Don't get the wrong impression about the Wrong Impressions

Yeah, the Wrong Impressions rock! And I'm not saying that because my uber-husband is the bass player ... fer reals, yo.

They played their first headliner Saturday and it was one of the best times I've had at a show in ... a long time.

Here's uber and Bridgett:I'm still on the fence about the bandana. But Bill looked supa hot all dressed in black.

I have a great picture where Johnny is totally gettin' after it, but mean ole Blogger won't upload it for some reason. I'll try again tomorrow.

The crowd was all full o' happy stuff and a great time was had by all. They even broke the all-time high for bar sales. Woot!

They worked hard getting ready for this show and it paid off big time.

Foot in mouth

As I mentioned before we had people over on our anniversary and I spent a bit of time driving around town with my friend and next-door neighbor, Jenn, running errands.

When we arrived back from one of our trips, I walked in to find that everyone was scrunched up in the living room looking uncomfortable.

When I left people were milling around the front yard, in the kitchen, downstairs, having fun ... now they were all packed in one room, not looking like they were having fun.

I stood in the middle of the room perplexed. Then I asked, "Why are we doing this?"

Then I figured it out ... music was playing.

And not just any music, but Bill's band's music.

While I was gone, Bill had corralled all the poor souls into our minuscle living room and was playing his new song for them.

First, let me say, it's a great song (really, click the link and listen for yourself ... if you haven't already been forced to, that is).

But forcing people to sit and be quiet while playing music is a totaly buzz kill in my book, but I can't blame Uber-husband. He's so excited to have a song recorded.

He was involved with the '80s punk-rock scene in San Francisco for a number of years and has been in bands but has no recordings to show for it.

All he has wanted is to have a song recorded. Now he does. So Woot! to Uber-husband.

This is a big weekend for Bill and his band. Saturday, the Wrong Impressions will be headlining their first show at the always-eclectic Quincy Bar.

It's going to be a fun night (and the best part is that I just get to kick back and enjoy hanging with the band!).

Y'all should come check it out!

True confessions

Uber-husband is 11 years older than I am. But you wouldn't know it to lookit him. The first day I met him, I thought he was younger than I was — not more than a decade older.

I love to joke that when we met, I was in my 20s and his was in his 40s (I was 29 and he had just turned 40).

He's young at heart and his youthfulness permeates every fiber of his being. So the age difference is a non-issue (for the most part, I want him to take care of himself so I won't end up a widow — but I'm tired of nagging, so my black apparel may end up being appropriate sooner than I'd like).

When visiting his old, punk-rock friends from "back in the day," he was once asked, how he get himself such a young wife.

He answered with his stock reply, "I got her drunk and put her pregnant."

Just another example of our true white trashedness (I am the queen, ya know.)

New Specs

Last month, as I'm sure y'all will remember, Uber and I went to the optometrist. Uber ordered some reading glasses (at 46 he still only needs reading glasses — I've been wearing glasses and contacts since I was in high school) and I ordered myself some new spectacles.

I didn't really need new glasses. Here's a picture I took of myself yesterday wearing my old glasses:
I like these glasses. But we just got vision insurance and I wanted new glasses. So new glasses I got.

Here's a picture of me with my new glasses (also taken by myself ... at my desk. I can only imagine what my co-workers think of me):I love these new glasses despite the fact that these aren't even the ones I ordered.

I ordered these in mocha. But they were back ordered and I'm impatient, so I let them put my new lenses in the ruby version of the same frames ... and I love 'em. I'm keeping 'em. Brown = ho hum. Ruby = red, hot 'n' spicy.

Plus I ordered transitions photosensitve lens, so they turn to sunglasses when I go outside. And really that was my major objection to my old pair — I hate being in the sun without sunglasses.

Now I don't have to. Woot!

Oh and as a little bonus, my new glasses came with this cute case. Check it:So I'm going to be a glasses-wearing fool for the next couple of weeks then I'll get bored with wearing glasses and go back to my contacts.

As winds come whispering lightly from the West

50 mph winds blasted through the valley yesterday.

I had the windows down as I drove home and found the wind would actually snatch away my breath.

On my way to class, my car was almost hit by a Christmas tree complete with tinsel.

I know, a Christmas tree in April! What kind of person would keep their Christmas tree months after the holiday?

Um, us. We're the kind of people who keep their Christmas tree months after the holiday has past.

While my parents were visiting, my dad kept propping our tree up in the backyard. After it fell over for the third time, he used wire to hold it in place.

The winds knocked it down yesterday. But it's just as well, the heat we've had recently finally turned the tree brown and ugly.

You may be asking yourself why we haven't gotten rid of it yet. The reason is simple.

We're lazy.

Coupled with the fact that the city's spring clean-up in just around the corner, there is no reason that we should have to drive our tree to the recycle facility ourselves.

I love spring clean-up. It's such an interesting phenomenon.

In our town, the city will pick up up to a dump-truck full of garbage for free, once a year.

They allow us two weeks to start piling our junk out on the street. Then they come scoop it up and haul it away.

But not before the garbage pickers get done with it.

For those two weeks, tweekermobiles slowly creep along the streets while they scour the piles of refuse seeking anything of value.

Sometimes there is stuff that is worth taking.

Bill and I used to check out other people's piles (Don't say, "Check out other people's piles"), but I have enacted a strictly enforced rule against scavenging other people's junk.

We've got our own junk. We don't need other people's junk, too.

And, boy, does it feel good to haul our junk out to the curb knowing that it will get picked up by the tweakers or the city dump trucks. All I care about is that it's gone.

See, our backyard is a waste land. Dirt, leaves, Mar's plastic toys. I hate it.

I never spend anytime out there (we are truly white trashies who spend all their time hanging out in the front yard). So we can keep junk out there and it really doesn't do much to mess up the aesthetic.

Our "garage" (the word "garage" must be in quotes, because it's really a run-down shack and nothing like an actual garage) is full up with cardboard boxes left over from Christmas.

Soon they will be adorning our front curb, along with our Christmas tree.

I'm not just a white trashie, I'm the queen of white trashies. Bow down to me in your stained wife beater and cutoffs.

Easter ... oh yeah!

See this guy:You don't know it, but you really wish he lived next door to you (Oprah shirt not withstanding).

This guy has SKILLZ! Mad skills, yo.

By trade, he's a distiller and brewer. He brews kick-ass beer, cider, brandy and vodka.

But he cooks, too.

Davy and Jenn hosted Easter dinner yesterday afternoon.

We all brought side dishes: three kinds of potatoes, delicious ginger beans (I wish I'd gotten some of those before they went home), green bean casserole, asparagus and pea salad, these fab cheese and bacon ymmies on pumpernickel bread delights, cheesecake, strawberry torte ....

All of them were amazingly good. But Davy made the meat ... and not just a ham (aka sam - as coined by 4-year-old Kate), but he also smoked salmon (yeah, smoked it himself) and he made prime rib — probably the best prime rib I've ever had (I mean, who actually makes prime rib? Davy, that's who).

I could go on and on about how absolutely fabulous the food was. I ate until I couldn't eat anymore, then I got caught eating off the serving dishes — I just wanted a little taste!

So dinner was probably one of the best meals I've eaten — definitely the best since Thanksgiving when Markel and Special K made THREE different kinds of turkey.

Man, I have the best friends and the fact that they cook means I'm the luckiest girl around.

But there was more to Easter than the sumptuous meal.

The day started with Margaret and Kate scouring our yards for plastic eggs filled with candy (and I do mean filled. The Easter bunny had lots of candy for the girls this year).


Here's Mar after the hunt. See, I said the Easter bunny was generous this year.
This is Bill with Richie's bundle, Soren. She was nice enough to bring him to our work's Easter egg hunt which was held on Saturday.

Richie eventually had to wrestle Bill to the ground to get her kid back. Bill loves himself some baby.
Another co-worker was kind enough to bring a basket full of baby chicks (isn't that redundant ... I mean, chicks are by definition, babies) and goslings (which I insisted on called ducks for a long time).
As much as I'd like to have family to celebrate the holidays with, we have filled the gap with some really wonderful friends. How lucky am I?

Profiles of our friends

There is a wall in our house that we've designated as the "height wall." We mark Margaret's height as she's grown.

And because we've never completely grown up ourselves, we've marked our heights, too ... along with the height of anyone who happens to enter our house.

This would be a great place to put the photo I don't have of the height wall.

As soon as someone new comes into our house, I command them, "Take off your shoes and come with me." Then they must stand, flat-footed, chin-parallel to the ground, while I measure them and mark their height with a pencil.

It's actually been quite revealing. Some people seem taller then they actually are, some shorter. There's a huge cluster of people that fall into the average 5'6" to 5'10" range. There are a few guys that are taller and a couple women that are shorter. But most everyone is in that average range.

If you want to hang in Chez Dorkus, you have to follow the rules (unless you really don't want to and that's fine, too — we're easy).

So, last Friday night I decided it was profile picture day. Meaning that I took everyone's (who was willing — I don't want to be that person that forces those camera-shy folks into posing uncomfortably) picture in profile.

And here they are:








What a lovely bunch of coconuts, eh?

Supa-star

Parenting is hard, mmmKay?

I never know if what I am doing is right. I look at the other moms I know and they do things way differently with all the nurturing and spending time with their kids and junk like that.

Sometimes my kid acts crazy and I feel unworthy. But then I realize that sometimes I act crazy, so maybe she's just human — we're still waiting on the test results.

So for however much I don't know about parenting, I do know that we have gotten a couple of things right.

Tuesday while shopping for some new clothes for Mar, she stopped me to tell me that her kindergarden teacher told her that she was the best reader in her class and that she was going to start getting harder books to read.I almost cried standing in the middle of the girls section in Target. I am so proud of her. I'm such a lucky mom.

And as significant as her reading is, it's nothing compared to her sense of humor.

After shopping, we had to stop by my office. We headed upstairs to say hello to the folks in the newsroom who work in the evenings.

Mar knows several of the reporters and copy editors and enjoys getting teased and teasing back.

At one point she began calling one of my co-workers all sorts of crazy things to the delight of those in earshot.

After making one too many potty jokes I knew it was time to take our leave.

As we got in the car, Wee One asked, "Was I funny?"

Was she funny? The fact that a 5-year-old is concerned with being funny to a group of adults is amazing to me.

We then discussed the power of the potty joke and that it's always good to leave 'em wanting more.

Smart and funny ... yep, she's a great kid.

Dopplegangers

This has been a good week (I'm ignoring the fact that I've been plagued with killer migraines since Sunday. It's better if I just pretend like they don't exist otherwise I cry and say, "Why me?" and that's just pathetic).

One of the best things that happened was my dear friend, Big R, came back to work.

She's been out for the last couple of months doing this:I've missed her a lot. She's my cohort in crime while I'm at work. We're often caught not acting right — which is always fun.

But now she's back. Woo!

Yesterday she said that while she was on maternity leave, she and her very cool husband watched a lot of movies. Some of which were the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

During one of these movies she decided that the guy playing the character Boromir* looked like my Uber-husband.

She told me this and I stared at her blankly. I had no idea who she was talking about as I've only seen the first in the trilogy and that one, while beautiful, bored me to tears.

I couldn't stand that big-eyed, bare-footed kid standing around with that ring in his outstretched hand another second. Put the ring in your pocket for pity's sake and get on with it already!

I realize that my opinion is a minority one and that people loved these movies — I mean didn't they win a bunch of awards or something? I was probably on my period when I saw the first one so they are forever tainted in my view as unnecessary for my viewing.

So Richie scrounged up a picture of the dude and e-mailed it to me next to a picture of Bill.

Guess what? She's right. Check it:I see the resemblance. Do you?

*While trying to find a good comparison photo, I learned that the actor who played Boromir is named Sean Bean. When you say Sean Bean, it's just another name, but for some reason when I see Sean Bean written it makes me laugh. It's like Julia Gulia only not because when you say Sean Bean, it's just Sean and Bean.

What? So what if that doesn't make any sense to you? I've had migraines for three days and now I have cramps. Leave me alone with my stupid self.

It's a funny thing to compare how one person looks to someone else. I guess there are only so many types of facial features and only so many combinations of those features so people are bound to look like other people. Oh and there's that whole genetics thing with people looking like their families and stuff.

But, just for the record, I hate being told that I look like someone else.

Apparently I have one of those faces that looks like every other face out there. I've been told that I look like almost every blond actress who ever lived.

And because I'm stupid and for most of my life thought I looked more like Gollum than Michelle Pfeiffer, I would felt that these comparisions ended with an unspoken, "but only fatter/goofier/more herky-jerky."

In an effort to not hate myself so much, I'm making a concerted effort to take what people say as compliment. But it's hard sometimes and I forget.

Fortunately, I have friends who remind me that compliments should be met with a "thank you" instead of an eye roll.

Simple

I'm wearing a white shirt today here at work.

Shocking, I know.

I was trying to estimate when the last time I wore an article of clothing to work that wasn't black. This is the first time this year for sure and probably a couple of months before that as well.

So it's probably been six months.

Six months of wearing the same black sweaters, the same black pants and skirts.

I don't want to say it was a rut. Instead it was more of a streamlining tactic to make my life easier.

I hate picking out clothes to wear to work. I'm not good at it. What I hate even more it getting to work wearing something that isn't comfortable or I realize looks like stomped on shit.

So I streamlined. I got a couple of decent fitting pairs of pants, some skirts I really like and about seven sweaters ... some of the sweaters were even duplicates.

I found two Old Navy sweaters that I liked a lot. When they went on clearance (Woo hoo, do I love the clearance rack at Old Navy) I bought two more — in the same color ... black.

I'd even wear them in the same week.

I know ... boring. But it worked for me.

Now the weather is getting nicer and I don't want to wear those sweaters anymore.

I went shopping this weekend to find some new shirts ... I ended up with a new black skirt on the clearance rack at Old Navy for $14.

I put it on this morning with one of my black sweaters and then changed my mind.

I dragged out the ironing board and had my dearest Uber-husband iron one of my white button downs. (Yes, one of the benefits of sweaters is that they don't have to be ironed ... woo! Not that I should complain because Bill is always happy to iron my clothes. He cooks, too. No wonder we've been married for six years!)

So I'm wearing a white shirt today. If you see me today, don't comment on it or I might freak out and run home to change.

The good

Friday was our 6th wedding anniversary. We had some friends over to eat and play some games.

The fun punctuated by several "chore" trips taken by my neighbor Jenn and myself.

We drove to the cigarette store first. Then later to the liquor store, then as with most nights that involved drinking to Weiner Dog (aka Weinerschnitzel — what ever happened to the "Der"?).

Whenever Bill has anything to drink he wants Weiner Dog. He's convinced that eating two chili cheese dogs, fries and a soda at the end of a evening of drinking will "soak up the alcohol" and prevent a hang over. At first I didn't mind driving out to a fast-food joint frequented by tweakers and other assorted nere-do-wells in the middle of the night, but it grew tiresome after a while and I began to protest.

Last year on his birthday, after a vigorous night of drinking and saying, "I'm crazy dog-food-bowl, man give me some candy," he began the plaintiff cry for Weiner Dog. I was tired of buying deep-fried crap for a bunch of drunkards, so I made a deal with my very drunk husband.

I told him that I would get him Weiner Dog that night — despite the fact that it was 2 a.m. and he was very close to passing out — but if he woke up with a hang over the next morning, I wasn't hauling my cookies out to Weiner Dog anymore.

By the time I got back with his Number 1 with cheese, he was asleep on the couch. He woke long enough to choke down one chili cheese dog and stumble off to bed.

I was extremely satisified. I knew that he was way beyond the healing powers of a single chili cheese dog.

To my dismay, he bolted out of bed the next morning, a little hazy but not sick enough to be considered hung over.

Foiled by the powers of Weiner Dog.

So for the next several months I dutifully made Weiner Dog runs when necessary. But I've grown tired of driving through the yellow A-framed building in search of nitrates and red dye again.

But Bill knows that he can wear me down, so he starts early.

"I sure could go for some Weiner Dog," he'll say with hopeful eyebrows.

"No way. No Weiner Dog trips for me tonight," I assure him.

But hours later, I can't stand his moaning and end up at the drive-thru ordering the ever-present Number 1 with cheese.

Friday night, he started early with the pleas for Weiner Dog. I had decided that I didn't need to make yet another trip out on my anniversary. But then he did this:I mean, how can you resist that face?

Yes, we are quite the pair.

Anniversary

Today is the 6th anniversary of day that my dearest Uber-husband ignored common sense and married me.

I'm lucky he did.

I can be ... uh, how do I put this ... a bit tough to take.

I know I'm such a ray of sunshine it's hard to believe I have a dark side, but it's true. Just ask the Verizon guy from whom we just bought our new cell phones or the entire service department of the local Chevrolet dealer.

Yeah, I've got issues. But I try to work on them.

When I met Bill those 7 years ago, my life was katywampis to say the least. I wasn't interested in ever getting married again; really I just wanted to have fun.

One thing is for certain, Bill is fun. We laugh together everyday. He's a wonderful person to spent time with — and I'm lucky enough to get to share my life with him.

This last year was a very difficult one for both of us. Honestly, at one point I wasn't sure how things were going to end up, but as a testament to the power of love and laughter, here we are celebrating 6 years of weddedness.

The 6th is the iron wedding anniversary. Iron: robust, strong, sturdy ... perfect.

Watch your hands

My kid has become obsessed with my ... uh, boobs, fun sacks, mammaries ... my breasts (there I said it).

I'm not sure what brought this on and I'm not sure how to deflect this sudden interest.

She told Bill that she thinks they are like the softest pillows and she loves laying her head on them.

She has also become very intrigued with the fact that she used to be fed from them. When I'm not paying attention, she'll pretend to nurse. When I realize what she's doing, I try (and fail) to be nonchalant.

But she knows I don't like it.

She's smart ... too smart. She recognizes my discomfort and preys on it.

The other day she asked if she could try to drink from them, "just to see if there was any milk left."

Yeah, go ahead and laugh. But this is just one example of how I am outwitted by a 5-year-old on a daily basis.

I don't want to make a big deal out of it because I know she's just curious. But I'm miserable at being matter of fact about such things (as demonstrated by the very first entry in the blog way back in January).

Before I had kids, I knew exactly how I was going deal with such things. Now I realize that I didn't (and still don't) know squat about dealing with these more delicate situations.

I think I need tutor.

Don't tell chocolate

I like chocolate. I'm not a chocoholic, but I'll often pick chocolate over other desserts.

Recently, my dearest Uber-husband brought home a can of this:When we opened the jar (Can a jar be plastic?), I swear I heard angels sing.

I can't remember why the strawberry frosting was originally purchased, but I know that only a small fraction of it was used. Therefore, a nearly full container of strawberry frosting has been living in my frige to be consumed by me on everything.

I've been using it like butter on toast and even English muffins.

Oh it's delightful in its sweetie goodness. Plus it's all pink and cute looking.

Toast has never looked so good.

Picture Monday

At our last (hopefully) "Book It"-coupon trip to Pizza Hut, I snapped these pictures of Bill and Mar.
One day I'm going to have to compile all the photos that I've taken in restaurants and make a giant banquette collage.

The next series of photos are from the visit to the doctor. Mar had strep throat and was really sick ... even though she looks like her normal self all dolled up in Pepto pink.

Notice the amount of ankle showing out the bottom of her pants. She's gone through a growth spurt and now often looks like she's waiting for the levee to break.

This last series I took in the car yesterday ... while Bill was driving this time. I didn't turn around, but instead just put the camera behind my head. As you can see, it took me several tries before I actually got her all in there.

Spring is in the air

This picture was taken on March 12:
We'd just had a late winter snow "storm" (I use that term loosely, as a snow storm in Western Colorado is nothing like a snow storm in Buffalo) and everything had a crisp, fluffy, white coating ... until about noon when it all melted, returning the city to its late-Winter taupe.

This picture was taken March 25:
Less than two weeks later, the apricot tree looks like it's been hung with garlands of popcorn. The bulbs are starting to bloom and our grass has blades of green.

It seems like spring is here, but the weather this time of year can be a total tease: One day it's sunny and warm with just enough breeze to inspire a trip to the park to fly a kite. The next day can bring skies that threaten to bring rain or snow.

But one thing for sure, it's gonna be hot soon and we're going to be looking back on the schizophrenic weather of spring with lust.

So, I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Acting right

I was once told that I couldn't act right if I had 6 tutors and a chaperone.

Generally that is true but I can fake it when necessary.

This morning it's necessary.

The new head honcho for our parent company is here, so I'm sure my boss would like for me to at least feign professionalism for this morning.

So I'm smiling, trying to sit up straight and generally trying to look like I deserve the money I get paid.

Usually, I slump around my desk, eat chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins and get my co-workers in trouble by encouraging them to horse around with me.

Ah, it's a great job — not sure how I got so lucky as to get this job, but I'm gonna pretend like I can act right so I can keep it.

Wish me luck!

Get out the Purell

Dear Strep Throat,

Since I don't know you personally, I hate to judge, but really, what is with infecting little kids with your bad self?

I mean, my, normally robust kid is now a steaming hot, grayish dish rag who barks like a seal. And our family doctor says that it's most likely (and we'll know for sure in a couple of days) ALL. YOUR. FAULT.

So, now I'm pretty pissed at you and suggest that you stay the hell away from my family in the future lest you get an ass stompin' by yours truly.

Oh, and just so you know, that pink stuff my kids has been guzzeling down twice a day ... yeah, that's antibiotics and it's gonna encourage you to move your sorry ass out of her tonsils. We're not messing around.

Your kind is not welcome here.

Sincerely,

One tired mama

If you love it so much, why don't you marry it

I went to bed last night in a snit. I woke up in a snit.

I'm still in a snit.

Or at least I was in a snit until I started eating this glorious chocolate, chocolate-chip muffin. Now all the little things that were causing me to snit seem all chocolatey. Maybe I'll just eat my frustrations ... mmm, chocolate-chip annoyances, my favorite.

I'm not gonna lie. I love chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins. You can tell by the layer of muffin crumbs that live in the bottom of my keyboard.

And the great thing is that they're great for me.

OK, maybe they aren't the most nutritious but they work for me on so many levels.

See, I hate fad diets. I hate the idea of fad diets. I'm so glad the Adkins cult has finally been relegated to the closet.

I really got sick of hearing about carbs and how many carbs are in my chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins.

There aren't any carbs in a my muffins ... only chocolatey goodness.

The best part of my steady date with chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins is that I actually look better now than before I began using them as my cure-all, my great indulgence.

By eating a chocolate, chocolate-chip muffin in the morning at work, I can change the course of my day.

I'm in a better mood because I'm full and not just full, but full of chocolatey goodness.

I'm more inclined to eat a better and smaller lunch, make it to yoga class, do cardio, take Mar to the park, blah, blah, blah because of my chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins.

If you boil it down, a muffin is really just a little cake and I love cake.

I'm not the only one either. My dearest, Markel, loves cake, too.

Markel and I have invented International Cake Day to celebrate our love for cake.

International Cake Day falls on any day when we want to eat cake.

It's a beautiful holiday and requires only cake.

New Year's Eve saw the birth of the cake shot which is the reason, I'm sure that our drunkard friends were actually able to stay awake until the ball dropped — nothing like a dose of refined sugar to keep the eye lids open.

Cake shots are small, bite-sized pieces of cake often served in cupcake wrappers. Genius, I tell you.

So my day is off to a better start because of my chocolate, chocolate-chip muffin which is good because my kid is sick and I'm going to have to ask my boss if I can go home at lunch time to stay with her.

Here are a couple of completely non-cake related pictures of Margaret from Saturday. I love this first one. She started pouting over something and I told her to wait, just as she was, while I went in to get the camera. So there she sat mid pout until I could snap this picture: After she had forgotten what she was pouting about and instead turned her attention to drawing this line:

Friends

I was going to save this post for Tuesday, as I just posted a quick blurb for Monday below. But this is too funny to save. So here is tomorrow's post today:

I've written about how important my friends are and how lucky I am to be surrounded with people that I truly love.

But man, they are frickin' her-larious (a Mar-ism).

Saturday was a day of recovery. Saturday evening was an evening of pure, unadulterated silliness.

It started out adult enough: We went out to eat with Markel and Special K (who promises she'll update soon). We ate lots o' meat — like the carnivores that we are.

Then we came back to Chez Dorkus and the silliness ensued.

First we did Mad Libs (if you click here, you can play online). We hurt ourselves laughing.

If we are at all lucky, Special K will blog some our of Mad Lib stories. (Markel, please pressure K into giving us some transcripts. Everyone should get the joy of hearing about jerking intestines.)

Then we took some pictures with the cool dilation sunglasses:Yeah, Markel and I look cool, but Special K rocks the house here: