mountain) and they weren’t coming. Mar was too scared to get on the lift.
I couldn’t blame her.
I skied down and found them, skis off at the bottom of the run. Mar wanted to go home. I wanted to go home.
But the snow was awesome and we had just got there.
I pulled myself together and gently encouraged Mar to get back on the bunny-hill lift which was running once again.
She resisted.
But not for too long and we skied on over to the lift. We got on and that led to a fun day of schussing.
I’m so proud of her. So suck it, fear!
There’s always going to be illness, broken down lifts and missing gloves. But our days and our lives, for that matter, are what we make of them.
Ladies, what are you getting for Valentines Day? Men, what are you giving?
A card with a heart-felt note inside is always lovely ... and often enough. But what about when your Valentine is extra special and you want to give her something to show how much she means?
Do you give candy?
In the past, I’ve always loved getting a big box of nuts and chews. But again this year, I am participating in our office’s Biggest Loser challenge (Lose Muffin Tops! Lose!), so candy is definitely off the list of gift ideas for me this year.
I would, however, love to get a sweet SWEXY band instead.
As much as I love the name “Muffin Tops” for my Biggest Loser team, I don’t want to be known as the girl with the muffin top as I lumber around the track at the gym. The SWEXY band absorbs extra ... uh, perspiration ... and hides the muffin top. How awesome is that?
And you know what, you don’t have to buy yourself one (or for your Valentine), you can WIN one simply by clicking here and leaving a comment.
Easy as pie ... uh, maybe I should say, “Easy as getting to the gym” unless that’s not easy for you, then we’ll just stick with the pie.
Afraid that your Valentine doesn’t want work-out gear for the holiday of romance? Then click over here to find out how you can get a DISCOUNT on Cari Taylor’s gorgeous, eco-friendly, hand-crafted Wired Originals jewelry.
I love Cari’s jewelry. Her earrings are all I wear. I now have four pair which are in constant rotation. I never get bored of them and they go with everything.
And I’d still love to have more. HINT, HINT, Bill!
I’d love to add these to my collection. Oh and these. OK and these, too.
Who am I fooling? I’d love to have one of each pair of her earrings.
So if you want to buy me ... uh, I mean yourself or your Valentine some lovely, locally made jewelry on SALE, click over here by Sunday, Feb. 7.
Believe me, your Valentine will thank you!
