'the hell?

Trip to see cool things: Chaco Culture National Historical Park

2011-03-29T09:11:00.003-07:00

Chaco Culture National Historical Park — if you ever thought you might wanna see it, go. You won't be disappointed ... you'll be blown away.

I wrote quite a bit over here about Chaco. One of its most impressive qualities is its size. These ruins are huge. Some buildings were originally four stories tall.

Four stories.

These Ancestral Puebloans were not rookie builders. Take a look:

Trip to see cool things: Navajo Moument Valley

2011-03-24T09:40:00.004-07:00

Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park is magical and beautiful. It's a place that I want to visit again, but next time, I want to ride a horse (I know, I don't ride horses, but this is a place where you can forget about the things you can't do) and stay all day.

Truly peaceful and serene. I want to be there right now even if I can't have beer there.

While visiting the popular John Ford's Point and seeing the view pictured on our tour book, a tour bus arrived. Almost immediately a young man on a horse rode out to the point. For two bucks, I could have take the same picture. Instead I stole a quick snapshot from inside our car. You can see the horse and rider in the distance.

A trip to see cool stuff: Grand Canyon Edition

2011-03-22T12:04:00.007-07:00

Over here, I wrote about how we ended up driving through the southwest to see cool stuff. Our first stop was Vegas.

Our second: Grand Canyon.

It indeed qualifies as cool ... super, blow-my-mind-with-its-awesomeness cool.

You might notice (well, you definitely will notice once I point it out) that I'm wearing a necklace in this picture.

Yes, that's normal for many women. It is not normal for me.

For years now, I've been fighting the "it's nice, but it makes me feel like I'm trying to be something I'm not" feeling about wearing necklaces. Then while looking for nice Navajo pottery, Margaret saw this green turquoise necklace and I tried it on ... and never took it off.

You will likely see me wearing this necklace every day for the rest of my life. Because that's how I roll.

A surprising Veterans Day display

2010-11-11T10:32:00.003-07:00

This morning when I was backing out of our driveway, I noticed this flag: 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.

I was delighted by the display and it made me just that much happier that we moved into this new 'hood.

Happy Veterans Day to my husband and to those who have served our country. Thank you!

Way more than you think

2010-04-29T09:03:00.009-07:00

Whenever people ask me about playing in a band, I always have to mention how much fun it is. The whole process is fun: practicing, writing songs, buying show clothes and rockin' out.

I love playing my guitar loudly. It's powerful.

Last Saturday, my band, Riveter, played a pig-roast barbecue at Peach Street Distillers.

If you haven't been out to the distillery and enjoy vodka, gin, bourbon and the like, make haste. I love vodka and used to drink Skyy, now I drink Peach Street's Goat Vodka and it's lovely.

My only warning about drinking at the distillery is that they pour stiff drinks. One Bloody Mary or Dirty Hippie has the equivalent of at least two or even three shots of vodka. And their drinks are so tasty, you could find yourself drunk there on a Sunday afternoon without even meaning to. Not that that's a bad thing.

We played to a great, big ole crowd Saturday and we kicked all kinds of pig-roast ass.

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.

We love to tease each other. Like if I saw this picture:
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.

Our practices are most always a giggle fest and no one can beat a joke into the ground like we can. Our favorites are ones with dirty words. Recently we all saw this on the Internet:
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."

Most of the stuff we say might not be funny to everyone (or Scott — who does a lot of head shaking and meditating during our practices), but we think we're hilarious.

And if you don't agree with us, well, you can just shut your whore mouth.

Discovering the best worst band ever

2010-04-28T13:45:00.002-07:00

I read a discussion on a mommy blog somewhere about whether or not parents should force children to go to college.

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.

Hooray for Main Street and delicious sweet-potato fries

2010-04-26T11:40:00.001-07:00

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.

The key to a clean car

2010-04-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

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 say no to fake heart attacks

2010-04-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Making the call

2010-03-29T08:28:00.002-07:00

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!

Where the hell did I go?

2010-03-24T09:16:00.002-07:00

I was looking at my Google reader this morning and I saw that someone out there had "starred" this post.

I remember writing that post and how it made some people uncomfortable with all the below the waist references and what not. But I just re-read that post and this post that was linked within it.

And you know what? Those posts were funny and edgy and nothing like the scrapple I've been writing lately.

What has happened to me? Where did all my funny go?

I know things have been changed in and around my life, but people still laugh at me and with me in many conversations. Just this last weekend on my band's trip to Moab, we laughed ourselves silly several times.

The girls drove to Moab separately from the boys and we were witnessed walking in a row like Shaggy from Scooby Doo to the bathroom at a rest stop somewhere on I-70. And we laughed over it.

We laughed over the uber hilarious things that our dear friend Tracee said Saturday night.

Japanese ice tea. Dinny's. "My eyes are up here!"

Holy crap we laughed our asses off.

But now I realize that all those things were other people's funnies ... OK it was my idea to walk like Shaggy. So maybe all my funny isn't quite gone yet.

How does one replenish their funny?

Reminescing on the silliness

2010-03-18T07:36:00.004-07:00

Yesterday I wrote a blog post about how Margaret and I have sore bums.

Really.

What?

The first bike ride of the year causes that. Click over here to read my brilliant observations on butt soreness.

I had originally intended to include this picture of me riding my bike:
And then, of course, I didn't use the picture. But I did find a whole bunch of other pictures that made me chuckle.

From these pictures I realized that my kid has always had a great sense of humor. For that I will always be eternally grateful.

Just a little Rivetergirl observation

2010-03-03T12:31:00.002-07:00

You know those people* who only touch things in a public bathroom using paper towels? For all I know you could be one of those people. I have absolutely nothing against those folks and sometimes even I only touch stuff in a public toilet with paper towels.

It depends upon my mood and/or how dirty the restroom is or appears to be.

*Actually, I'm just referring to women as I have virtually no knowledge of what dudes do in public bathrooms. They could be walking around with their pants around their ankles licking the sinks, for all I know.

I have no issue whatsoever with this behavior. Actually I condone it as it makes the bathroom cleaner for the rest of us.

But I do have a question: What about all that stuff that gets touched AFTER one uses the toilet and BEFORE the hands get washed?

Think about it.

You use the toilet and wipe.

Everyone agrees that the hands are now dirty and need to be washed, right?

But what do we do?

We touch our drawers, we touch our clothes, we touch the door to the toilet stall ... ALL WITHOUT WASHING OUR HANDS.

Then there's the big production of washing and lathering and using the paper towels to open the door on our way out.

But whatever nastiness showed up after we wiped is now on our clothes.

So ick.

Passion and purpose

2010-02-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Rockin' Tenacious Brother's Pub

2010-02-19T13:02:00.002-07:00

Big show for Riveter tonight. We're playing all night long at Tenacious Brother's Pub in glorious downtown Grand Junction.

I love downtown and I love Tenacious Bros. It's such a fun vibe and they have Stella Artois on tap WITH the fancy glasses. Oh glory be.

Tonight we're playing a whole host of Riveterized awesomeness including two new kick-ass covers and by popular demand, we're bringing back an oldie but a goodie.

Over the past months, we've been weeding out some of our mid-tempo and ballad-y songs, in favor of the more in-your-face rockin' ones that really say "Riveter." Because we're not really happy unless we're swearing and playing as fast as we can.

Long live rock 'n' roll.

'I have new boots' — sing it with me

2010-02-18T10:14:00.001-07:00

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.

Say it ain't so

2010-02-17T09:32:00.003-07:00

I've been told on more than one occasion that my skin color is "very, very white" and it's true. I'm about as fair as one can get without being albino (not that there's anything wrong with that).

I'd like to have a little more skin color. I've always envied my stepson's gorgeous olive-toned skin. But I'm fair to the fairest degree.

I don't really tan and I burn very easily. Oh and I've had skin cancer ... on my face.

So I wear sunscreen on my face everyday (really, everyday). I don't try to tan — on the contrary, I try to not get sun for the most part. And now with my giant back tattoo, I'll be even more diligent about keeping the sun's harmful rays off my delicate skin.

I know I'm not the only one who fears the damage prolonged exposure to sun. I also know that many still prize a tan.

This, of course, has led to the rise in fake tanning.

And you know what? Fake tans look ... uh, fake. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. Check this out, it's the blog "Pale Is The New Tan."

All I have to say is: Are you frickin' kidding me? 'the hell is wrong with these people? Do they really think this looks good?

If the shoe fits

2010-02-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Adversity schmadversity

2010-02-08T10:21:00.001-07:00

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.

Discounts and giveaways just in time for Valentine's Day

2010-02-03T10:33:00.001-07:00

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!

Look out below ... er, above

2010-02-02T09:30:00.001-07:00

I'm sore. Every joint on the left side of my body aches. I'm even bruised on the palm of my hand.

And I'm irritated, on the verge of angry. But my irritation has come a couple days too late. I guess you could say I'm a slow bloomer.

For once my bodily injuries are not self-inflicted and, no, alcohol was not involved.

I was run over by a teenaged snowboarder ... an unrepentant, teenaged snowboarder.

Sunday, Margaret and I journeyed up to Powderhorn with the intention of honing our ski skills with a lesson and a day on some really nice snow. The day started out great and our lesson was going well. Then Margaret had to go to the bathroom.

I've never been so thankful that she has a pea-sized bladder than I was Sunday.

While she trudged down to the restrooms (why are the bathrooms so far away?), I made a run with our instructor down the bunny slope. I was practicing making parallel turns (more French fries and less pizza!) and doing well when all of a sudden I was tackled by a speeding dimwit and went sprawling down the hill.

When I combobulated myself, I turned to see a teenaged snowboarder complete with stupid droopy pants and the pathetic start of a post-pubescent beard looking a bit dazed and annoyed as he sat in the snow. My instructor spent a good amount of time sternly explaining to the young man the rules of the hill and stressing upon him that if you can't stop, you shouldn't be on the hill. He assured her that he could indeed stop, but could give no reason for why exactly he chose to me as to impede his forward motion.

I found that I was OK and inelegantly got myself up and ready to continue. My first thought in my head was, "Thank goodness Margaret was in the bathroom."

That careless kid would have seriously injured her or worse.

It's those thoughts that make a mama shudder.

And while I assured my instructor that I was OK and I just wanted to continue my lesson, I was a bit shaken. OK, scared. There are't many situations where you get plowed into by a human being speeding down hill faster than gravity intended and even fewer times where you put your kid into that danger. But life isn't without risks and even sitting on the couch has certain dangers.

I didn't want my fear to ruin my day nor scare Margaret so, I finished my run, Mar and I finished our lesson and we spent the next couple hours practicing our parallel skiing again and again down the bunny slope.

Now, two days later, I sit in pain with a bruise the size of New Jersey decorating my left leg and wishing that I had taken the opportunity to "accidentally" smack that kid in the junk with my ski pole.

Mama's cooking

2010-01-27T13:41:00.001-07:00

Lately my mom has been cooking up some yummy, healthy dinners.

This is awesome, not just because we're eating healthy and eating good, but because my mom is cooking.

It takes her a while and she has to lie down when the pain gets too bad, but still she's doing it.

Monday on my lunch hour, we went into the bank on an errand, then to lunch where we had to walk a block down Main Street (because I can never remember where anything is) and back again.

She was able to do all of this with only a cane which she uses more for balance than anything else.

I realize most 66-year-old women can do these things, but for my mom it is monumental.

Last June, after suffering for months with debilitating back and hip pain, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer which metastasized to bones and had taken over larger portions of her spine. The prognosis was not good, not good at all.

She was suffering greatly. The pain prevented her from being able to do almost anything but lie on one side in bed.

When I brought her to Grand Junction to live with us, my mom could barely make it from the bed around the corner to the bathroom while using a walker. She couldn't sit for any length of time and walking was precarious and painful.

Luckily for us, she has a great team of doctors at the St. Mary's Cancer Center and was given effective treatments.

Now she walks around the house without even a cane, sits with her computer on her lap, keeps her room, cleans the kitchen and makes dinner.

It is glorious.

Her doctors are thrilled and as am I.

Mama's back and she's making us dinner.

McCraquette ball

2010-01-26T09:49:00.001-07:00

I've been Googling and reading the rules of racquetball.

I think it's important that Bill, Margaret and I actually know something about this game because what we did at the racquetball court last night bore no resemblance to any organized game. Instead, it looked more like a 3-D version of the old video game, Super Breakout.

But we did have fun. The three of us ran around smacking the ball as much as we possibly could. We cheered each other on and I only yelled at Bill a couple of times for trying to detach our retinas.

And it was way better than doing what Margaret wanted to do.

She wanted us to move ourselves around the jogging track ... by jogging.

Jogging is not something that I aspire to do.

I should point out that I'd like to have the aerobic capacity to be able to run for some respectable amount time ... you know, in case I was being chased by some horrible monster or if the ice cream truck was getting away. But I don't really want to be running just for the sake of running.

There's a kajillion things I'd much rather be doing. Number one on that list is lying down ... in my bed ... watching HBO (we only get HBO free for one more month, so I'm trying to get my money's worth — OK, since I'm not paying for it, I'm not actually getting my "money's worth," but I don't want it to go unwatched. Plus have you seen that series "Big Love"? Because holy macarolli, that's a crazy show. )

Really that is the problem that led us to sign up for a membership to the Mesa State rec center — I've been lying down way too much. It's all I want to do.

Bill and I have had gym memberships before and, honestly, I really liked going to the gym. But I felt too guilty being out of the house so many evenings during the week.

Now Bill and I can take Margaret with us to play racquetball (assuming that we actually learn the game. In the meantime, we'll continue playing McCraquette ball with exuberance), swim or even — gag — jog on the inside track.

I shouldn't really make it sound so bad, 10 years ago while pregnant with Margaret, I was a full-time employee of Mesa State College. My assistant and I would use the gym several days a week.

She'd use the machines while I'd walk on the treadmill. Then we'd walk as fast as we could around the then-much-shorter inside track (believe me, having access to an inside track during the middle of summer here while pregnant was essential) for three or four miles.

And I really enjoyed it. I'd like to think that all that exercise was the reason I had such a quick labor and delivery. Who knows?

So now, while I have no intention of bulking up to my pre-birth weight, I would like to achieve my pre-birth aerobic capacity ... you know, in case the ice cream man tries to deny me an ice-cream sandwich.

In sickness

2010-01-14T10:23:00.003-07:00

As I'm typing this, I keep pausing to inhale the steam wafting off my herbal tea in hopes that it'll open my clogged sinuses.

It's that a nice way to start a blog, by painting a picture of a nose full of boogers and sickness? Yeah, well, it's that kind of day.

But I'm trying not to complain.

Trying real hard.

Margaret got sick several weeks ago and it working her way through a second round of antibiotics to get the evil cough to go away.

Sunday, my mom came down with some serious congestion and a loose, phlegmy cough (pretty, eh?).

Bill's trying to avoid any contact with anything we touch, breath on or even look at just in case. I don't blame him. I should've been more diligent.

But for now, I've dusted off the old neti pot, found the SinuCleanse, I'm taking Zicam and drinking herbal tea.

What do you for the common cold?

P.S. On a completely different note, sometimes it's a very good idea to heed the PG-13 rating on movies.

Last night, Mar, my mom and I sardined on my mom's bed to watch Julie & Julia while Bill sat as far away as he could get from the triumvirate of illness.

While the premise of famous chef Julia Child and a young writer seems an appropriate one for 9-year-old, I was sadly mistaken. At one point I had to answer Margaret with a bland, "You don't need to worry about that" when, in reference to a comment made by Julia Child, Margaret asked "What is a stiff cock?"

That Julia was a saucy one on many levels.

Vegas is fun ... who knew

2010-01-12T12:57:00.003-07:00

So I'm sure you all know by now, Bill and I went to Vegas.

It was fun, eat drank a lot (you can walk down the street with drinks, just like civilized people should), we ate a lot and I started out my family's Biggest Loser Challenge by gaining one pound (Bill reminded me that I should be happy it's only one pound considered all the eat and drink).

But because I can't leave well enough alone, here are some photo highlights from our trip:

It's better than a slap in the face

2010-01-07T08:48:00.002-07:00

I'm clumsy. I trip over stuff, fall up stairs and start to skid if I even look at ice. Basically, I'm awkward.

Because of this, I decided a while ago to forgo high fives.

I didn't choose to not high five out of malice, but because I'm afraid of accidentally slapping unknowing person in the face.

Also, I used to miss a lot and that just made me feel stupid.

So now when presented with a palm to slap, I have to say, "Sorry, I don't high five."

And you know what?

It bothers people ... a lot.

I realize that by not high fiving, I am rebuffing a socially accepted gesture of affirmation. I'm sorry about that. But still, I should be allowed to not high five, don't ya think?

Many people do not agree. I have been chased down in a vain attempt to force me to high five and there are numerous people who try to trick me into high fiving.

Seriously.

Now, I don't high five on principle. I'll shake your hand when appropriate, hug you if I like you, but don't ask me to slap your hand or I might just miss on purpose.

I think, therefore, I Twitter

2010-01-05T05:48:00.001-07:00

I like social networking. I blog (obviously, eh?), I Facebook and I Twitter.

I can take a picture with my BlackBerry and when I upload it via Ubertwitter, it automatically updates my Facebook status.

In short, I'm a bit of a geek ... well, I don't write code or anything smart like that, so maybe I'm just like everybody else who performs these now-mundane tasks.

Through Facebook, I've been able to reconnect and stay in touch with many family members who I'd normally see only at weddings and funerals, as well as former classmates and long-lost friends.

For me, social networking is fun. I like it — for the most part.

There is a basic code of etiquette to which we should all strive for our online presences. Click here to read Brenda Powell's basic list of dos and don't for social networking.

Here are a few of my guidelines:

First, my kid, my mom and my grandms are all on Facebook. So I do try to keep my posts, pictures, stories, videos, etc., acceptable for their viewing enjoyment.

I break this guideline often.

I have been known to spend a Sunday morning or two deleting unsavory pictures and/or comments that I had posted the night before when my good judgment was clouded by my beer goggles and readily accessible Internet.

I try to make my updates at least marginally funny (to myself, anyway) or informational. I try (and, again, often fail) to avoid posting mundane facts, e.g., "I had lunch with Bill today," "I'm working at my desk," "I'm walking my dog."

All those things are true (well, I'm not actually walking my dog right now. She actually hates the cold. Thank goodness our dear friend bought her a dog snuggie), but in the grand scheme of things, who cares?

If I'm dead set on pronouncing my lunchtime activities, I try at least to include some entertaining tidbit, e.g., "I dazzled the folks in the Chipotle parking lot by falling off the 6" curb today after lunch with Bill."

Still not the most interesting thing in the world, because if you know me, you know that the probability of me falling off each and every curb I'm presented with is pretty high. But at least there was some effort to craft a statement worth reading.

Now while I'm not that interested in reading about what you had for dinner, I am interested in seeing your pictures. I'm a visual person. Don't write that you got a new haircut/tattoo/snuggie unless you are going to post pictures of the aforementioned item. I want to be able to judge for myself whether the haircut/tattoo/snuggie is indeed as awesome as you suggest.

One of my social-networking pet peeves is when people use their status updates to count down to their awesome vacations upon which I have not been invited (Daniel, I'm looking at you!).

While I love to hear what people are doing on their vacays and see pictures of the places they are visiting, knowing that they have 3 days, 15 hours and 29 minutes until their plane lands in Hawaii, makes me hope — just a little bit — they experience a bed-bug infestation.

I post links to my blogs on Facebook and sometimes to Twitter, not because I expect everyone to be interested enough to read them, just so that those that I've "friended" can, if they want to.

Honestly, I'm always surprised when I find out that people actually read my scribblings. That fact alone makes me strive to be more interesting, more funny, more profound.

In the meantime, I only can hope to be less annoying.

From the list of "Things I Do Not Want"

2010-01-04T14:33:00.004-07:00

There are a lot of things, stuff, doohickeys that I'd like to have. This is not one of them:

Why don't I want it?

Because it's a teddy bear made out of human placenta.

As a matter of fact, I do not want any object make out of any part of a human person. But thanks anyway.

2009: A recap odyssey

2009-12-31T08:29:00.001-07:00

As I sit here attempting to sum up this year, 2009, I'm overcome by a few strong sensations.

First is happiness. I have two really good jobs that I really like (I never really understood that idea of working at a job that made you unhappy), a devoted husband (again never understood staying with someone who didn't make you happy), a stepson of which I'm immensely proud and a daughter who blows my socks off in oh-so-many ways.

This also extends to the fact that my mom is now living with us. But that happiness is clouded, of course, by the stupid cancer that has tried — without success, I might add — to take her down.

Honestly, my mom's illness, coming on the heels of my dad's death two years ago, was initially devastating. I remember crying on the phone to my brother and asking, "Why is this happening to us?"

I now realize that sometimes sucky things just happen. You can either sit back and let the sucky things make your life suck or pick yourself up and get busy living.

And that's just what we did.

I wanted to include a few pictures from 2009 showing the places we visited and that stuff we did, but it turns out we had a really kick-booty year. I had a hard time narrowing it down. So without further ado, here's a kajillionty photos I'd like to title:

The stuff we done did in 2009

We climbed Mt. Garfield.

Skied at Powderhorn.

We celebrated Easter with my co-workers here at The Daily Sentinel.

My band, Riveter, opened for Bret Michaels.

I saw my beloved stepson, Sean, graduate from Palisade High School.

We hiked to Hanging Lake near Glenwood Springs.

Saw my daughter turn 9 years old.

We stood on the Four Corners Monument.

Visited the Pacific Ocean near San Francisco.

Climbed the ancient steps to the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde.

Bill and I got to see our president speak on health care reform.

Took a motorcycle ride through scenic Gateway Canyon.

Visited the museums of our nation's capitol.

And I started the long and painful journey of getting a giant tattoo on my back.

Phew! Just thinking about it makes me exhausted ... and excited to see what 2010 has in store.

Happy New Year to all!

Coming to an end

2009-12-29T14:28:00.006-07:00

I guess it's appropriate that as the year is closing change is afoot.

Sometimes it's hard to let go. But what remains is that the only certainty is change. It doesn't matter how much you give love, attention, affection, adoration ... sometimes you just have to let go.

But, 2010 is around the corner and new challenges are on the horizon.

It is with sadness and remorse that I wish the old goodbye, adieu, so long ... I wish you didn't have to go. But I understand it's time. Time for change. Time for new adventures.

And, remarkably, I'm OK with it.

So without further ado, I bid farewell:

Farewell Once-Giant Pencil/Now-Wee Pencil.

But fear not, for I have but a new giant pencil which I am calling Giant Pencil, Too.

The Giant Pencil is dead!
Long live the Giant Pencil, Too.

2009-12-17T10:08:00.001-07:00

As Richie and her family begin their holiday traditions, our little family is continuing ours — with some exceptions and variations.

We found our tree at the Orchard Mesa Christmas Tree Farm, as we have for the last several years. We had to skip the hayride, which we always enjoy, because Margaret was had a cold and the icy wind hurried us back to our car.

We couldn't find our good Christmas tree stand and then argued over using the bad Christmas tree stand and whether or not the tree should be cut again once we got it home (I said yes, Bill said no. I acquiesced simply because my fingers were too frozen to stay outside and saw a new cut myself). This is not part of our holiday traditions and one that we hope we do NOT continue in the future.

Cutting our own Christmas tree is not something that we did when I was a child. I grew up in the San Francisco-Bay Area where parking lots vastly outnumber tree farms. Instead we'd go to the huge tree lots out by the Oakland Coliseum. We'd walk around, eat a hot dog and find a tree.

Eating a hot dog was almost as important as getting a good tree.

This year when we got home from the tree farm, my mom asked if we got a hot dog.

I think next year that will become part of our tradition — because hot dogs should be part of every tradition, as far as I'm concerned.

Our first Christmas together, Bill and I had no Christmas decorations at all. But we still bought a giant tree and pulled our pennies to buy some simple bulbs, a couple blown-glass ornaments, bows and an angel.

We still use them, but now we decorate our tree with ornaments that we've have accumulated over our 11 Christmases together as a family. I saved all the Hallmark boxes and plastic containers for each ornament and love opening each one. As we put them on our tree, we talk about how cute/pretty/thoughtful each ornament is, where it came from or who gave it to us.

I love this part of the holiday.

This year, I bought some picture frames, sorted through a box of old photos and put a bunch of pictures of my dad out on our piano.

He's the only thing missing this year.

Tattoo transformation: Mucha tattoo phase three

2009-12-15T13:37:00.008-07:00

Those that follow me on Twitter and Facebook know that a week and a half ago, I had my third sitting for my Mucha backpiece tattoo.

It was only four hours and I sat much better this time than last. I have it down to a science now. Unlike all the fashionistas that show up on LA Ink, I come in my sweats and my sweatshirt. I fortify myself with my pain relievers, snacks, water (it's gotta be Fuji and lots of it) and my pillow — yes, I bring my own pillow to get tattooed.

Comfort is important to me, especially when I'm sitting for hours while I voluntarily let some guy carve into my skin with needles. (OK, not just some guy, but a talented and experienced tattoo artist.)

I've had many ask me the significance of the images I'm getting permanently inked on myself. It's not as easy as simply decoding the image's iconography. This tattoo is about the images and the process.

Coming up with the images was the easy part. I'm a very visual person. I love looking at images, buildings, people, pictures, artwork. And I'll look at the same stuff over and over again, because the world is so beautiful and interesting.

I knew I wanted something feminine, organic and beautiful. At first I though that I just wanted more floral elements, maybe a dragonfly or a swallow. But then while going through my dear friend Tracee's book on the artwork of Alphonse Mucha, I was moved by the grace of line work and the elegance of his figures and flowers.

I borrowed Tracee's book and spent hours pouring over the images. His graphic work was already two-dimensional and linear and would translate easily into a tattoo.

I looked at all his flowers trying to decide which ones I wanted to add to my existing, lower-back tattoos. But I kept coming back to one image, this one:

Mucha's personification of emerald. I love her beauty and confident gaze. I love the lines of her drapery and of the gargoyle upon which she rests. I love the stylized snake that twists through her hair and its manifold meanings.

I wanted her. But I've seen way too many bad tattoos of human faces. Instead of yielding to my fears, I found the best tattoo artist in the valley, Erik Campbell at The Raw Canvas and hit the go button. As luck would have it, he not only knew the artwork of Alphonse Mucha, but had been wanting to do a Mucha tattoo.

While my girl is from the emerald image, Erik has been borrowing flowers from the other three images in Mucha's Precious Stones series: ruby, amethyst and topaz. All symbols of grace, beauty, elegance. I love these images.

The image was the easy part. It's the tattooing that's the challenge. For me, this process is not just about transforming the skin on my back into a work of art. It's about coming to terms with who I am inside and out.

I've never been happy with the way I look; too fat, too bulky, too lopsided, too big, too lumpy. And it's taken every ounce of will power to post the photo above and below as they show my flaws — my ugliness along side my self-inflicted beauty.
I so wanted to crop off the bottom of this picture. Showing my stretch marks and love handles sends my anxiety into overdrive.

But this is what I look like. This is my woman's body. This is me. And through a regular, not-media-tainted lens, it's not so bad.

But I'm forcing myself to write this. There's still a huge part of my scarred psyche that wants to temper these remarks, make fun of myself, because I know I could look better, more like the women on TV. But I don't.

And as much as I want to be fine with it, I'm still working it out.

As I say to Bill quite often these days when I flare up over tiny things and have a hard time coping, "My dust it up."

All my feelings of insecurities, all the pain and sadness, feelings of loss and inadequacy are floating around my brain, taking over. I usually keep them watered down, but now I'm forcing myself to keep them up and active. I keep shaking them around like snow a Christmas globe, hoping that I can learn and grow from dissecting them and ultimately learning to love them.

Throughout my life, I've thought that if I'd just lose weight, I'd feel better about myself, I'd be happy with who I am. Never once thinking that my problem isn't 25 pounds.

Now I am. And this process, through its physical and mental pain, is proving itself to be transformative in ways I never thought possible.

Perspective

2009-12-02T10:01:00.001-07:00

I have a blue sticky note sitting on my desk with a list of words written on it. The words are intended to remind me of blog posts that I want to write.

But this one is coming first.

This may not be as important as sharing with you all the state and condition of my dearest stepson or as funny as the fact that I almost always have at least one accidentally self-inflicted bruise. Nor as compelling as that I’ve discovered people are seriously disturbed by my decision not to high five.

Over the past couple of years, my perspective on life has changed, or I should say is changing. And my family dynamic is changing as well.

The relationship I have with my husband, mother, daughter and stepson are so much more than I ever thought they could be.

And it’s because I’ve changed and so has how I view the events of my life. Oh, I still blow up over missing iPods and dog pee on the carpet. But I know now that that’s a luxury and also stupid.

This blog entry written by a former-San Francisco lawyer, now Detroit, stay-at-home dad illustrates exactly how one’s world goes from little to big as fast as it takes for someone to puke.

And that’s no joke.

Thoughts on the boob vise

2009-11-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before, my mom has breast cancer which had metastasized to her bones. Thanks to the great doctors and staff at St. Mary's Cancer Center, she is improving. For that I am very thankful.

My humble opinion is that cancer sucks and we should all be doing what we reasonably can to prevent it and/or detect it early.

For women that means yearly pap smears combined with, after age 40, the boob vise.

But now, researchers have said that women needn't have their breasts flattened in the mammogram torture machine until their 50th birthday and that self-exams are not that helpful.

I have mixed emotions about these findings.

First, since I have cancer in my family, I'm not one that can be spared the yearly mammogram until I'm 50. And as much as I want any cancer I might have to be detected early, the idea of having my womanly bits ironed flat like a linen skirt doesn't appeal to me much.

Is this really the best we can do? Clamping breasts into machines to look for cancer?

I bet if that's the way testicular cancer was detected, they'd be a whole poop-pot full of doctors and researchers looking for new testing methods.

Why girl bands are awesome: Reason 386

2009-11-17T15:19:00.003-07:00

Girl bands (or in our case, "mostly all-girl" or "all-girl fronted") are awesome because we care so deeply for one another.

Yesterday I woke up with an issue. My head was not correctly attach to my neck. It was listing to the right, painfully.

I've had this before. Been to the doctors, chiropractors, acupuncturists, physical therapists and ultimately ended up at the neurosurgeon who told me I've got some arthritis in my neck.

He suggestion was to go about my enjoying my life as usual.

Well, that was helpful. Because literally having my head on crooked was great and no one ever made fun of me.

Anyway, I started doing yoga and exercising regularly and I haven't had much problem with it since.

Until yesterday.

I saw Laurena yesterday morning and complained about my neck.

Her response?

"Oh no, not your guitar playing neck!"

Husband of the year

2009-11-16T10:00:00.002-07:00

I know, I know, I've expounded on my husband's virtues before. But this weekend's events prove without a doubt that my husband should be 2009's Husband of the Year (and honestly, having to deal with me and all my issues, the dude should be Husband of the Millennium).

Bill's bromance, Cy, was having a housewarming fest Saturday night (for those not in the know, a housewarming for a 20-something bachelor is very similar to a frat party only without all the lame-ass frat dudes ... so I guess it's not like a frat party at all, but a regular party just without furniture or some PMSing wife making everyone go home).

About a hour before we were to leave, we noticed a catastrophic failure of the sump pump in our basement.

In. The. Basement. The basement that is now our bedroom.

Y'all know what the sump pump is and does right? There's a vat into which the downstairs sink, washer, shower and toilet drain. Then when it gets to a certain level, a trigger turns on the pump and pumps all the shitty water up to the sewer line for the rest of the house.

The pump is in the vat of shit, toilet paper and bum water.

If I were left to my own devices, I'da gotten on the telephone wildly dialing numbers until I could hire some fixer person to come deal with the issue.

Bill, being a man of fixing tendencies, opened the shit vat and extricated the pump while I stood in the bedroom watching TV and hoping to not have to help.

But I did need to help.

Bill stood there with this giant pump attached to a PVC pipe breaking his back asking me to cover the new carpet and help him wrap the thing in plastic bags.

My response, "Wait, I have to change my shirt and put up my hair."

Because I'm helpful. Needless to say, Bill pulled a muscle in his back.

But I did help. And I am scarred from it.

All in all, Bill got the pump out, unclogged and back in and I only cried a little once.

After the whole poopfest was over, he showered, scrubbing himself with acid and we went to the party.

It got drunk out that night and we slobbered home around 3 a.m.

Sunday morning, Bill and I were feeling less than chipper made less so by the fact that the sump pump was again not working.

So after a quick run to McDonalds for hangover breakfast, Bill once again breached the seal of poopland and fixed the pump again.

This time, I laid on the sofa too hungover to even pretend to help.

When I finally ventured downstairs (after watching the newest episode of Top Chef and fighting off nausea and a migraine). The pump was fixed, the bathroom was clean and the husband laid panty-clad on the bed ... and he wasn't even pissed that I didn't help him.

See? Husband of the Year.

Confessions of a budding addict

2009-11-11T13:32:00.003-07:00

Hi, my name is Robin and I'm an addict.

My husband and I thought that together we'd just use a little. You know, to help us out, to be more productive. But now it's all he wants to do and I'm just about as bad.

I can go for lengths of time without my addiction and I can stop whenever I want to.

But I don't want to.

And I'm starting to feel the effects, like when I'm driving or watching TV ... I'm distracted. Always glancing around to see if I can get a quick fix.

I can't seem to help myself. I've been googling ways to use more and faster.

It's time that I come clean.

My name is Robin and I'm addicted to my Blackberry.

Yes, I even sicken myself.

Smarter than a speeding bullet

2009-11-10T08:25:00.002-07:00

I'm sure I've mentioned before that Margaret likes old movies. Unfortunately, by "old" I mean movies from the ’70s and ’80s — those prehistoric times when I was young.

There's something about those movies that appeals to her. I think it's because they aren't really scary and tend to be a bit silly — and that works just fine for her.

Last night we finished watching the 1978 Superman movie with Christopher Reeve. And I have to admit that after not having seen it in 30 years, I really enjoyed it (even if I did not quite understand the flying part — I mean, what exactly propels him?) and so did Mar ... for the most part.

At the moment when Superman pulls Lois Lane from her car which had fallen into the San Andreas Fault and discovers her dead, Margaret utters matter-of-factly, "Doesn't he know CPR?"

Yes, he could fly so fast as to turn the planet backward, rewinding time. But he doesn't know basic life-saving skills such as CPR? Huh. Some Superman.

Vibrating mascara ... 'the hell?

2009-11-05T12:53:00.002-07:00

So I mentioned briefly last time that I was in the market for mascara.

I don't know if you've been shopping for mascara lately, but your typical, drug-store variety costs about $8 a tube.

Eight bucks.

That's two, happy-hour beers.

So I don't like to go throwing around my hard earned 8 bucks all willy nilly. As I mentioned, I tried to get Bill to help me, but he was on the hunt for a Mississippi mudflap and was no help.

Well, I should say that his response was, "Eight dollars? Just pick a cheap one so we can go."

He's so helpful.

I looked at all the applicators, then all the colors, then started to get anxious because what if I bought one and hated it. I'd have to do this all over again.

Just as I was about to buy one of each, I noticed this:

Mascara with a vibrating, pulsating applicator.

Um, I hate to sound daft, but I don't get it.

Why would someone want their applicator to vibrate?

I have enough trouble trying to get the mascara on my lashes and out of my eye without having the thing tremble on its own.

And how could a pulsing applicator make the whole process easier? Would it shake the goop on my lashes?

I think this whole "vibrating applicator" is just a beard and that it's not intended to be used for mascara application at all.

I'm just sayin'. We could see a lot more happy women with messy mascara.

The one that got away

2009-11-03T08:39:00.004-07:00

Last night I needed a couple of things from the drug store and recruited Bill to go along.

This is a good thing and a bad thing.

It's good because he's great company and keeps me entertained — even if it's only for a quick trip to the store.

It's bad because what should have been a 5-minute trip down two aisles and out, turned into an unsuccessful "hunting" trip.

Why? Because we just can't act right — even after 10 years of marriage.

I needed conditioner and mascara. We started in front of the Biolage products where I began expounding on the virtues of Biolage's Smoothing Conditioner.

Seriously people, if you have have frizzy, unruly hair, go right now (I'll wait) and buy yourself some Biolage Smoothing Shampoo and Conditioner. You'll thank me for it.

While I was claiming that I'd have to shave my head if they ever stopped making Smoothing Conditioner, Bill was kicking my shoe and glancing repeatedly over my shoulder. Finally I realized he wasn't trying to get me to shut up, instead he was trying to direct my attention to the next aisle.

And what did I see? A fem-mullet of colossal proportions.

Bill was completely entranced.

I tried to get him to help me pick out a mascara, but he couldn't take his eyes off the Kentucky waterfall. In desperation, I decided to just believe Drew Barrymore and selected the mascara promising bold lashes.

But we weren't done.

No. Bill was insistent that we capture of photo of this hockey hair in the wild. So we started stalking this poor woman around the store. At one point, I studied the Chia Pet display while Bill faked a phone conversation so he could take a picture with his Blackberry.

I was finding it harder and harder to maintain a normal composure and we were running out of things to "shop" for so we gave up and headed to the cash register.

And guess who walked up behind us?

I heard Bill's Blackberry's camera snap a picture as I was signing the debit receipt.

As we walked out of the door, I asked him half giggling, "Did you get it?"

Bill looked down at the screen and frowned, "Naw, I just got a picture of a bunch of candy."

I bet this is how Big Foot hunters feel.

Jokes on ... uh, who?

2009-10-28T09:21:00.001-07:00

From the Holy Crap files: A radio show was playing a prank on a woman and it goes ... uh, terribly awry.

Make sure you listen to the very end.

Boss Tells Woman that her Husband's been Fired sound bite Humor sound bites

Yay and brrrr

2009-10-28T07:26:00.003-07:00

This view out my front door surprised me as I was on my way to work.

I know, I know, the weather dude said there'd be snow. But I expected it to later ... like the end of November. And yes, I know Denver and the mountains are getting hammered right now, but they are supposed to get hammered with snow. We high desert dwellers are supposed to be treated better than that.

But I'm not complaining, I'm just sayin'.

Because really, I'm excited about the snow. Snow = skiing and skiing = beer at the resort lodge. Ah, it's a beautiful world. Plus, remember, I got new skis last year. (And I think I'm going to sell my almost-brand-new-but-I-don't-want-to-use-them-because-I'm-too-old-to-be-all-fallin'-on-my-butt snowboard boots and board — any buyers? I'll make you a good deal!)

And in addition to my new skis last year, we got Mar new skis while we were in Denver a while ago. Then on our way traveling home from our yearly Washington, D.C. trip we were able to stop in Silverthorne (where I started my Christmas shopping big time ... yay) and scored her brand new boots for a screaming deal.

It was such a good deal that we actually hurried away in case they realized what they had done and changed their minds.

So, what I'm getting at is that we're on the cusp of ski season and we're all set. So snow, bring it on.

Of how the others must see the faker

2009-10-12T14:42:00.002-07:00

No, that's not Bill singing with his band.

It's Bill singing karaoke at the Livery in Palisade. He charmed us all with his version of David Bowie's "Changes." Dude rocked it.

And he wasn't even that drunk nor tricked/forced into it.

It was actually quite easy to get him to do it. I said, "Why don't you sing a song, Bill?" He pretended not to want to. But after about 3 seconds of encouragement, he was up there looking through the song books.

The only thing surprising about it was that this was his first time singing karaoke.

And guess what?

He's a natural.

The princess

2009-10-09T07:22:00.003-07:00

Nastia. Our little kitty. Man is she spoiled.

She's almost a year old now and she's completely won over our entire household.

Nastia (whom I've taken to calling just Liddow Kii-yy) got our cantankerous Billie Holiday cat to not try to kill her every time they were in the same room together. That alone is a miracle.

But the biggest feat she was able to achieve was getting to lay on my mother's bed.

For those who doen't know my mom, she doesn't like animals to touch her stuff and especially not her directly.

She's fine with them in the house — for the most part. But she did make me promise that we'd never get a bunch of big dogs that would slobber all over her. That was easy as I myself am not a fan of big dogs slobbering all over me.

My mom spent the first couple weeks living with us training (as much as any of our animals can be trained) our pets to not — under any circumstances — get on her bed, touch her stuff and especially not touch her.

They all learned this ... except for Nastia.

The little kitty is very persistent with her princess ways and took advantage of my mom's limited mobility.

If the dog looks at my mom too long or in the wrong way, all my mom has to do is point a finger and Quincy makes a hasty retreat. If Billie or Ella get on her bed, my mom moves her leg and off they scamper.

Not Nastia. She just moves out of my mom's reach and goes back to sleep.

The other day I saw her snuggled against my mom's leg!

Like I said, Nastia's the princess of the house and we all seem to have that figured out now.

Mar's new haircut coincidence

2009-10-08T09:11:00.004-07:00

Yesterday, Bill and I took Margaret to get her haircut. She's got school pictures today and our fabulous hairdresser squeezed Mar in.

Mason's the best. I'd never let anyone else touch my hair (What? You don't think blond and purple hair grows out of my head, do you? Because at this point, my head mostly grows gray hair — rabble scrabble gray hair). Mar loves getting her hair cut by Mason ... but who wouldn't.

Check her out:

Super cute, huh?

Because we were making Mason nervous (or maybe because she doesn't really like us all that much), she sent us around the corner to get a beer while she cut Mar's hair.

Being ones to never turn down the opportunity to drink beer, we dashed off to Weaver's Tavern. We took seats at the bar and enjoyed our beer.

Not long after, the couple sitting next to us told the bartender they had to catch the train on their way to Reno. This got my attention.

Then he said, "Well, not really Reno, but Truckee."

Huh?

I blurted out, "Truckee, really? My mom has a house in Truckee."

Turns out the couple summers in Wisconsin while they work for some kind of water something or other (I'm a good listener) and then winter in Truckee where the dude is the manager of one of the ski shops there — and it just happened to be the one I bought Bill's snowboard at several years ago.

I love coincidences.

Yes, I do realize this "story" is only interesting to me.

Polanski and child sex abuse

2009-10-06T07:41:00.002-07:00

Roman Polanski raped a 13-year-old girl. He admitted he did and then he ran away from his punishment. Now just because many years have passed, people are saying that he should be let off the hook for his heinous crimes?

No. He should pay for his horrible acts and he should pay dearly.

It's important to us as a society that we never allow such actions to be justified.

Don't take my word for it, click here to read a survivor's word for it.

So long as children are still being raped, no abuser should ever be allowed a free pass.

Sick house

2009-10-02T08:19:00.004-07:00

We've left my mom the entire house, while the rest of us huddle in the basement barking our seal coughs all over each other. I'm surprised my mom doesn't open the basement door and throw fish down to us while we clap our flippers in appreciation.

Needless to say, we're trying to not get my mom sick. Mar's been banished from her bed. And because Bill and I are both sick and my new tattoo still hurts, I banished Mar from our bed, too. So last night she slept on a make-shift mat of blankets next to our bed.

When I got up to get ready for work this morning, I saw her little (I guess I should say, little-ish, she's a growing weed) foot poking out from the tangle of quilts and comforters. Then I heard her cough.

Poor nut.

But Bill's got it the worst. He'll claim the reason is because he's got the "man" version of this virus. I think it's because his immune system is man-weak.

I've been pounding Airborne, drinking lots of water and eating as much soup as I can get my hands on.

That made me less sick. Well enough to go to work, but sick enough to know that I'm miserable.

Stupid virus. Thankfully it's Friday and my bed is calling.

Thank you for being a friend

2009-09-30T12:26:00.001-07:00

Things have changed around my house since my mom came to live with us in July.

First, Bill and I remodeled our formerly disgusting teenager room/dirty storage dump of a basement into a surprisingly comfortable bedroom.

Yes, we have stackable washer and dryer machines in our closet, but we've also got privacy and new carpet and a memory-foam mattress topper and a TV in our own room. (And it's remarkable how convenient it is to do the laundry right before I got to bed and never have to leave my room!)

In our almost 10 years of marriage, Bill and I have never had a TV in our bedroom before. What a luxury! I mean, I could totally live without it, but man oh man, it's so nice to be able to do my nightly yoga et al. while watching reruns of Top Chef in the privacy of my own room. (Yes, I do watch TV while I do yoga and it probably does spoil the centering/earthy goodness of yoga, but it's how I roll ... plus it's better than lying there eating tiny box after tiny box of Junior Mints while watching TV.)

I no longer have to worry about the neighbors making the unfortunate mistake of glancing in our windows while I'm in the middle of downward dog ... yeah, it's not a pretty sight. All those months of indulgent eating has made one wide, Haute-Mama derriere.

One of the best things that has happened is that Margaret no longer comes into our bed anymore.

No, silly rabbit, she didn't start sleeping in her own bed. That would be some kind of child torture to make that girl sleep in her own bed (according to her, anyway). Now, she sleeps in my mom's bed.

And you know what, I think it's great.

All those years of her stealthy moves getting into our bed and sleeping on the tiniest of slivers of mattress has made Margaret quite a decent bed companion. She stays on her side of the bed, leaving ample room for my mom and she's not bothered by my mom's TV.

Being that my mom still spends a lot of time in bed due to the pain in lower spine and hip from that stupid cancer, she had the TV on a lot for distraction and entertainment.

When it's time for Margaret to go to sleep, my mom doesn't have to turn off the TV. Instead, she simply tells Mar it's time bedtime and Mar dutifully places one of her stuffed "guys" over her eyes and goes to sleep.

Really.

It's crazy, but it works.

And I don't have a kid in my bed anymore.

Hallelujah!

But there has been one strange side effect from Mar sleeping in my mom's bed. Margaret has developed a taste for old reruns, most notably "Golden Girls."

You know, the sitcom from the '80s with Blanche, Rose, Dorothy and Sophia.

Yeah, that one.

In the mornings when I come up out of the basement on my way to work, I often find Margaret eating her breakfast in the living room watching "Golden Girls" instead of "Ben Ten."

It's not really appropriate for a 9-year-old girl, but the bawdy humor mostly goes over her head and Sophia's zingers make Margaret laugh out loud.

Plus she and I like to sing the theme song in duet. Let's all sing along: Thank you for being a fri-end, traveled down the road and back again ...

More Mucha, more pain

2009-09-29T07:51:00.005-07:00

Bill and I spent the weekend in Denver. His band had a show Saturday night and we stayed up late both nights having a good time.

And what's the best way to recover from a weekend of music, beer, friends and family?

Yep, spending five hours Monday getting tattooed.

FIVE HOURS!

And I'm not including set up time 'n' crap. Erik from the Raw Canvas got started and worked hard all afternoon. We took one break during which I considered running away, but the pain is so worth it.

Check it out:

Silly girl, hooker shoes are for hookers

2009-09-23T09:38:00.002-07:00

Last night the Riveter posse loaded up and hit the Social Distortion show at the Mesa Theater. It was a sold-out show and the place was hopping (but I have to say that Bret's crowd packed the front of the stage for the entire night).

Being the Riveter girls that we are, we got ourselves all gussied up, hooker shoes 'n' all — which seemed like a good idea at the time.

There were two opening bands and then Mike Ness et al. took the stage and rocked the hizzouse.

Man, they were good.

Bill and I worked our way to the front of the stage because that's where I want to be ... where the action's at. I clung to the rail as Bill deflected the moshers away. Ah, good times.

But as the night wore on, my feet wore down.

Four inch heels just ain't as comfortable as you'd think. And because I'm just not that smart, I agreed to stop at the Quincy briefly to check out local no-coast punk rock band, Loaded. 45, after the show. Our ride had to head home, so I nonchalantly insisted, "Oh, we'll just walk home."

I mean, we live downtown precisely so we can walk home. But walking home in platform stilettos after four hours of steady rockin' is an excruciating proposition.

I made it all the way across the street from the bar when I moaned in pain and took off my shoes. But the pain persisted and was exacerbated by the hard, pebbley ground.

Fear not, I'm married to a man that still believes in chivalry.

Bill quickly took off his Docs and passed them on to me.

So there I was slopping down the street in big Dr. Marten's while Bill walked along sock footed and carrying my hooker shoes.

So the moral that I'm gleaning from this story is that hooker shoes are for hookers who have pimps to give them rides home.

Bella the wonder mutt playing tetherball

2009-09-20T16:22:00.001-07:00

Trixie taught Bella the wonder mutt how to play tetherball. Now she kicks ass at it!

Giant Pencil ain't so giant anymore

2009-09-18T12:31:00.003-07:00

Look at my not-so Giant Pencil.

It's down to 5" from its original 16" from a year ago. It's on the verge of wee-ness.

I should not be surprised by this considering I use this pencil everyday at work, including when I use it to do the crossword puzzle?

What?

It's not wasting time at work, people, it's quality control.

Anyway, we're going back to D.C. next month and I'll make sure to get another Giant Pencil. I'll call the new Giant Pencil, Giant Pencil, Jr. or Giant Pencil V.2 or Another Giant Pencil and it will be glorious.

They're coming to take me away ... except not

2009-09-17T08:08:00.003-07:00

I wish the sand in my oyster was going to make a pearl.

But I'm probably going to end up with an ulcer.

Or a trip the "quiet room."

And you know what, a trip to the loony bin doesn't seem so bad today.

There'd be lots of sedatives. Mmm sedation (I should write a song about that). I could stay in my pajamas all day. No work clothes, no laundry, no crickets in my bedroom, no forgotten books or being late for stuff.

If movie depictions of asylums are correct, I wouldn't have to brush my hair and I could just wander around looking soulless — apparently I've already got that look down pat according to the coworkers who remind me daily of how wan and tired I appear.

No one would be disappointed that I'm not doing my Survivor Dorks game this season or that I still can't figure out how to play the guitar or that I couldn't take them to the park or shopping or that the Internet's not working or that there's a partially live, defeathered bird under my kid's futon.

I could get used to wearing white all the time, instead of black.

I wouldn't have to worry about the fact that all the cars need oil changes and to be cleaned inside and out or that the cleaning ladies didn't dust downstairs or that my ass is too fat to fit on my mom's toiletseat.

Of course, there would be downsides ... like other crazy people. I wouldn't want to have to be part of a crazy person group, I don't think. What if they wanted to touch me or tell me boring/crazy/poopy things? Or smelled bad?

I don't think I'd like that.

Also, what if they don't have nice sheets or I couldn't watch Project Runway? I know I wouldn't like that.

Oh, and I'd miss my kid. She's still a pill some of the time, but mostly she's awesome. So funny and fun to be around. She motivates me and even tells me it's all going to be OK. And my husband — he have to come with me because my favorite time of the day is when I get to cozy up next to him and go to sleep. Oh and my mom, just having her in my house makes me happy.

Yeah, and I've worked hard for all that I have and I'd proly get tired of sedation and Nurse Ratched, so instead I'll whine on my blog and then keep on keeping on.

Girls

2009-09-15T14:47:00.003-07:00

Goofy, chatty, screamy, giggly, smart, silly, wonderful.

The painting

2009-09-10T11:26:00.004-07:00

I've been driving my mom's car to work most days. It's zippy and little and I like it. It doesn't match my work wardrobe like my Trailblazer, but the new Forester makes up for it by being utterly cute ... uh, I mean, because it gets good gas mileage.

I learned to love cars from my dad. He was a fanatic over anything with an internal-combustion engine. If I could afford it, I would get a different car every couple years. Believe me, I could go on and on about cars, blah, blah, but this post isn't about cars really.

I'm just trying to figure out a way to get to what I've been really needing to write. I've begun writing this many times over the last couple months, but the truth is mean and ugly and I wish I could kick it in the ding dong.

I've been driving my mom's car, because she can't.

She's sick.

That's how I always start out this conversation. Before anyone can ask if she's got the flu. I then blurt out, she's got cancer.

Just seeing that word written there starts to make me mad and sad simultaneously.

She's got bad cancer. In her bones. It metastasized from the bout of breast cancer she had several years ago.

And it sucks.

It sucks for so many different reasons. One of them being that up until my dad passed away a year and a half ago, my mother cared for my dad while his health failed for years. It was a torturous illness and after it was all over, my mom was free.

Of course, there's guilt to be paid for that freedom, but she didn't pick for my dad to be sick and she cared for him in a way that was truly heroic.

And now she's sick. With bad cancer.

She lives with us now and recently she's started doing better. Getting around better, feeling less pain, being more of herself.

She's still very limited in her activity. Sitting and walking are hard still. But we're finally seeing improvement after two rounds of radiation and some other treatments and handfuls of pills.

There are many women in my mom's situation — breast cancer which as metastasized to the bones — who live pretty darn good lives. We're working toward that. We're making progress. There is improvement.

And then a couple weeks ago, my mom got a call from a sister Cynthia (No. 4) in Denver. My grandmother, my mom's mom, was gravely ill. All six of my grandmother's children came to Denver to see my gramma. I brought my mom.

Luckily for all of us, gramma rebounded nicely and is back on Facebook (Hi Gramma!) with her new laptop computer. Progress. Improvement.

One of the side effects of the hurried trip to see my gramma was that one of my aunts, my Aunt Sandra — my mom's youngest sister (No. 6), who lived close to us as I was growing up and was much like a big sister to me — brought the painting she had painted for my mother.

For those unfamiliar, it's a view of the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.

And it's wonderful.

When it arrived at my Aunt Pat's (No. 3) house, we all took turns admiring it. I think we were all in agreement that it's very good and we're not just saying that because we're related to the artist.

When I showed it to Margaret, her first comment was fear for the safety of the people riding in the tram cars because there didn't appear to be any safety features (that's my girl, always on the lookout for danger).

I told Sandra about Mar's concerns and she agreed, admitting that she didn't have the time to properly restrain the people riding her painted tram. We are all related, aren't we?

As far as I know, no one in the family but Sandra has any of her paintings. The painting hangs in my mom's bedroom, next to her bed. And it looks amazing.

Sandra said she had fun painting and that she's eager to do more representation work.

I can't wait to see what she does next. And I can't wait to visit my gramma again and see my aunts and cousins again and for my mom to be able to travel more extensively and ...

Ketchup gets a friend

2009-09-09T15:03:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Emily who was kind enough to swipe Ms. Mayo to go with our lonely Mr. Ketchup.

Melissa's lovely paintings

2009-09-03T08:38:00.001-07:00

Friends = awesomeness

2009-09-02T08:11:00.002-07:00

These are our lovely friends, Jeff and Melissa. Jeff (aka Yuppie Jak) is a member of Jak's Skateboard "Team" (I use the word "team" loosely — very loosely) along with punk-rock legend Bill Halen (aka Jak's team legend Bill Halen).

Saturday, Bill and I took a few hours from our family situation in Denver to visit with Yuppie Jak and his uber-awesome lovely.

They took us to an amazing French restaurant, Bistro Vendome where we shared orders of mussels and pomme frites that were so good, I wanted to move in and dine exclusively on them forever.

Even though they were preparing to hike one of Colorado's famous 14ers the next day, they graciously ate and drank with us and we happily accompanied them in some pre-hike shopping (Hello REI, thanks for the smashing deal on skis and bindings for Margaret).

We ended our visit by viewing Melissa's show of paintings. I really enjoyed Melissa's paintings, as they're crisp details of cuteness work on a sophisticated level.

Looking at art is one of my most favorite things to do ... right next to visiting with awesome friends.

Upgrading the luxuries

2009-08-25T08:07:00.001-07:00

Back in June, my Haute Mama cohort, Richie revealed that her family was forgoing TV once the digital transition occurred.

We're basic cable people ourselves so we didn't have to contemplate whether to let our TV die or not.

We watch some TV, but it's not that important to us. OK, I should rephrase that. It's not that important to Bill and I. It's very important to Margaret and my mom.

Bill and I like watching some really crappy reality shows, but we also really like the smart stuff that's out there, too. Last night on Discovery was a very good program about Cleopatra that I couldn't stop watching. I was supposed to be playing my guitar, working on some new songs, but I couldn't turn away from the idea that researchers had found the skeleton of Cleopatra's sister. Sometimes my nerdy side thwarts my attempts at being cool.

Bill loves Conan O'Brien in a way that is just not natural. But who am I to judge, I was irritated that VH-1 killed "Megan wants a millionaire" after one of the contestants hideously murdered his ex-wife. I am, after all, not a good person.

But we could live without TV.

Mar might "die" of tween angst if she couldn't watch iCarly or those other tweeny shows on those kid channels that I skip over religiously. But she, too, would recover as she's very good at keeping herself entertained with crafts and books and music.

My mom gets a pass allowing her to watch as much as she wants because her cancer is pretty much keeping her in bed for now.

She enjoys watching shows about people buying real estate and cooking shows. Recently she admitted to wishing we had better channels. She misses the DIY network and some other specialty channels that cater to crafty folks like herself.

Because mama gets whatever mama wants, we're in the market for more channels. We're looking at getting some kind of satellite programming or maybe just upgrading our current cable plan.

I don't care which, I just want the most channels for the least money. Any recommendations?

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-08-21T14:19:00.001-07:00

Hurray Markel Farkel Friday is back! Long live Markel Farkel Friday!

First day of 4th grade

2009-08-19T08:37:00.005-07:00

My kid is 9 years old, starting the fourth grade.

This is impossible because (sing it with me fellows mamas) I just brought her home from the hospital yesterday.

We walked her to school today, reassuring her that it was going to be fine. She already knows her school. She already knew some of the kids in her class. She already knows her teacher (she had Mrs. Kopp for 2nd grade — we are all big fans of Mrs. Kopp. Hurray for great teachers!).

But the nerves of "something new" (even if it wasn't that new) were getting to her.

As we walked to school, she stopped and said, "Where did the summer go?" I chuckled at the seriousness of her tone and then we talked about all the good things about school.

When we walked up to the school yard, Margaret was immediately engulfed in a crowd of friends and just like that, she was gone.

I yelled, "Have a good day" as she scurried off with her friends, but I don't think she heard me.

And I'm OK with that.

For the most part.

Maybe.

Half-century Bill

2009-08-18T15:50:00.003-07:00

Last Monday was Bill's 50th birthday.

Yeah, yeah. I know, he doesn't look 50. He looks younger than me, despite being more than a decade older.

I've heard it all before. So has Bill and he loves it.

To celebrate his oldness, our awesomely awesome friends, Boom Boom and La La threw him a shindig.

Just for the record this is what a punk-rock legend looks like when he turns 50:

My date with Obama

2009-08-17T12:58:00.002-07:00

I have so many things to blog about and very little time anymore. I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things, but like I told my mom this morning: When I get a free moment, I'm lying my ass down.

Having blabbered about that, now you can click over here to read my take on the town hall I attended with President Obama Saturday.

And if you'd like to hear some local gossip, I'll privately share the story of my altercation with a conservative rabble-rouser who pushed me a tad too far.

Oh the pain? I asked — and paid — for it

2009-08-05T15:44:00.004-07:00

For my birthday in June I told Bill wanted to get a tattoo.

I knew what I wanted and knew who I wanted to do it. Unfortunately, it seems everyone else in town wants to get tattooed by Erik at The Raw Canvas because I had to wait two months to get an appointment.

Well, if I had wanted a kanji or a Smurf or something, I probably could have gotten in sooner. But I had bigger plans.

And those plans now seem completely idiotic.

Why?

Because there is one thing about tattoos ... they hurt. Like hell. A lot. Imeanreally!

I decided to get a rather large back piece that would require more than one 4-5 hour sitting. No problem, I thought. It's all good. I'm a good sitter.

Then Tuesday came and we started my giant tattoo. After the first 10 minutes I wanted to be all, "Yeah, I was just joking. Hey, Bill, let's go to Bed, Bath and Beyond instead of staying here while this guy carves me with inky needles."

But I didn't. I sat (actually laid on my belly) like a champ for over four hours. Yes, people, I was tattooed for more than four hours. That was twice as long as my labor when I had Margaret.

And the glorious part?

We're not even close to being done.

But what is done is so awesome, it makes me want to cry a little.

So without further ado, here's a brief photo essay of of this first sitting:

The stencil showing my existing tattoos. In the end, there will be flower work that will integrate my existing tattoos with my new one.
Getting inked:
Making progress:

Here it is with the line work completed:
Then we started on the color:
And this is where we stopped more than four hours after starting:
The only way I'd be more pleased was if it was all done.

Ah tattoos, they are so much fun.

Mystery photo

2009-07-17T07:48:00.003-07:00

I'm just now uploading pictures taken from our trip to California. While out west, Bill and I made a trip to San Francisco for Bill's skateboard "team" reunion.

I can't remember where I took this picture. I think it was a bathroom. I could be wrong. But I know that I must've been interested in the no-crawling-on-your-hands-and-knees-while carrying a cup-(or-some-other-cup-shaped-thing) sign and was glad that they didn't have the rule at Quincy's.

Also, what is up with the no babies sign. I mean really.

Happy 9th birthday, Mar!

2009-06-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

Taking a break

2009-06-22T07:25:00.002-07:00

I've been updating this blog most week days for a good long while. Right now I need to take a break and focus my attentions elsewhere.

I'm sure I'll be back to writing the idiotic crap that I so enjoy writing before you even miss me.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-06-19T10:58:00.001-07:00

Rain, rain ...

2009-06-18T09:40:00.005-07:00

It's been raining a lot this summer. And I am loving it.

Yeah, we haven't been going to the pool much and I have a new swimsuit that I actually like this year (despite the fact that I'm verging on the saggy-boob-sock look), but I don't care.

We've been sitting outside every evening after work and many evenings we have a fire in our firepit, often roasting marshmallows and eating s'mores. Although yesterday, Bill and Davy burned all the rose bush trimmings and it smelled not at all like roses.

It makes us look like a nice, normal family (unless you listen to our conversations, then you know that we are far from a nice, normal family).

On top of all that, our yard has never looked better. Our flowers are all blooming happily and heartily. I guess all those years of planting, thinning, adding, moving and weeding have finally paid off ... big time.

And the best part is that we've done almost nothing to this year other than a little weeding (there's lots more weeding to be done, but the flowers are so happy and full that I'm happy leaving well enough alone).

Movies, movies, movies

2009-06-17T08:28:00.002-07:00

For the last nine years, we didn't go to the movies very much. I didn't like forking over an arm and a kidney to see a kids movie and I sure as hell wasn't going to pay a sitter so I could go sit in the dark and watch a movie when I could be at the bar.

But now that Mar is getting older, there are more movies that all three of us want to see. So we splurge now and then.

Over the last weekend, we splurged twice.

Oh we live on the edge people.

It's a good thing both Bill and I enjoyed both movies, because Mar is still stuck in 1984. Click over here to read about our double trip to the movies and what Margaret's favorite movie is right now.

Giant Pencil update

2009-06-15T12:49:00.003-07:00

You may remember (and if you do, I'm so very sorry) back last November, I introduced y'all to the Giant Pencil.

For those that don't (and I'm assuming it's all of you), while in Washington, D.C. in October, my mom bought me a giant pencil from the National Archives to replace my Wee Pencil (why yes, I do have issues. I can't believe you've waited this long to ask). I've been using this pencil every day at work to ... uh, do work and to do the daily crossword puzzle (speaking of crossword puzzles, "deke" is a stupid word).

The Giant Pencil started out 16" long.

Look at it now:

It's now down around 8". It hardly even looks like a freakish long pencil anymore. But I know it once was. And someday it'll be a wee pencil ... unless something bad happens.

I've already had to perform some minor surgery on the Giant Pencil because the eraser snapped off one day.

Just so you know, I can't use a pencil that is missing it's eraser. Really (I know, my issues run deep), I have to keep a separate eraser on my desk so I can erase without having to use the eraser on my pencil.

So, Giant Pencil lost its eraser and I started to panic. Then I found a long pin and stuck it though the top of the eraser down into the wood to secure it. Phew! Disaster averted.

Anyway, now, more than seven months into my usage of the Giant Pencil, it's down to almost half its size. Giant Pencil is now more of a regular pencil ... with a giant pin stuck in its eraser.

I think I need more hobbies.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-06-12T08:23:00.003-07:00

Rivetergirl conundrum: What would you do?

2009-06-11T12:10:00.005-07:00

So do you remember me writing abut how we were ripped off in January? Some asshat dude or dudes had some sort of passkey that allowed them to easily open the doors of any GM vehicles and plunder our goodies.

Remember that story? No? Well, these asshats took our DVD player with my mom's new Mama Mia! DVD inside and our Garmin Nuvi navigator.

We talked to the cops and 16 other GM vehicles broken into that same night from the same general location. And we talked to the insurance agent (we ultimately decided against submitting a claim — we've since replaced the navigator [and then promptly broke the new one ... doh] and my mom lent us her portable DVD player). And nothing ever came of it ... until today.

We received a letter from the Lakewood Police Department saying they had caught the jokers who had been traveling around the state gleaning all the goodies out of people's GM cars.

They caught the guys and they had a shitpotful of stolen goods with them.

So, here's the conundrum: The only way to claim our stolen property is make an appointment for either Friday July 10 or Monday July 13, then drive four hours over the Continental Divide and look through all the crap these jerkwads stole in hopes that our sad little DVD player and navigator are there.

We've got my mom's DVD player (which is way better than that jacked up old one we had). But I'd really like to have my navigator back.

Is it worth the time and money? What would you do?

Stupid economy

2009-06-10T13:33:00.002-07:00

For the last couple of weeks, we've been painting, cleaning and generally fixing up our house. And last Thursday it had never looked better — which was good because that was the day the house was appraised.

We decided to take advantage of the low interest rates by refinancing our mortgage and taking out enough cash to get our bathroom remodeled and splurge on a much-needed hot tub.

Wha? Hot tub manufacturers and dealers need to be bailed out, too.

We increased the size of our back patio, making room for hot tub and imagined soaking away our aches and pains.

So we were more than a little bummed (understatement) when the appraisal didn't even come close to the amount the house appraised for several years ago. We've done several upgrades to the house since the last appraisal, most notably we finally landscaped the backyard.

Yeah, I know, lots of people's houses are losing value all over the country and we are lucky to both have jobs. So I shouldn't whine about the reduced value of our house, especially since it's still worth quite a bit more than we owe.

But dang, we've been working our bums off on this house for years now and it sucks that the bad economy and falling house prices means we can't have a hot tub.

I know, I know, we're lucky, blah, blah, blah. But sometimes after a day of working two jobs, keeping a house and raising a kid, it's nice to reward oneself with an extravagance like a hot tub. It's not like I want a new car or trip to Europe.

Oh well, easy come, easy go. I guess we'll have to continue making our regular trips to the hot springs. Yeah, our life is tough.

The sisters came a-visitin'

2009-06-09T13:43:00.004-07:00

Three of my grandmother's six children stopped in for an overnight visit. My mom, my Aunt Pat (aka the rainmaker) and my Aunt Nancy.

They are numbers 1 through 3. It goes: Nancy, Shirley (my mom), Patricia (aka Aunt Pat the rainmaker), Cynthia, David, Sandra. It's nice of them to travel in order by age.

The bummery thing about them heading back over to Denver today is that number 6, my Aunt Sandra, is visiting Denver from Minnesota. And number 5, my Uncle David, will be coming up from Pueblo with his kids to visit.

Because number 4, Aunt Cynthia, lives there, too, all my mom's siblings will be there. Oh and my gramma, too. She lives with Cynthia.

I want to be there, too. As I've stated before, my family's fun and I hate missing out on an event when all the sibs are together. These people are hilarious by themselves, just wait until they all get together ... woo boy.

But at least we got to hang out with numbers 1 through 3 last night. Margaret even got to sleep in Aunt Pat's RV with them last night.

Yeah, all three of them (even my mother who has her own bed inside my house) and my kid slept in my driveway. Bill and I opted to sleep in our bed ... because we're wacky like that.

Before bed, however, we went out to eat and had a great meal along with some beer. Bill ordered all the sisters his favorite Kannah Creek beer and then ordered another pitcher. I'm not sure why he was so insistent on forcing alcohol on my mom and her sisters, but that's how he rolls.

My mom tried to pass on the beer claming that she didn't do drugs and drink beer (in reference to the meds she's taking for her spasm-y back), but they twisted her arm (OK, it was more like, "but I thought you said you wanted a beer") and she succumbed. Because that's how she rolls.

And then, as quickly as they arrived, numbers 1 through 3 were on their way out of the Grand Valley and onward to the Front Range.

Hiking to Hanging Lake birthday style

2009-06-08T10:49:00.004-07:00

I wrote back in March about hiking to the top of Mount Garfield for Scott's birthday. Well this weekend we hiked to Hanging Lake near Glenwood Springs (notice the "near Glenwood Springs" part — hiking followed by soaking is the most glorious combination I can think of).

See how smug I look here. I'm all, "Wha'? Like that was hard?" (Um, it wasn't easy, chick, remember the panting and soaring pulse rate?)

Bill, Mar and I hiked this two years ago with my brother and his family on Mother's Day and I was happy that this time I didn't quite need the defibrillator paddles at the top.

It is truly a gorgeous hike and well worth the time and effort up the rocky, steep trail:

Check out Bill giving me his "come hither" stare to encourage me to keep hiking and quit complaining.

He's so cute, I can hardly remember the steep, nasty trail.
And before I knew it, we were standing in front of Hanging Lake:

It is a truly a sight to behold. The water is so clear and blue and green. Just lovely.

Plus there were friendly chipmonks that didn't seem to have the plague, which is a good thing because the kids got a big kick out of feeding these greedy critters:

After the hike, we headed to our campground to set up our camp: tents had to be pitched, chairs unfolded and beers drank:
There was also a little wildlife in our camp that need to be inspected. A nest was perched on the ledge of the woman's bathroom window:
But the nest was too high off the ground for us to see what was inside. So Laurena did what any good mom would do, she made her only son act of stepstool:
Wha? Notice she took off her flip flops first. Gah!

Then she snapped this picture of the lovely blue egg resting inside:
The rest of the trip included a long soak in the hot springs, a delicious dinner of Bill's chili along with hot dogs and all the fixin's and a long sit next.

I asked Bill what we were laughing about all night long and he said that it was best to not remember that way we can laugh about it again next time we have a fire.

Sunday, saw us having Bill's version of the Egg McMuffin and then a slow roll up of the camp in between rain showers.

It was a great weekend away and a fabulous way to celebrate getting older.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-06-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

Chuck Norris doesn't get blisters

2009-06-04T07:36:00.004-07:00

Chuck Norris gets stigmata.

Happy Anniversary to two of my most favorite couples. Scott (aka Boom Boom aka Chuck Norris) and Laurena are celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. And Mark (aka Markel Farkel of Markel Farkel Friday) and Kristen are celebrating their ... uh, some number less than 10 ... hey don't judge me, I remembered their anniversary, isn't that enough?

Edited to add: According to Markel Farkel, he and Kristen have been married for 4 years, but together for 15! 15 is the magic number this year!

Anatomy of a delicious birthday

2009-06-03T07:45:00.001-07:00

Pictures and pictures and pictures, oh my!

2009-06-02T11:44:00.002-07:00

Because I'm too tired to type words, I'm throwing down more pictures from Sean's grad party, plus a picture of Cy on the custom, BSA bobber he built himself (just because having cute guys on motorcycles is always a good thing).

Party 'til the cops come

2009-06-01T12:47:00.002-07:00

We had a graduation party for Sean on Saturday. It rained, but that didn't spoil our fun. The cops came and while that did mean an end to the band playing, it still didn't spoil our fun. Basically, we'll have fun regardless of our situation. But we are kinda professional fun-havers.

Click over here to read more about the party, the cops and meeting this little guy:

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-05-29T07:28:00.003-07:00

Thoughts on bathing-suit season

2009-05-28T05:16:00.005-07:00

The pool opened last weekend. It's been too rainy and cold to go yet, but soon enough it'll be hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement and we'll be making evening treks to the Lincoln Park pool.

I love that we have a pool so close to our house.

But I hate that it means I've got to wear a bathing suit.

Bathing suits are stupid. We should either go naked or completely covered up. Wearing this lycra-infused torture devices is cruel and unusual. Unless you have completely void of body fat, these "suits" make indentions and dimples in places that I want neither.

Plus they just don't cover up the parts that I'd like covered.

Years ago I started wearing board shorts with some sort of modestly modest top. My ample ass-age was covered and I've been pretty happy. But still, there's the pulling and adjusting and the gut-sucking-in that must go on.

Then I saw a picture that made me think that perhaps it's not my thighs that are the problem, but my perception.

Take a look at this woman's thighs and hips:

Look. Her thighs actually touch together and her hips are round and full. Do you think she's fat? Too chunky to be flitting around the beach without a muumuu?

By today's standards, many will likely say yes. Just look at a recent magazine cover:

Just look at that tiny frame and the jumbo boobs. This is very likely not her natural state. She's probably been sculpted and augmented to the standards that we now find attractive.

How did we get to this point? And why? Really. What is wrong with a little curve to the hip, a little jiggle to the junk in the trunk and real boobs like that woman in the white bathing-suit.

Oh and just who was that woman in the white suit?

None other than Marilyn Monroe.

Perception is everything.

Wordless Wednesday ... kinda

2009-05-27T09:37:00.002-07:00

Here's a beginning-of-summer Wordless Wednesday for ya. (Only I include words, because that's how I roll.)
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I whined ... er, I mean wrote over here about how wonderful it is that Mar and Bill are out of school.

What you missed

2009-05-26T11:39:00.004-07:00

If you didn't haul your cookies out to Riveter's 5th anniversary show with Holley 750 (or you couldn't get in), this is some of what you missed:

The show started with the kick-ass Denver punk band, Holley 750 throwing down some delicious tunes.

And guess what? Jamie on the left in the Triumph t-shirt has a Triumph motorcycle ... so does Bill. Of course, Bill just had to start his up when we got home from the show ... at 2 a.m. ... without the mufflers on. Thank goodness for awesome neighbors.

Then it was our turn to hit the stage:

Look how cute we are.

But sometimes we'd call everyone muthafuckas and drank beer.

If you weren't there, you missed Laurena riding the bass pony. Yee-haw!

And me looking like a blow-up doll.

Or force feeding my guitar to lucky fans.

Because it was our anniversary party, we let a boy (Jake from Holley 750) sing a duet with me. But just to make sure he knew his place, Laurena and Kelley flashed their guns.

Except for the pukers that we took back to our house after the show, the evening was truly epic — but I had so much fun that I didn't even care that I had to clean up tossed cookies the next day.

Rock 'n' roll is so much fun.

The Riveter Story, Part 4: OMG, there's a boy in our band

2009-05-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

Once Kelley joined our group, we really started to take our rock 'n' roll selves more seriously.

We started thinking about playing shows out of town. We scored a couple of gigs at the Larimer Lounge in Denver and a GoGirlsMusic.com showcase in Littleton. We were also playing festivals such as the Fruita Fall Festival and the Fruita Fat Tire Festival here in the valley.

But our biggest gig came in March 2007 when we were selected to join the GoGirlsMusic.com's Invasion of the GoGirls in Austin during the famed South by Southwest Festival.

This was a huge deal for us and we were beyond excited to be selected to play. SXSW is an amazing festival just chock full of music with bands literally on every corner.

We all flew down to Austin with Scott and Bill in tow, except for Bridgett who drove to Austin with her husband, Johnny. It was a long trip exacerbated by Bridgett's morning sickness.

Yep, that's right, one of the Riveter girls had a little Riveterette in the oven.

The festival was amazing. Music on every corner. The GoGirls showcase was a blast and we brought some western Colorado rockin' down to Austin.

A few months later, Bridgett left Riveter. But she didn't abandon music for motherhood, instead she opted to continue playing with the Wrong Impressions with her husband (my husband's in that band, too).

Now we were down a drummer ... and not just any drummer, but a girl drummer. Girl drummers are hard to find anywhere and REALLY hard to find in our little Grand Valley. But we had shows coming up and the show must go on.

Luckily for us, Laurena's incredibly talented husband, Scott, volunteered to fill in on drums until we found a girl drummer.

That was more than a year ago ... and Scott — aka "Boom Boom" — is still hittin' the skins for us.

We tease him a lot and give him tons of grief (not to mention that he's often stuck carrying the heavy stuff), but we're really happy to have him in the band.

Since he's been with us, he's coached Kelley and I in improving our guitar skills and helped us tighten up our playing.

We've cut out a lot of our ballads and mid-tempo songs for more hard-hitting, in-your-face rock 'n' roll. We discovered that the more Kelley swears and flips off the crowd, the more they love us.

We played SXSW at the GoGirls showcase again last year. This year, we scored the Bret Michael's opener and we've been writing kick-ass new music like crazy.

We're 100 percent rock 'n' roll these days and are always ready to flip you off ... you don't even have to give us a reason.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-05-22T07:20:00.000-07:00

The Riveter Story, Part 3: Along came Kelley

2009-05-20T09:08:00.005-07:00

When I left off the Riveter story last, we had four girls (some who knew how to play their instruments and some ... well, not so much), a name and our first gig.

We practiced and learned seven or so songs ... barely. The day of the party found me full of jitters. I'd never really performed like this before and knew little about how work all the music related equipment let alone my guitar.

But we did it. We played our songs and people looked on in disbelief because we didn't suck.

We probably should've sucked.

But we didn't.

After we were done playing, we were giddy with excitement. We were in a band ... and we did not suck.

We continued on, practiced, got another backyard party, then we got our first nightclub show.

We were ecstatic. A nightclub ... not a friend's backyard.

We practiced our songs and even included our first original "Ham Pants." We opened for a now-defunct jam bad from New Orleans, Saaraba.

Tons of people came to see our debut public performance. We were nervous. But we did not suck.

The crowd was generous and we ate it up. We were bitten.

We worked on more songs, originals and covers and worked on getting more shows. For the next couple of years we played festivals and clubs around the Grand Valley. We even got a show playing in a showcase in San Francisco.

Oh yeah, the big time.

We all took a road trip out to my old stomping grounds. Overall the trip was fun.

We played two shows. The first nightclub show was disastrous, but the showcase at Lennon Studios went really well. It was a crowd that knew music and they dug what we were putting out.

We were buoyed yet again.

Then our singer, Sally, said she was looking to move on to do other things, a new job, a new city, no girl rock 'n' roll band.

We immediately started putting out the word that Riveter was looking for a new lead singer.

The first girl that came to meet with us was a nice, hippie-type who played her acoustic guitar and sang at coffee shops. She had a lovely voice, but we weren't certain that her earthy ways were going to fit our rock 'n' roll band.

But she vowed to learn three of our songs and come back and rock us.

And she did.

That little hippie chick was our Kelley who is now our bona fide rock 'n' roll lead singer.

Kelley puts on a show like no other and we're super happy she joined our band. She's been working on her electric guitar skillz, too, so she's double awesome.

Since Kelley's arrival, Riveter has definitely taken on more of hard rock 'n' roll edge and we like it.

Not use crying over hamburger

2009-05-18T14:03:00.003-07:00

Friday we needed some barbecue supplies. We decided to go to the grocery where Sean works, instead of our usual store. His car wasn't parked in its typical spot and I whined to Bill, "I wish Sean was here" as we started our shopping.

But as luck would have it, he was there, putting out fresh tomatoes in the produce department.

We talked to him while he worked for a bit and then left him to get our shopping done. I had to squint through the tears as I picked through the cucumbers.

All at once, the reality of Sean's leavetaking hit me like a ton of bricks.

I'm going to miss that kid.

While I'm very happy for him as he starts his adult life with the decisions he's made, I'm so sad for all of us who are going to be left behind.

I told Bill how sad I was all of a sudden and the tears started again. Bill paused and as we gazed over the frozen hamburger patties he said, "Don't start because I'll never be able to stop."

I knew what he meant.

As hard as this is for me, it's gotta a kajillionty times harder for Bill.

So now whenever I see Sean I have a hard time not throwing myself on him and sobbing about how I'm going to miss him and I know that it's the same for Bill.

Oh, we'll carry on, but we certainly won't be shopping at that grocery store anymore.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-05-15T08:13:00.001-07:00

Wordless Wednesday

2009-05-13T07:25:00.002-07:00

The Riveter Story, Part 2: Laurena picks the bass

2009-05-12T10:49:00.004-07:00

So last time I left you with me not dying of the flu and Laurena wanting to start a girl band and vowing to learn an instrument.

Laurena decided on the bass. Smart girl, she rocks the bass.

Now it was just past New Years 2004, Mar and I had recovered from the flu and it was time to start creating a plan for our new band.

First, Laurena and I were going to start working on some cover songs.

Not having a clue, we just picked songs that we liked without regard for difficulty or whether or not our non-existent singer could sing it.

We picked songs like Tom Petty's "American Girl," AC/DC's "You shook me all night long," Sheryl Crow's "If it makes you happy." And also a couple songs that I already knew like Neil Young's "Heart of gold" and the White Stripes' "Dead leaves and the dirty ground."

Next we planned to audition singers and drummers.

I have to laugh at the audacity that Laurena and I — who had just started learning instruments — were trying out other musicians to be in our band. (Hello musicians, we don't know how to play yet, but let's hear if you're good enough for us ... crazy!)

We had a couple great gals sing for us and ultimately decided on Sally.

At the time, Sally was a copy editor for the newspaper where I work and she sang in an a Capella group in college (trying ... very ... hard to not ... make an Office reference ... 'Nard Dog ... doh). We found a cute young drummer, Nicki, from the local college, too.

We had all our pieces, now we just need to bring them all together. It was tricky at first coordinating all our schedules. Sally worked at night. Nicki was a student and Laurena and I were juggling full-time jobs and kids.

Before we knew it, we had our first gig. We were going to be play for Bill's work's end of the year party. This was a pretty big deal as the other band playing this party was a bunch of seasoned musicians, including my guitar instructor.

Not long after, we found out our drummer was going to be working at DisneyWorld for the summer.

So now we had our first gig, but no drummer.

I dug out the phone number for a girl I'd met at the bar through a mutual friend. This girl was a drummer (among other things). She said she wanted to be in a band with her husband, but barring that, she'd be interesting in being in an all-girl band.

I called her and pretty much convinced her that she would at least play with us for this one show. Now that I look back on it, it was pretty out of character for me to push a stranger like that, but I did.

Bridgett agreed and I said we'd be right over to bring her a CD of the songs we were working on.

Drummer problem solved.

We had four band members who had never practice together and about four weeks to get our set together.

Oh and we needed a name. Bill immediately started coming up with band names.

If you ever need a name for a band, Bill's your man ... most of the time. The first name he came up with was nixed summarily.

I'm hesitant to even mention it because he still thinks it's hilarious.

OK, Bill thought our all-girl band should be called "Camel Toe."

Yeah, no.

But I loved his second name ... Riveter ... after Rosie the Riveter, of course.

My Gramma Dearing was a Rosie the Riveter during World War II in the Alameda, California ship yards.

I ran it by Laurena and she liked it, too. As did Bridgett and Sally.

Riveter was born.

Bunny-head kisser

2009-05-11T07:49:00.002-07:00

So I outed Sean as a bunny-head kisser. He says he doesn't remember kissing any bunny heads, but I do.

This originally ran as a column the Sunday editorial page and then I reprinted it over on the Haute Mamas blog, just so more people will learn that my stepson is a bunny-head kisser.

Click here to read the whole story.

Markel Farkel Friday

2009-05-08T13:43:00.002-07:00

Look! It's Markel Farkel Friday on Friday. Wow!

Hockey, beer and family

2009-05-07T08:28:00.007-07:00

Yes I realize it's Thursday and I'm just getting around to writing about last weekend, but rivetergirl's been busy, yo.

I took a vacation day last Friday and the three of us and our friend Rob drove over to the Front Range for a hockey tournament.

See, Bill's from Buffalo which means that he was indoctrinated from birth to love hockey and want to play it. That's all fine with me. I like hockey. Watching it live is my favorite and watching someone I know is the best.

So I was looking forward to seeing some hockey.

Margaret was excited to see Aunt Pat ... oh and everyone else, too.

I don't blame her. I've come to a conclusion this trip: my family is awesome. And I'm not just saying that because of a bunch of 'em read this blog.

You hear horror stories of families being mean or controlling or boring or unpleasant. My family is none of these things. Instead, they are hilarious and they like to eat donuts and drink beer (not at the same time). What more could a girl ask for?

Plus, how can you not love people who store their babies and purses together:
(Unfortunately that is the only picture I took at Pat's house even though we celebrated birthdays for two of my cousins kids and everyone from Denver was there that day, including my 87-year-old gramma. Doh!)

Oh yeah, Aunt Pat. My mom and Margaret stayed with Aunt Pat and Uncle Tom while Bill and I were in Texas last year. Pat got both of them addicted to those 450-calorie frappucinos. Plus Pat and Tom have every video game console ever invented and a gigantic TV to play them on.

Not only that, but she's a generous hostess (we asked if we could stay with her. After she said yes, we told her we were bringing Rob - whom she had never met - too. No problem, she replied), but she's fun to be around.

Uncle Tom taught Margaret the three positions that one can properly wear a hat: forward, backward and "locked" which apparently means wearing the brim to one side and how to play games on the Wii.

Bill and Rob had games Friday evening, Saturday morning and evening and Sunday morning.

We made it to Denver in time to visit briefly with Aunt Pat and head to the rink. After negotiating a kajillionty strip malls, we ate some spicy chicken wings and made it to the rink just in time for the boys to suit up and join their team.

Mar and I sat in the empty bleachers and watched the Junction team get their asses handed to them.

Unfortunately they were in the wrong division. But to their credit, the Junction guys had never played as a team before. And even though they got better with each game, they still got their booties kicked soundly.

Fortunately, the guys kept their spirits up and enjoyed being out of town and playing hockey.

Saturday evening I left Mar with Pat and Tom to play with two of my cousins' girls (if we had taken her with us, Mar would have begged to return to the house of Aunt Pat asap incessantly as she had done Friday night — at first I felt guilty about pawning my kid off on my aunt but then I realized that Pat brought it on herself, being all nice 'n' shit to my kid) and I had a great time watching the boys play and then hanging out drinking beer, eating free wings and playing Dimwit afterwards.

It actually turned out to be a very relaxing and super fun weekend and I didn't do anything but eat delicious bar food, drink beer and hang out with family and hockey dudes.

I don't think I'd have ever planned a weekend like that on my own, but it was awesome.

That's Bill shooting during warm ups. He looks pretty hot, huh?

This is just another reason why people don't like to go shopping with me. I made Rob take this picture of me and gigantasauraus in the sporting goods store where Bill was getting a new hockey stick.

I mean, why does that mannequin have to be so big? Where do they get his clothes?

The Riveter Story, Part 1: Robin gets a guitar

2009-05-06T11:10:00.007-07:00

Margaret turned three during the summer of 2003. We bought her a little drum kit.

Wha'?

What do you think that 3-year-olds want?

They want to make a bunch of noise and bang on things. Drums are the perfect gift. Plus Bill begged to have at least one of his kids play the drums. Who am I to deny my adorable husband a lifelong dream?

So for weeks she banged joyously on her drums that sat in the middle of the living room floor.

Sean already was playing the saxophone and Bill had been playing the bass guitar for years.

I was left out.

I decided I was going to buy myself an acoustic guitar, take lessons and learn how to play Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi" so I could sign along.

And I did.

I got a beautiful Epiphone acoustic-electric guitar — cherry sunburst finish, oh so pretty. And I started taking guitar lessons from Guy Stephens (formerly of JT and the Big Dogs).

I practiced my scales and chords. The first song I learned was the Beatles "I've just seen a face" — sans the fancy intro.

I told Guy I wanted to learn "Big Yellow Taxi." He told me it wasn't a beginner song as it had the dreaded barre chords. I didn't care, I wanted to sing along to some Joni Mitchell, so I learned barre chords.

It was the first time in my life that my giant man hands were useful. Barre chords weren't that hard once I got the hang of them.

Next I learned Neil Young's "Heart of Gold."

I was having a really good time practicing my few songs and singing along. I played all the time and everyone in the house had to listen.

By November I had made some decent progress mostly because I had a teacher that made the lessons fun and I practiced all. the. time. I played everyday and played for everyone whether they wanted to listen or not.

Then Margaret got the flu ... the bad flu. Of course, I got it, too. The two of us draped ourselves over the couches languishing from the fever, cough, chills and other flu horrors trying to watch movies and not die.

Bill brought me the phone and said it was Laurena.

I had met Laurena when I started working at The Daily Sentinel in 2002. She had since left the paper but we remained friends.

I croaked my hello into the phone. These were her exact words (OK maybe not exactly exact, but pretty darn close): "I want to start an all-girl band and I want you to play guitar. I'm going to learn to play an instrument."

I said OK but I had to not die of the flu and then I was all in.

I didn't die of the flu and shortly after New Years 2004 we got together to talk about our "band."

What a difference an hour makes

2009-05-04T11:02:00.002-07:00

I started writing this post over here while I was still pissed off about the dude that got me all pissed off in the first place.

Then I had a whole shitpotful of work to do and had some time to breathe and think about people and their bad moods.

Bad moods are stupid. I'm going to work on not having them.

But man, I'm so good at being in a bad mood. Even though I want to not be all pissy, it's so hard especially when I sit alone and work alone and fester alone.

I'm still so tempted to publish the name of the dude that acted like an ass this morning and kicked off my bad mood, but that might cause me some problems.

More problems, this rivetergirl does not want.

But if you ask me in person, I'll be happy to tell you.

Riveter turns 5

2009-05-03T18:00:00.002-07:00

This spring marks 5 years since Riveter played its first show in a faculty member's backyard.

We had about 6 songs ... barely.

I'm going to have to write some about Riveter's humble beginnings. It's quite a story tell: one full of guitars, lip gloss and boobs.

Markel Farkel ... Thursday

2009-04-30T12:47:00.004-07:00

I know! It's Thursday and I'm Markel Farkeling.

I'm not going to be in front of a computer tomorrow and I want to make sure that LadyBug has her weekly Markel Farkel dose of Internety goodness.

So without further ado:

Make sure you click on the "Love-quiz" and read about how one woman put the zing back in her marriage.

Riveter opens for Bret Michaels: Part 2 Bret plays

2009-04-29T15:02:00.003-07:00

So as I was saying, Riveter opened for Bret Michaels and his band, the Bret Michaels Band.*

We played well. We rocked the house and we loved every single second of it. The crowd was amazing and it was hard to pack up my stuff and get off the stage.

But Bret was a-coming, so off we went.

As we were loading out our gear, Big John was there to greet us.

He said that we did a great job and that he really enjoyed us. He commented on our cover of Betty Blowtorch's "Hell on Wheels" — the song we lead with.

Big John was a friend of the lead singer and bass player, Bianca — one of the most bad-ass rock 'n' roll chicks I've ever heard of. John said as we started to play, he said, "That's Bianca's song."

That kicked ass.

Not only did he know the band we were covering but was good friends with the chick who made it all happen and someone we all think was the most rockin' chick.

So we all had a moment that put a beautiful cherry on top of getting to play for Bret Michaels' awesome fans.

We hung around the back of the club, waiting to see if we'd be able to meet Bret who had just come in on a plane.

We watched the small group of fans get moved to the other side of the parking lot so that Bret could make his jog from the bus to the stage door — while we got to stand inside the barricaded corral (which totally added to our rock-star experience).

The introductions happened just as Big John said they would in his pre-show security meeting and then he was walking to Bret's bus with Bret's silver cowboy hat in hand.

Moments later, the bus door opened and the wee figure of Bret Michaels stepped out followed closely by Big John.

Bret is much shorter than I imagined — probably around 5'7" or so — and much better looking.

He waved to his fans and as he jogged by we three Riveter girls, he smiled, waved and said, "Sorry I can't chat."

Next thing we knew, the band was striking up the chords to "Talk Dirty to Me" — the Poison song that we've been covering for a couple years.

We squeezed our way on to the packed dance floor and watched the pro work the stage and the crowd.

Dude knows how to put on a mofo excellent show.
The crowd of mostly becleavaged girls got what they had waited hours to see. Bret Michaels in concert.
They played Poison songs, Bret's originals and a host of covers that songs we were truly excited to hear.
All the while, Big John was videotaping the show from on stage. Bret later shared that they upload the video and send it over to for the troops to watch in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The band was great, the music was great and Bret Michaels exceeded all of our expectations.

After the show, we watched Bill sticker up Bret fan after Bret fan — which you read about here.

We lingered with the other fans out back, hoping to get to meet Bret and to even get on the now famous bus.

But ultimately we decided that we'd had our share of rock-star fun — meeting Bret would've been fun, but not meeting him didn't dampen a truly amazing experience.

This is one story that we'll be telling and reliving for a long time to come.

Thank you, Bret Michaels.

*The Bret Michaels Band is actually the band, Evick, just without Bret. It's headed up by Pete Evick who is a really cool guy and his band RAWKS. I totally go see them even without Bret (just don't tell Bret).

Here's Pete and I after the show: