So it's not just my kid ...

I love how the mom tries not to laugh and every time she does, it makes the little girl smile bigger.

We learned that the hard way — if you laugh they say it over and over again.

Cut the power

I'm looking our the list of songs that my band covers right now. The list contains two columns: covers and originals.

The column of originals is now longer than the list of covers. Yep, we've got 19 covers and 21 originals. It's a good place to be.

I'm searching our list because of what I read in this column which appeared in The Daily Sentinel's entertainment magazine, Out & About today. For those who are click-o-phobes, the column says that my kick-ass rock 'n' roll band is doing an acoustic set for a fundraiser for the local community radio station, KAFM.

Yep, acoustic.

We've been talking about doing this fundraiser, but I didn't realize that it was acoustic until I read that.

At first, I was all — 'the hell? But now I'm really warming up to the idea. We could show the softer side of Riveter and feature Kelley's amazing pipes and be all sweet and cuddly and make more people love us.

It will be interesting, to say the least, to see how this turns out.

Going to the well

I started this blog over a year ago and in that time I've never had this happen: I've gone to the well of good blog ideas and have come up dry.

Sometimes I don't have time to write or don't have the energy or whatever. But today, I have the time — I'm all caught up on my work and am just waiting for the time to skedaddle. I have the energy — I want to write something interesting and/or witty and/or relevant.

But I got nothing.

I went to fark.com to see if I could find a crazy news story to comment on and ... nothing.

I'm trying to think of a funny or even stupid anecdote – nothing.

Gah! I hope this isn't the start of something bad.

Instead you should click here to read about how Richie is not like Ugly Betty or here to read about how Dooce's kid said, "Shit" at the dinner table.

An open letter to the Japanese guy

Dear Japanese guy with the spiky hair sitting a couple rows in front of us on the plane Friday,

You're welcome.

For what, you ask?

For saving you from probable neck injury and possible paralysis when I threw all concern for my own safety to the wind and caught that dangerous carry-on before is smacked you on top of the head. I torqued my upper body perfectly in order to grab that heavy piece of luggage just as it grazed your nicely coiffed hair, thereby, assuring you a good flight, instead of a trip to the emergency room.

Like, I said before, you're welcome. It's the least I could do considering it was my bag and I was the one who let it go before it was carefully stowed in the overhead compartment just above your delicate cranium.

Yes, I realize that you were just sitting there quietly, not encouraging anyone to bludgeon you with their luggage, but I could've saved my rock-starself and let it ker-plop your skull like a ripe melon. I didn't. So, you're welcome.

I know, I know, I'm so kind and considerate — it's just one of my many magnanimous character traits. So, I'll just sit here and suffer from the horrendous spasms in my own neck, happy to know that yours is OK.

I would suggest, however, that next time you wear a hardhat and duck when you see me coming with luggage.

Yours in neck pain,
rivetergirl

Half-cup Bill

In learning how to correctly feed ourselves since Bill's diagnosis, we discovered that often, one serving equals a half of a cup. Um, yeah, we've been serving up way more than that, so there's still a lot to learn.

Bill's doing well. Click over here to read more about his disease and how we're all coping.

Basking in the afterglow

First, Riveter owes a giant THANK YOU to Madalyn Sklar and GoGirlsmusic.com for including us in their Saturday night showcase.
Like I've been saying over and over again, we had a great time. The crowd was great to us. We were treated wonderfully by Madalyn and the other GoGirls folks. The sound guy did a great job with a limited amount of equipment. The other bands were fun and friendly (for the most part).

The fact that the venue was off the beaten track and down a ways from the main portion of SXSW was actually better for us than if we'd been downtown because the people who were there, stayed there — instead of being lured off to another venue.

During the day Saturday, we would walk from venue to venue watching a band for a song or two and then moving on — because you never knew who was going to be playing just around the corner. With our venue on Saturday night, we had more of a captive audience — and what a great audience it was.

While we were playing, I kept having to pinch myself. I couldn't believe that we were playing in Austin during SXSW. Whoda thunk a little, girl band from western Colorado would be playing in such a place?

We love you, SXSW

Trying to recap our whirlwind trip to SXSW would be like trying to describe the horrendous stench that sometimes escapes from my husband's nether regions — I could tell you about it, but unless you witness it in person, you can never really appreciate its awesome power to overwhelm.

Like this:

Friday we arrive in Austin, check into the hotel then drive downtown. We find a miraculous parking spot (thanks to my lucky coldsore — yeah, don't ask) near the fest and we just start walking randomly down the street.

We hear bands from every direction. Bill says, "Let's go over here, it sounds cooler."

Then we find ourselves standing outside Stubb's. Bill cocks his head like a Golden Retreiver listening for the sound of a pheasant hitting the dirt and says, "That sounds like Pete Shelley" and he marches over to the guys guarding the entrance Stubb's garden.

Guess what? It was Pete Shelley and the rest of the legendary Buzzcocks. They were playing just yards away from us.

Bill tells that guy at the gate that he's just got to let him in and the dude did ... and us, too. Just like that, we were standing there taking it all in. I thought Bill was going to bust at the seams.

As soon as they finished playing, Bill says, "OK, I don't need to see anything else and I can go home a happy man."

The whole trip was so much fabulous fun that I'm still trying to take it all in.

You can read more about our show Saturday night here.

Look out Austin

Here comes Riveter!

Bill, Mar and I are driving to Denver with my parents tomorrow, then Bill and I are flying to Austin Friday morning for our debut performance the the Invasion of GoGirls.

I don't think that I'll be updating much, so I'll leave you with this:

After dinner last night:

Margaret: "Gramma, open your mouth."

Gramma opens her mouth.

Mar: "No, like this." She bares her clenched teeth. "So I can see her teeth."

Gramma clenches her teeth so Margaret can see.

Mar looking intently: "Yeah, you got something stuck in your teeth that you can probably floss out."

Indeed.

Driving to the cars

Monday, we packed into our car and took the drive to Gateway to see the Discovery Channel's John Hendricks' car museum.

The weather was beautiful and the drive nice dispite some traffic. You can read about our trip to the museum and see a couple snapshots here.

(But I'll give you a hint, we all — my mom, dad, husband and kid — walked out of there knowing that we saw some really special stuff.)

Where did Monday go

Man, time flies when you're having fun.

First, a note on Bill. He's doing pretty well. We're making the necessary changes, but still have a lot to learn — like if you can't eat cereal or eggs, what do you have for breakfast? Fortunately, we've got an appointment with the diabetic counsellor today and we'll have some of our questions answered.

So that's going as well as we could expect.

Second, Saturday night my little band rocked the Quincy Bar. I was blown away by the many, many people who came out to send us off to Austin — and boy, were they generous. The money we made that night will make a huge difference for us. So a humungous thanks to all those that came and supported us.

We had a great time. Really.

Here's a short slideshow from that night:



Friday we fly to Austin for our big Invasion of the GoGirls gig and we couldn't be more excited. Here's an e-mail I got from Kelley this morning:

can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait
can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait can't wait CAN'T WAIT!!!
hope you're having a great week with yo family. see ya wednesday!
kel

So, yeah, excited says it pretty good.

And third, my parents are here visiting. It's been a year since they've been able to come visit and it's been great. I keep hoping that they are going to move here ... or just live in their RV in our driveway. Either way would be great.

I took the day off work yesterday, but I'll write about that tomorrow.

It is what it is

And it is diabetes.

I think we're all resolved to the fact that our lives are forever changed and we're OK with that.

I wrote more about it over here.

We still don't know if it's Type 1 or Type 2, but he's home and managing his sugar level with oral medications at this point.

We're hopeful and optimistic — like we always are.

Ups and downs

Yesterday I was squeaking over our guitar endorsement and our trip to Austin.

Today I'm dealing with a sick husband. Scary sick but manageable. He'll be home from the hospital in a day or two and we'll make the necessary lifestyles adjustments. Life will go on ... thank goodness.

We're official

It's an exciting time for my little band, Riveter.

Next week we're playing GoGirlsMusic.com's Invasion of the GoGirls SXSW in Austin.

GoGirlsMusic.com is proud to present the 7th annual Invasion of the GoGirls during Austin's annual "South by" weekend


March 15-18, 2007




And just today we learned that we have received an official endorsement from Daisy Rock Guitars.



If you click to Daisy Rock's site and then click on the "Artists" button at the top, you'll find us listed under Riveter.

Other than having our shows listed on their myspace and listed on their Web site, we have no idea what that means, but, honestly, we don't care.

We love Daisy Rock Guitars and being endorsed by them, whatever that means, is just a hugely awesome thing for us.

Huge.
Awesome.
Riveter.

Of mommies and daughters (who love their daddies)

As I stood over the bed and strongly encouraged Margaret to get up this morning, she squeezed her little-girl eyes shut and bleated, "I like the way daddy wakes me up better."

Certain that this conversation is going to end badly for me, but I ask anyway, "How does daddy wake you up?"

"With hugs and kisses," she cries.

"Oh," I mumble as the bright-red, "shitty mom" sign appears over my head.

And so it goes when Bill is out of town. Luckily he gets back tonight and all will be right with the world again.

In the meantime, click over here to read about Margaret's sonatina concert.

End of an era

All good things must come to an end ...

I took this picture at my desk this morning. Do you see it?

It's my neck ... out there in the open ... flappin' in the breeze.

Yep, today marks the end of my black, cotton, Old Navy, turtleneck sweater marathon. I lasted 47 consecutive work days of wearing one of my six turtlenecks.

Even though I was getting a bit bored of wearing those sweaters, I loved the fact that I never had to worry about that I was going to wear to work in the mornings.

But the weather is turning nice again and I hate being overheated, especially in a turtleneck. So today I'm all v-necked up.

Now, I'm looking for the next black, cotton, Old Navy turtleneck sweater. I hoping to find the perfect, light-weight, fine-guage, short-sleeved, black — of course, sweater that I can wear all spring. I'm going to to have try out a couple and see what works.

And the search is on ...

Incorrigible

At lunch today the gal behind the counter asked: "What name shall I call when it's ready?"

Bill: "Latchmi."

Gal: *crickets*

Me: "Bill. His name is Bill."

Gal: Sigh and nervous laughter, "Oh good, I didn't know how to spell that other one."

Bill: "But isn't Latchmi more interesting."

Gal: *crickets*

Me: "Yeah, in your own head."

If it's not me taking pictures and movies while we're eating, it's Bill making up stuff to entertain himself.

It's a wonder we haven't been banned from moving freely in public.

Effects of the evil orb

Some of you may remember this rant that I wrote last December about trying to see the dermatologist about what I thought was a return of my skin cancer.

What? You don't remember and you just aren't in the mood to click the link? Fine, here's the Reader's Digest version:

I had skin cancer surgery in May of 2005. Late in 2006 I noticed a growth that looked just like the original cancer on the same spot. I made an appointment with my not-any-longer-because-his-office-doesn't-believe-in-customer-service dermatologist, who then proceeded to essentially stand me up, so I refused to go back.

Not being one to just let potential skin cancer eat away my face, I made an appointment with Richie's plastic surgeon (he's been treating her for skin cancer), way back in December. His first available appointment was Feb. 26. Believe me, this annoyed me but I couldn't go back to the old dermatologist on account of the big fit I threw in their office (my blood starts to simmer just thinking about it).

So Monday, I ran off to see the plastic surgeon for what I assumed would be a consultation appointment. Dude, was I wrong.

The guy — who was very thorough and very odd ... he says, "uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" a lot — checked me all over for other signs of skin cancer (none of the other two DERMATOLOGISTS looked anywhere but where I pointed) and spent a long time checking out the lumps and bumps on my face.

It was a good news/bad news situation:

The good news was that the cancer had not come back. The thing I thought was a cancerous mole was actually a milia (a little cyst thing) that formed along the scar — ick and whatever ... the doctor cut it open and cleaned it out and now it's all good.

The bad news is that he found yet another spot of skin cancer on my face. Nice. I'm all skin cancery. 'the hell?

Anyway, he froze that off with the liquid nitrogen.

Oh and he did all of that sans any type of anesthesia which is fine but still ... ouch.

So that's that. I have skin cancer. I have to keep going back and having him say, "Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh" while looking all intensely at my face.

The sun is evil, mmmkay?

On the road

Lookit that face ... it smacks of desperation, doesn't it?

That's the face of a man who's firmly entrenched in a war with his bladder. The whole ride home from Denver Sunday, Bill kept having to pee really bad all of a sudden.

This one happened just as we were getting into Glenwood Springs and we were able to make it to the KFC you see in the distance.

But the worst episode happened just as we were getting to the Eisenhauer Tunnel. For those unfamiliar with Colorado geography and highways, Eisenhauer Tunnel is bored through the highest point of Interstate 70 as you cross the Rocky Mountain Continental Divide. It's a long tunnel and there isn't anywhere — either before or immediately after the tunnel — to pull over.

Before we entered the tunnel, Bill started complaining about having to "go." It got so bad that I had to hold an empty water bottle for him while he drove and relieved himself at the same time.

I laughed so hard that Margaret tore off her headphones and demanded to know what was so funny. I gave my standard reply, "Your daddy's really funny."

The worst part was we ended up with a almost full bottle of man pee. The idea that it was in the car really grossed me out and I had to gag a little. But I just diverted my attention and tried to forget that sitting in the cup holder just to the left of the gear shift was a water bottle full of human urine.

I suggested that he throw the bottle out of the window, but we both agreed that ... well, that just ain't right. So we drove for another 45 minutes or so until he needed to pee yet again and it was disposed of properly.

The good news is that he's back to normal now ... well, as normal as Bill can be — and that's not really saying much.

Staying in the big city

Even though I lived in a major metropolitan area until after I had graduated college, I have enthusiastically embraced the mind-set of a small-town dweller. I love being awed by the gradeur of a big city and am not afraid to act the fool in order to enjoy it.

I'll take pictures inside Denver's fine restaurants just like I take pictures at the Pizza Hut here in Grand Junction.

We may not know how to act right, but we sure know how to act like we're having a big, ole, bunch of fun.

Click over here to see pictures and read more about our trip to Denver.

Art, for my sake

Hot springs + art + nice hotel + fun family = awesome trip to Denver.

A couple of pieces that we all thought were pretty flippin' cool.

Claes Oldenburg's dustpan and broom:


John De Andrea's work is so amazgingly haunting. It's so real, it'll make you feel bad about staring at nekkid ladies.

Click here to read about our time at the library and art museum.

Getting the heck outta town

Finally, we're actually heading over the divide to Denver — first stopping here for a long and much-needed soak.

In Denver, we're going to stay here, where they claim to have fluffy pillows and nice bed linens. Because really a hotel room is all about the bed.

I don't think I've ever needed a weekend away like I do right now. I can't wait to get on the road (I guess since I'm only working a half day today, I'd better get my work done!).

I'm sure I'll have pictures next week.

Hurray for Friday!

My kid

If I knew ahead of time what a challenge parenting is, I would've smacked myself with the a cast-iron frying pan a couple of times and then went ahead and had a kid anyway.

Being a parent is the hardest, most-challenging responsibility I've ever undertaken. Some days I feel like I'm going to be crushed into blintz from the pressures of making the "right" decisions for my kid. But then she'll sit down at her keyboard and play a sonatina from memory and I can't believe I wasted all those years without kids.

Tuesday, Margaret and her classmate, Cora, represented their school in the school district's Battle of the Books. Click over here to read how they did.

But gah! The gray hairs and wrinkles that I'm getting will always be a reminder of this time for sure.

Getting our motors running

Yep, Riveter is getting ready for a road trip ... or air trip. But first, a show at ye olde Quincy Bar to kick off our trip to SXSW.

We've been in the recording studio recently and it will be great to get back out and play. Plus, we're having our friends' new band open for us, so that will be fun, too.

A friend made this poster for us. I wish I could make posters so cool!
23 days to go ... it's gonna be a good time!

I don't need this ...

but I think this is awesome.

Lookit, it's Clocky.
It's an alarm clock. After the snooze, the alarm sounds again and then rolls off the bedside table and tries hide from you.

Now that I think about it, I don't really want this clock. I want video of people trying to find this damn thing after it has rolled underneath the bed all the while sounding it's deafening alarm.

That would be some funny YouTube.

What am I going to do?

The weather was gorgeous over the weekend. Margaret and her friend, Kate, played outside all weekend long.

There will still be a few more days of winter left, but spring is definitely on its way to western Colorado. And that fact strikes fear deep into my heart!

See, since Christmas of last year, I have worn one of my six black, cotton, Old Navy turtleneck sweaters to work every day. Every single day in the past two months, I've gotten up and readied myself for work knowing that I would be wearing a black turtleneck sweater.

It might sound lazy or boring or like I'm touched in the head, but I don't care (and I say that without admitting that all of the above might just be true). I love not having to worry about what I'm going to wear to work.

I hate work clothes. I hate spending money on work clothes. I hate getting to work and hating my work clothes.

Because I hate hating stuff, I enacted my ingenious plan. I instituted a Rivetergirl dress code for work. At first I just eliminated any color other than black.

If I had a monochromatic work wardrobe, then everything would match and I would eliminate part of my work-clothes anxiety.

That worked for about two years (yes, I've only been wearing black to work for more than two years now). But then I found that I hated finding new long-sleeved shirts and sweaters to wear in the winter. I also discovered my true and undying love for black, cotton, Old Navy turtleneck sweaters.

So I decided that it really didn't make a difference if I wore different black shirts every day and skipped varied and raced head-long down the aisle toward uniformity.

Now I wear one of my six, black, cotton, Old Navy turtleneck sweaters with a pair of black pants or a black skirt. For a while I was wearing knee-high sock and boots with my skirts, but I've grown tired of that and plus it's getting too warm for layers.

Which leads me back to my clothing conundrum: what am I going to wear when it's finally too warm for black, cotton, Old Navy turtleneck sweaters?

Can I ever find a substitute that I love as much as Old Navy's black, cotton, turtleneck sweaters?

The search is on, my friend. The search is. on.

Finally Friday

It's been a doozy, I tell you what.

I've been running from project to project for the last couple of days, stressing, tearing my hair and having panic attacks when I can find the time. It's all been so hectic that I actually said "Yes" more often than I should've last night when our neighbor had his hand-crafted vodka flowing.

(Note to self: Thursday isn't "close enough to Friday" when it comes to diving head-long off the wagon. Friday morning smarted a little too much this morning."

Tulips Day 3.

Tulips Day 2

I love tulips.

V Day

Yes, it's Valentine's Day.

Bill has always treated me so well on Valentine's Day (and my birthday and Christmas and every other day of the year, for that matter), so it's always a nice day for me. Plus our office is always innundated with flowers. I love flowers so it's a fun day. Click over here to see pictures of the flowers Bill sent me.

I went to Margaret's class to help with their Valentine's Day party. It was not the experience I was expecting. I was more than a little disappointed.

The whole experience made me want to move to another school district, or another state ... or another country for that matter.

Getting new stuff

We're pretty much done with the many roomed redo we've undertaken in the last two weeks.

Repainting Margaret's old room was a task (I didn't cry, but when my boss called at 3:30 on Saturday and asked if I could come in to work briefly, I was thrilled to have an excuse to quick painting for the day). It's tiny, but in this case, size only mattered in that it just made everything harder.

Click over here to see snapshots of both rooms.

This weekend the nice, new futon we bought should be delivered (hopefully). I was amazed at how comfortable futons are now. The mattress we picked has acutally coils. It also has a separate ottoman that we can use as a bench in there if we have people who want to sit around with us in our tiny office/TV room.

I love the season of the tax return.

Look out Austin!

Hey, what are you doing March 17th? Oh, you're going to be drinking green beer downtown. Huh, that's cool. Me? Yeah, I 'm gonna be playing music in Austin during the South by Southwest Fest!

The official fest is hosting 1,300 bands over the week long event including Iggy Pop and the Stooges ... um, Iggy Pop ... 'the hell?

We're playing a festival organized by GoGirlsmusic.com during the last weekend. My band, Riveter, is playing Saturday night, March 17.

That's right, baby ... St. Paddy's Day.

This is a huge deal for us. I mean, it's SXSW week in Austin. We can hardly contain ourselves and because we're a bunch of girls, we have to get together often, stand in a little circle clutching one another while jumping up and down screaming like leeettle girls — or not.

No, because we're adult girls (no, that isn't oxymoronic) we get together often do shots of Jaeger and get tattoos — or not.

Maybe we sit quietly and hold each other while we sob quietly over our good fortune — um, definitely not.

Really, we get together often, practice like hell, arrange to have an EP with four brand-new songs and get a show locally a week before our trip so we can kick off this adventure the right way ... by playing the gay bar in town — because we're girls who know how to rock!

Staying home

Two sick kids ... that's what we've still got. So we decided to postpone our trip to Denver. Insert sad, pouty face here :( (I wrote about Mar's continuing bout of the respriatory flu over here.)

But we'll go in two weeks and it'll be great.

In the meantime, I'm going to paint Margaret's old room, as we're converting it into a study for Bill and I. Right now the room is pink — perfect for a little girl's nursery, but really horrible for anything else ... except maybe an ice-cream shop (mm, ice cream).

Hopefully I'll have some pictures of everyone's new rooms Monday.

Oh and I should have some very exciting news to break here about my little band Monday as well. Good times.

Bitter: it's not just a taste anymore

Yeah, I'm bitter ... and tired ... and bitter and tired.

My kid is still sick, just as sick as she was Sunday. They're calling what she has the respiratory flu. Basically it's the worst cold that you wouldn't even wish on one of your lesser enemies (because you'd totally wish this on your worst enemy — it's e-e-e-v-i-l).

I stayed home with her yesterday and listened to her cough until I was able to get my hands on some codeine cough syrup. Then she slept ... finally. Her nose is like a broken faucet and then there's the fever ... damn, fever.

We didn't send her to school today , but instead took her to our trusty daycare lady, who is our lifesaver, to say the least.

Tomorrow we're supposed to be traversing the Continental Divide to go see the scroll on which Jack Kerouac wrote "On the Road." We're already been charged our first night's lodging so we're pretty sure we're still going to go, but it sucks that Mar is sick.

Since I don't want to leave y'all on a grumpy note, go here and watch this guy draw this daily monsters. Great short clips that make me wanna start drawing (and it helps me forget that I have a sore throat ... which was Mar's first symptom).

This is why

To follow up on yesterday's teaser, I wrote a rambling and incoherent entry over here. Read it and you'll understand my brevity here.

Sicka, sicka, sicka, ooooh ... sick as a dog

My kid is way sick.

Bill is home with her this morning and I'm leaving work around 11 to relieve him. I've got a ton o' crap to do, so I can't explain why we were parked in the Home Dept parking lot at 8 a.m. Sunday morning with my husband looking like this:

Unexpected

There was a box on our porch yesterday when I got home from work. It was from my mom.

It isn't any one's birthday, so I wasn't expecting anything from my folks. Needless to say, my curiosity was piqued. I only had a couple of minutes until I had to pick up Mar from school, so I opened the box quickly.

It was a lovely surprise.

For Margaret, my mom had sent these items:
This was not the first time I've seen these things, as they used to mine when I was Margaret's age. I used to carry that box full of Hello Kitty items back and forth to school everyday.

I remember the statuette claiming I was the "World's Greatest Student" sitting on the shelf in my perpetually messy room. I remember losing the pin to the hinge of my Hello Kitty pencil sharpener and replacing it with a straight pin from sewing box. I remember the thin red tape that used to be dispensed from the tiny tape dispenser. Oh, those fond childhood memories.

It made me think about saving Margaret's toys and loved objects in order to give to her daughter some day. (But if that's going to happen, I'm going to have to get more organized. Doh!)

Also in the box, was a Loki jacket Bill and I gave to my dad last year. Apparently it never fit him right and instead of it living out its days hanging unworn in his closet, they gave it to Bill. He felt guilty about keeping it — but I could tell he was secretly thrilled to have it.

There was also a small box for me with a note disclaiming that I would wear the item as a bracelet or I could use the beads to decorate something else. This is what I found inside that little box:
I've said many times before that my mom knows everything, including just the things to make an otherwise bleak day, one full of delighted smiles.

Dinner with my husband

Need I say more?

Hungry?

Why not hop aboard the SpamBus?
Mm, I nice big Spam sandwich. Doesn't that look good?

Spam, like ham, only not.

Why, dear Internets, does Spam still exist?

Why I'm fun to live with — or — Why I shouldn't have candy before bed

After Margaret was in bed last night, I asked Bill if we had any goodies for dessert. "Coco Puffs," he remembered and then padded into the kitchen to make himself a bowl. My reply was to make my patented squeezed up face of "me no likey" and sigh.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like chocolate and I like sugar cereals (I don't like my kid eating sugar cereals for breakfast but Bill sneaks boxes into the house on occasion), but I've never been a fan of the chocolate cereal.

Mostly it's because I'm grossed out by the faux-chocolate milk that the cereal produces. It's warmish and grayish and speckled with cereal bits and ... well, it just ain't right. So I passed on the whole idea of dessert.

Later as we were getting ready for bed, I was looking for something in my bag and I discovered a bag of M&M's. Oh yeah baby!

It was 10:30 and Bill was already in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. I danced into the bedroom humming my "I've got candy" song when Bill said, "You're not going to eat those now, are you?"

"Uh, yeah," I sang out a bit too excitedly.

Since Bill mumbled some warning about having already brushed my teeth and the dangers eating a bag of candy before bed, he needed to be punished for trying to squash my sugared enthusiasm. So I decorated his face with M&M's.




After eating the candy, I got a sugar rush. Sean came home from work and had a cold. I raced around the house gathering cold remedies and instructing him on how to use them ("drink this" "shove this up your nose" "go to bed" — I'm really helpful) with the enthusiasm of June Cleaver on speed.

Then I climbed back into bed, tortured Bill with my sugar-fueled inanities and then crashed.

Mmm, sugar.

********************************************************************

I'm crafty and anal retentive and freakishly obsessed with homemade cards and ... lots of other things, but go here to read about Saturday's crafty streak.

Ruminations

Friday we were invited to eat and play some dominos with our neighbors. I passed on dinner so I could attend a lecture and gallery opening of sculpture from Zimbabwe.

What I saw blew my mind. I took one look through the gallery and ran home to fetch Margaret and Bill. I couldn't let them pass on the opportunity to see these works.

Margaret objected (that's a euphemism for "acted all pissy") because she wanted to stay and play with her friends, but even my dear, 6 year old was won over by these remarkable sculptures.

I'm trying to find some links that have pictures but am having little success. Here's a link to a page about the sculpture garden that was created to display these works from Zimbabwe.

I've been teaching art appreciation for over five years now and seeing this one show has awakened a renewed interest is the field of study that I've kept on the back burner since I earned my MA 10 years ago.

We all know how she feels

Wah!

My kid .... GAH!

I have vertible forest of gray hairs that grow right on the front of my head so I can see them waving and flipping me the bird every morning. And wrinkles ... frowning wrinkles seem to pop up quicker than I can say, "Margaret, quit it and start actin' right."

Go here to read about the troubles with Margaret.

I wonder why

We like to go out to eat.

But just because we're at a restaurant doesn't mean that we just sit quietly and stare earnestly at one another. We just act like ourselves (fools for the most part): we draw, play cards and I often take pictures of my tablemates.

That's Mar at Old Chicago doing her Frida Kahlo impression (the painter ... not the cat).


This is one of my favorite pictures of Bill and Mar — taken at the oh-so glamorous Pizza Hut (*singing in my head* "Pizza Hut, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pizza Hut ... " it's that song those kids sang in the documentary, "Supersize Me.")

You know, it's strange. People don't seem to want to go out to eat with us anymore. And I just can't figure out why:

This could be Bill and I ...

if we were funny and motivated enough to write down the crap that we say to each other:

Things My Boyfriend Says — My new favorite Web page.

A video game that doesn't suck

I read somewhere that a band got a bunch of publicity because one of their songs was included in the Guitar Hero Playstation 2 video game. I can't remember where I read that (dude, gettin' old blows) but I was mildly interested only because I'm always looking for new ways of getting our music out there.

When we got home from skiing Sunday, I noticed that before Sean went to work, he dumped off a bunch of his stuff including his PlayStation 2 and a what looked like a small plastic Gibson SG.

Last night when I got home from teaching my class (yep, classes have started again), my family was in the living room playing Guitar Hero. Bill excitedly shouted above the loud music, "This game is cool! You need to try it!"
So I did. And you know what? It was fun ... and addicting.

You pick a song from their list (it has a wide variety including songs by Primus, Nirvana and Reverent Horton Heat) then you hit the keys on the neck and "strum" with a lever on the body of the faux-tar as the notes appear on the TV screen.

If you play the correct notes in time, the song rocks and the fans cheer and you win. If your lack of coordination and timing cause you to miss notes, then the crowd turns on you faster than potato salad at a July Fourth picnic and you lose.

Sean is rocking out these songs on the hard level. I was barely making it through on the easy level. But then again I don't have hours every day to play a damn video game (but boy I wish I did. It's way addicting. Oh, but I can totally go home on my lunch hour and play ... woot!).

More on the perpetual pets

Saturday, I posted a rare weekend entry. You should go read it. Then come back here ... that way we'll all be caught up.

OK. Yeah, freeze drying pets. 'the hell?

I'm revisiting this topic because a reader (I have a reader that I'm not related to ... go me!), Amanda suggested that the site I linked to may be a hoax.

Since I've heard of freeze-drying pets before, I thought I'd do some research — namely I asked Mr. Google (he just knows everything). And guess what I found? Over 800,000 hits related to freeze drying animals.

Honestly, I wish it were a hoax because ... this just ain't right.

Check out some of these sites:

Go to Anthony Eddy's Wildlife Studio to get keep Fido ever-vigilant:
Doesn't Fido look like he just saw the mailman and is on the verge of barking bonanza?

Or check out Ed Carbaugh's Taxidermy to keep FiFi in top poodle shape:

Does she just look great? Like she's ready to growl and then bite your nose?

Amazing.

Yeah, amazingly creepy.

I think unless you're willing to stuff and mount Rover's head like an elk trophy, you should just be happy getting your pets creamated and then making a little shrine in your basement complete with pictures of locks of the animal's hair, like the rest of us.

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Click here to read more about Mar's day on the slopes.

Just say "No"

What is wrong with this dog (other than the fact that his eyes and nose are virtually indistinguishable from one another)?

Click here to learn why I know that the owner of this dog just ain't right.

Yep, that's right, that little almost-green-bean-can-sized dog is dead.

Dead ... as in no longer living.

This is not a picture of the dog before he died either. He was dead when this picture was taken.

That's right, he's been freeze dried and then sent back to the "I can never put my precious dog in the ground" owners.

Now imagine the day to day life of this dead dog:

At night the lady would put the dog next to her bed so he's the first thing that she's sees when she opens her demented eyes in the morning. Then she would carry the dog down and prop it up on the couch next to her while she watches the "Price is Right." Later she would set now-dead Gunny on a kitchen chair while she cleans the floor and starts dinner.

When her emotionally blunted husband would come home from work, she would tuck freeze-dried Gunny under her arm and greet her husband at the door. She would insist that they have faux conversations that included the pupsicle. She would even insist that her husband talk to the dog in that same squeaky dog voice that he used on the dog when it was actually alive ...

Now, people, this just ain't right.

Please, say "No" to freeze-dried pets.

Inertia

My dear, sweet, smart, goofy nephew is the key to the legevity of our family lineage. He's the only son of an only son of an only son. If he doesn't reproduce male heirs, our family name will die out.

But there's no pressure on the kid.

I doubt that the potential of our family name going the way of the dodo bird is high on his list of priorities these days mostly due to the fact that he just turned 8 years old.

His birthday was the 11th.

On the 4th, we bought him a gift — plenty of time to get it wrapped and sent off before his birthday.

On the 8th, I brought home a shipping box for it. But the kitten liked the box ... a lot.

On the 12th (a day after his actual birthday), Bill wrapped the present.

It looked lovely sitting on our dining room table.

On the 15th, I brought home a new box since we couldn't separate Frida from the first one.

On the 16th, I addressed the box and Bill taped it shut.

This morning, the 18th, Bill mailed the gift to the sole heir of my family name.

Tardiness. I wonder if it's an inheritable family trait.

Frida the Wunderkitten

As I was going through my normal, morning, get-dressed-and-get-out routine, I noticed I had a Peeping Tom, ... um , actually it was a Peeping Frida.She climbed up in between the outer shower curtain and the liner and was trying hang out up there. This is what it looked like:

I forget how silly kittens are and how much energy they expend on fruitless endeavors.

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I posted over here, too. I'm just a postin' fool!

Everybody run, the homecoming queen's gotta gun!

Remember this song?


I feel like a cross between the gun-toting homecoming queen today and this person (if that person was wearing a black turtleneck, of course):
Like I've said to my husband, "I don't suffer well."

I'm not stoic, I'm whiny. My neck hurts and it's giving me migraines. Waa! Waa! I'm a big, fat, cry baby. Waa!

Please someone, put me out of my misery ... or feed me some bacon. I don't care which at this point.

What a pain in the neck!

Lookit how cute that kid is all dressed up in her lil' ski stuff.

I'd show you pictures of her actually skiing, but my camera's zoom lens isn't powerful enough to catch her up on the hill from my viewpoint which was at home on our sofa yesterday.

Yeah, I missed her first day of Powdercats.

Powdercats is the local resort's kid's program. They hone their basic skills and begin teaching them how to go through gates in preparation for racing.

While I'm really glad that Margaret is part of this program. I'm conflicted over the racing aspect. I know competition is healthy, but why turn an individual sport into a competitive venture? Why can't they instead learn to love the sound of the snow under their skis, the excitement of gliding down the hill, the thrill of being mastering dexterity in a beautiful environment?

Ah, that's probably just the Vicodin talking. (Mmm, Vicodin ... mama's little helper!) Yeah, I woke up Sunday in a really bad way. Due to a 6-year-old pillow usurper, my neck decided to treat me to some muscle spasms and agony.

I cried and bitched and yelled for a while until Bill made me an appointment at the local after-hours clinic.

As I was driving Bill's truck (he took mine up skiing), smoke started billowing out of the heater vents, just as I was turning an icy corner. The back end of the truck started to fishtail as the inside of the truck filled with smoke.

I quickly slowed the car and turned off the heater. I was about to be late for my appointment so I just pretended like the dashboard wasn't smoking and parked the car.

I hobbled into the clinic and tried not to look to cockeyed with my head listing off to the right (as it always does when my neck is in spasm). I had a very short wait until the doctor showed up.

After giving the doctor my history and assurances that I was not just after narcotics, he strongly suggested that I continue practicing yoga and wrote me prescriptions for muscle relaxers and pain killers.

Before starting the car again, I called Bill and told him of the possible dashboard fire. He laughed and said, "Oh, I forgot to tell you. You either have to have the heater all the way on or all the way off or it smokes."

If it were my car, I'd figure out why it smokes instead of just living with the all-or-nothing heater option, but I'm like that.

A quick trip to Rite Aid to get my drugs and the rest of the day was spent in a drug induced coma, beached on the sofa with the remote superglued to my hand.

Mar's instructor said that she is doing great and both she and Bill had a great day on the mountain. I'm sorry to have missed it but at least I got good drugs.

Scatterings

I have been the ole proverbial headless chicken (that is in way a reference to Mike the Headless Chicken. I am not a fan of that story or celebration ... it's weird and sad and way too barn-yardy for me. I mean look at the logo on the Web page ... they have the headless chicken wearing a hat. Why would a headless chicken need a hat? Gah) lately since my dear, recuperating coworker has been out of the office.

Yesterday's entry was supposed to include a story about how Margaret asked me (not Santa) for soap for Christmas.

See, she loves smelling stuff. It all started when she was about 2 and we were visiting some friends who have an extensive spice collection in their pantry. Our friend, Robin, spent a good long time opening spice jars and letting Mar smell them.

Mar loved it. It made such an impression that every time we see those friends, (which is not nearly enough as they are really great people) she excitedly recounts the time she and Robin spent smelling spices.

You could say that smelling stuff is a minor hobby of my 6-year-old — it could be worse, I suppose.

So, it's only natural then that she would love the soap display at the bagel shop/local produce gift shoppy place where we often eat.

While we dine on yummy soups and fresh bakery goodies, she smells the soaps. Ones that she really likes, or dislikes, she carries around the table so everyone can take a whiff. She's quite adamant about it. And it's not just enough to smell the soap but you have to comment on the smell as well. I guess you could call her the soap nazi.

On one visit before Christmas she decided that the lavender soap was her favorite. (I find that interesting because lavender was the dominant flower and fragrance at the our friend's wedding. A wedding for which Margaret was the flower girl. Coincidence? I bet not.)

Being the attentive mom that I am (ha! or at least, pretend to be), I made a trip to the store and on Christmas morning Margaret found ... not a lump of coal, but a brick of soap.

Huh? Lavender soap for the 6-year-old. It could be more strange, eh? She could've asked for cheese.

Wish list

Margaret didn't make a Christmas wish list this year and she didn't visit Santa at the mall. Whenever someone would ask her what she wanted Santa to bring her, she would reply, "Whatever he brings will be fine with me."

I thought this strange since she's happy to tell me on a daily basis all the things that she simply cannot live without. But she's a bit of a strange kid, so I didn't think much of it.

After Christmas Bill asked her if she'd received everything that she was hoping to get. She said yes and then revealed that she didn't want to ask Santa for anything this year because she didn't think that she was good enough to deserve anything.

Man, kids ... they really know how to sock it to their parents.

Since then, Mar and I have talked a lot about the choices one makes and how controlling one's behavior is so very important and that regardless her dad and I think she's the best kid we could've hoped for.

OK, now that I'm done with the sap for the day, here's a couple of stories that are in direct opposition to Mar's Christmas wish list story. Click here (The January 5 and 9th entries). Really click the link, there's a story about a kid who asked for cheese — sounds like my husband's wish list.

Caught on camera!

It's true! Bill was able — due, of course, to his catlike reflexes — to snap a photo of the camera-shy, Americanus teenagerus atworkus.
No, wait ... that's not the Americanus teenagerus atworkus. Doh! That's the American teenagerus atthemallus.

Here's the teenagerus atworkus:
I realize the photo is blurry by the teenagerus atworkus gets hostile when unsuspecting parents try to photograph him. Bill tried to coerce the teenagerus atworkus to turn around while he was working behind the counter, but he refused — adamantly. So we had to settle for an "action" shot.

All in all, we like the Americanus teenagerus atworkus. He's earning his own money (getting $7 a hour! Seven dollars ... it took me years to earn that much an hour), driving himself there on time and is hopefully developing a good work ethic.

I used to think (before I had kids) that high schoolers shouldn't have to work, unless absolutely necessary, because school should be their primary focus. I was really wrong on that — this kid needs more structure to his day.

He's been working this, his first job, for a couple of weeks now and so far so good. I hope this starts him on a better path than he's been on.

A night with the Rev.

During a serious game of Mexican Train Saturday night, our neighbor mentioned that he was going to have to make a special trip to his work Sunday to give a guy a tour.

Davy is the distiller for Peach Street Distillery in Palisade and he was asked by the owner to give a private tour to this guy that he'd met through another guy, blah, blah, blah.

It turns out that the guy who requested a private tour of the distillery is the road manager for, none other than, the Rev ... Reverend Horton Heat. Being the creepy band girl that I am, I took this as a sign and implored Davy to let me join him for the private tour — and he agreed.

Sunday morning I frantically printed out some photos and called Laurena to see if she could get me some of our new songs on CD. I drove Davy to pick up the Rev's road manager and we made our way to the fruited lands of Palisade.

Laurena met us there, CDs in hand and I gave the stuff to the road manager — who was a really interesting guy.

No opportunity wasted ... I had thought.

Later Sunday, Davy called to say that the road manager had forgotten our CD and stuff at the distillery. Doh!

But at least he called Davy to tell him that he'd inadvertantly left it behind.

So I took this as yet another sign and began to Photoshop artwork for a new CD that included photos and contact information to take with me to the show in hopes of getting to see him again.

Not only did we see him, but he saved us a table right in front of the sound board and he apologized for forgetting the CD — some people are just really cool.
The Rev played to a sold-out crowd and they were really amazing. They are a 3-piece that includes a stand-up bass player — uber coolness.

It was totally worth it to stay out late on a school night.

It's another Big Red day

As I was walking downstairs to get a clean, black turtleneck sweater, I notice that we got an inch or two of the white stuff last night. I wondered to myself where our snow shovel was and if I had enough time to get our walk shoveled before work.

I forgot that I'm married to a genuine, bona fide, stand-up guy. When he stumbled, groggy-headed out of bed this morning, he saw the snow and immediately began donning warm clothes.

He turned on my car, scraped the windows and was in the process of shoveling not just our walk but our neighbor's as well.

Good guy all around.

As I made my way carefully to work this morning, I found myself following Mr. Big Red again.
Looks like it's gonna be a Big Red Day!

Finito

I called Bill just before lunch and told him to swing by (he was on his way back from recycling our Christmas tree — that's right, folks, the McCrackens are movin' on up
— in that we won't be keeping our Christmas tree until spring clean up this year — also I'm considering eliminating the use of capitals and periods — instead I'll just use the big dash — what do you think ... doh, what about the question mark? — oh well, farewell giant dash, I'm back on the period again).

I told him that I wanted him to take me to lunch.

While on any other week this would not seem significant, but it was today. The grilled chicken fiesta salad I had for lunch marked the break of my fast.

Yep, ole Chubby McFatgirl fasted for 36 whole hours.

The fact that I made it that long is a miracle since Chubbs here loves herself some food. I was hoping to go longer, but the effects of the detox were bringing me down. I should have probably pressed on through, but I ate a salad instead.

I was initially disappointed in myself, but considering that this is the first time that I've ever done such a thing and I did manage to go an entire 36 hours without eating one damn thing (I was drinking this juice concoction) ... well, I'm just gonna give myself a "good job" and call it good.

(Note to self: Good job on keeping your resolution to try to be nicer to yourself. At least that's one New Year's resolution that still entact.)

Adjustments

So the tree is down (Bill took it down while I was at work yesterday — just another benefit of having an educator as my man) and the house is pretty much back to its pre-Christmas state.

Oh, except for the monkey-armed, sack of bones that we call Frida. She's caused all kinds of household disruption - mostly good though.

Margaret loves playing with her and has taken on all the responsibilities of cleaning her box — a task for which we upped her allowance from $1.25 a week (I can't remember why but we agreed that five quarters would be a just allowance) to two bucks a week. Believe me, I'm happy to pay someone to search for the kitten putrid-smelling, cat-box treasure.

Quincy the dog has developed a bizarre love for the kitty which makes no sense because Frida's main interest in Quincy is in slapping her face. I guess that dog is so desperate for attention that she'll take whatever she can get.
Isn't that sweet, Frida is sleeping in Quincy's lap and both are wedged up against me as I veg out on the sofa (wearing one of my six black turtlenecks. Speaking of turtlenecks, I now have six, so it seems unlikely that five of them would be in the laundry this morning necessitating me to wear on old one to work today. Gah, the indignity of having to wear an old sweater. But on the bright side, it doesn't seem that anyone notices so what the hell? )
Yeah, cute kitten and dog pictures ... I just realized that I've become one of those
people. You know the type who think that other people care about how cute their kitten is . Oh well, I'm just gonna go with it.


Switching to the non-lame and pathetic channel, I was in the recording studio last night working on our new CD. I laid down tracks for two songs and am pretty happy with the result.

"Pretty happy" that's huge for me. As a novice guitar player, I've striven for "not too sucky." When we listened back to what I recorded, Bill was utterly surprised at the lead track I laid down.

Go me, doing leads like a real guitar player.

Getting to know me

It's been a year (OK, in two days it will have been a year) since I started blogging here. In that year, I've posted 278 posts — mostly about nothing.

In honor of my almost one-year anniversary of blogging on Blogger, I completed a meme on my other blog (I love the irony of celebrating my anniversary here on another blog — because I'm so like that).

So click here to find out all the things that you never wanted to know about me.

Rockin' in the New Year

I felt lame saying, "It was really fun!" when my neighbor asked how our show went New Year's Eve — but only because that is what I always say after a show these days.

The reason is that it is really fun. Playing music with the girls of Riveter is such a great time. And this show was no exception.

We love the music, we love to perform ... there's really no better way to describe it but as really fun.

It was definitely not my best night of playing, but oh well that how it goes. But even an off night playing music is better than a good night doing most anything else.

And the crowd was great, really enthusiastic and there to have a good time on New Year's Eve. We handed out party favors and noise makers. Midnight was marked with a balloon drop and champagne toast followed by a Riveterized version of Auld Lang Syne. To help the crowd sing along, we wrote out the lyrics on t-shirts and had some "volunteers" wear them.

I know, we're clever.

All in all, it was a great way to ring in the new year.