A surprising Veterans Day display

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!

Just say no to fake heart attacks

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.

Adversity schmadversity

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.

McCraquette ball

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.

Vegas is fun ... who knew

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:

Husband of the year

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.

The one that got away

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.

Of how the others must see the faker

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.

Half-century Bill

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:

Hockey, beer and family

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?

To my husband

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary.

I know that there's nothing overtly special about the 9th wedding anniversary. I mean the traditional gifts are willow and pottery — a far cry from platinum and diamonds.

But there's something about this anniversary that is special for me and it has nothing to do with the number of years we've been together.

Instead, this anniversary means more to me, simply because you mean more to me than ever before — I didn't really think that was possible.

You've proven that despite all my issues, frailties and idiosyncrasies that you love me and want to be with me.

That was never clearer to me than several weeks ago when I got kicked out of the Quincy for being too drunk and acting too badly and then proceeded to make the walk home with our bikes a living hell.

I broke my camera, lost my scarf, dented the hell out of my bike and bruised the hell out of my knees. Then I got sick all over the house and was a general pain in the ass.

The next morning when I was sicker than I'd ever been before, you took care of me ... and cleaned up after me.

I thanked you for helping me home. You responded without hesitation.

"I'll always be there to get you home."

That's what you said. And though I continued to puke my guts out, at that moment I had an epiphany.

You aren't going to tire of me, have enough of me or ever stop loving me despite all the reasons I give you.

I think for all these years that one day you were going to wake up and say you'd had enough.

And I wouldn't have blamed you.

I'll never know why you love me the way you do, but I am so very, very thankful that you do. And I will never question that love ever again. I don't have to.

My love for you grows every day and it is wonderful.

I don't know that I will ever feel that I truly deserve you, but I know that you think you do and that works great for me.

Thank you for loving me all these years.

I can't wait for the next 9, 18, 29 years to come.

Your loving wife,
-robin

Bill takes the challenge

Yesterday when Markel forwarded me this Markel Farkel Wordless Wednesday image, I replied, "What do you think it will take to get Bill to do this?"

That was a stupid question.

All I had to do was show him the picture.

He's already mapping out his manscaping plans.

Horrible disturbing pictures to follow, I'm sure.

That which does not kill you, makes you stronger

Several times in my life, I've reminded myself of that Neitzsche quote: That which does not kill you, makes you stronger.

But still, sometimes it all gets to me. Yesterday was one of those days where I felt that I might actually die from it all, but I didn't and today I'm stronger.

Of course, swearing a whole bunch helped.

I left work a little early to get Mar to her piano lesson on time only to be reminded that the school was having a reading event from 5:30 to 7.

5:30!

Jeez, talk about sticking it to the working parents.

I knew it was going to be a time crunch. Bill was working late (or so I thought — the fact that he was actually at home and hadn't picked up the kid is going to remain uncommented upon at this juncture solely for the reason that it still makes my blood boil), I had 35 minutes to finish dinner (we'd put on curried short ribs in the slow cooker in the morning ... hello yummy and thanks goodness for Cooking Light), send Mar off to piano, feed her when she got back and get her to her school event.

Needless to say, my already hectic work day (filled with new tasks) piled with the home-life stress made mama want to cry in her basamati rice. Instead I said the "f" word to myself about a million times while I finished cooking.

(The whole fact that I'm cooking actual delicious recipes is weird to me. I've make a name for myself throughout my marriage as the non-cooker. I guess people can change. Huh.)

As Mar was scoffing down her dinner, I put on my shoes and prepared myself to act like a proper parent in front of the other families at Mar's school — no swearing, no drinking, no stories of drinking, etc.

That's when Bill sauntered in and asked Margaret if she was ready to go. And off they went. Leaving me behind.

It was probably the right thing to do, considering my horrific mood, but still ...

Oh the frustration of it all.

Luckily, I took my frustrations out on the dirt, sticky floor and cat hair.

I guess I should modify Neitzsche's quote to say: That which does not kill you, makes your house cleaner.

Wordless Wednesday: Anatomy of a Bromance

Why cottage industries rock

I believe in being up front about what I need and want in my marriage. It makes things a lot easier when I don't have to rely on Bill's mind-reading skills.

Years ago, I plainly told Bill that cards and flowers are nice, but what I really wanted for Valentine's Day was a box of chocolate nuts and chews.

And guess what? Every year, I've been lavished with flowers and a nice big box of Enstrom's chocolates.

Awesome.

This year since I'm still trying to lose weight in my office's Biggest Loser challenge, I told him to skip the candy.

He did.

Awesome.

Instead he got me a pair of custom earrings from my favorite jewelry maker, Cari at Wired Originals.


Even more awesome.

Bill's smart that way.

You probably noticed that there's just one earring there. Click over here to read what happened and why cottage industries kick so many kinds of ass.

Baracking out

Saturday night, Bill's band, the Wrong Impressions, played the Rock for Barack show at the Mesa Theater.

I love going to Bill's shows and supporting him (even if his shows always seem to give me the stomach flu the next morning ... I wonder why that happens), but I was bitter that I was going to have to buy a ticket since there was no guest list.

I was kvetching about that with some friends and one said that if I came, he'd get me in. And he did. So I went — yes, that's how I roll.

The show was really fun even if there were too many people wearing political t-shirts. Bill wore this shirt — which is awesome in its ain't-rightedness (see making up words is easy people, let's all do it).

Check out these pictures I snapped while simultaneously drinking Bud Lite (yeah, I'm drinking Bud Lite now ... what's become of me?).

Sick day

There are chewed up tissues all over the house.

Margaret has a cold and the dog is loving it. Quincy loves to chew on used tissues. Could there be anything more disgusting? Oh yeah, eating cat shit — which she does all the time.

I love cats and dogs. But you never see a cat eating dog shit. So ...

Yeah, so Margaret's sick. We decided about 3:30 a.m. last night after she got up for the kajillionth time because she couldn't breathe that she needed the rest and wouldn't be going to school today. Shortly after that Bill jumped out of bed and said, "Do you want to come watch Conan with me?"

At 3:30 a.m.? No thank you.

But Bill wakes up many nights at 3:30 a.m. and watches Conan O'Brien. He loves himself from Conan.

But I don't care how much you love some guy's hair, there no way in Hades I' m hauling my cookies out of bed at 3:30 a.m. to watch TV.

And just because I'm awake at 3:30 a.m. doesn't mean that I want to take advantage of my lucidity to watch late-night TV. Bill does, though, all the time.

Yeah, he's got insomnia. But he seems to enjoy it a little too much. It's like he enjoys his alone time with Conan in the middle of the night.

What's up with that?

Whachoo talkin' about Willis?

I love this picture of Bill. It was taken by our friend the Shock Doctor at our neighborhood block party.

It needs a good caption, don't cha think? Leave your suggestions in the comments.

Husband logic

My husband called me at work laughing just now. "So, can you pop popcorn with a cell phone?" he asks.

He was, of course, referring to my post from yesterday linking to my Haute Mamas blog video where my co-workers and I try to recreate the myth that you can pop popcorn with cell phones.

Spoiler alert! You can't.

But it was fun to try.

(Click here to see Richie and me on GJSentinel.com's 60-second update. We're haute.)

We're going to be doing more "experiments" like this in the future so keep checking in with the Haute Mamas. Oh and if you have any ideas of things you'd like to see us do, leave a comment. We're game for most things (and by most things, I mean things in which we keep our clothes on, thankyouverymuch).

When I revealed to Bill that no, you cannot pop popcorn with cell phones, he laughed more and said, "Of course you can't, there's no heat source." (If you click the snopes.com link on the Haute Mamas blog you can read how they edited the footage to make it seem like the popcorn was popping.)

Whatever. Smart guy.

And while he is a smart guy, he has some crazy logic sometimes.

Recently our cleaning service came to try to make our house presentable. We just aren't very good housekeepers. Things were dirty.

You should've seen how excited I was to see that the inside of our microwave was clean. Oh and behind our toaster, too.

We're fancy now with our clean house (or what used to be our clean house ... several days of living in our clean house has made it not so clean anymore ... I wonder why that is?).

While we were admiring our clean house, Bill decides that we need to get a new vacuum.

Me: Why? Ours works good enough to vacuum two rooms of carpet.

Bill: Yes, it's good enough for us, but not for them.

Me: Huh?

Bill: What happens when the belt slips off and they can't vacuum.

Me: They'll clean something else instead.

Bill: Yeah, we need to get a new vacuum.

Me: (blinks incredulously)

So we're in the market for a new vacuum — not because I've wanted one for the past two years, but because someone else is using it.

Does that make sense?

I don't think it does, but I've been lusting after a Dyson for a long time, so I'm going to keep my mouth shut (for once).

Block party 2008

Our annual block party. Planned and organized by all the other neighbors (because I'm a bitch).

We* got a permit to block off the street and a local cyclery, Brown's Cycles, lent us an assortment of fun bikes and a whole bunch of Green Machines — which are fun until one particularly surly Green Machine decides to throw you off in the middle of the street resulting in various minor scrapes and bruises.

*And by "we" I mean, someone other than myself, because all I did was bake three batches of brownies.


Yes, that is my daughter eating the forbidding cotton candy.

I mean, people, seriously, it's whipped sugar. But since I was too distracted (and remarkably not drunk — I wasn't in the mood for beer and too lazy to get something else) to watch her, Margaret smiled when she said, "Don't be surprised when you hear that I had six cotton candies."

But the best part was the the cops only showed up twice.

Once they were invited by us. The nice officer spoke about how important it is to have a strong community, blah, blah and gave us ("us" meaning the kids and myself) "Junior Officer" badge stickers.

I wore mine proudly until Johnny and Bridget's mean baby stole mine.

And the second time when one of our charming neighbors complained about Bill's band making a racket.

The band played from 6 to 8 p.m. and we had a permit.

Luckily another really nice officer showed up and said he had no problem with the music and actually that it was great we were getting together as a community.

So suck it neighbor who called the cops on us.
And despite the fact that both Greedy and Flendard said that there could be nothing gay about Green Machines, they proved themselves wrong by choreographing tandem burn outs in a might gay fashion.

The video proof is below: