Thoughts on the boob vise

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

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

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

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

I have mixed emotions about these findings.

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

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

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

Why girl bands are awesome: Reason 386

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until yesterday.

I saw Laurena yesterday morning and complained about my neck.

Her response?

"Oh no, not your guitar playing neck!"

Husband of the year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I did need to help.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See? Husband of the Year.

Confessions of a budding addict

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

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

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

But I don't want to.

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

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

It's time that I come clean.

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

Yes, I even sicken myself.

Smarter than a speeding bullet

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

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

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

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

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

Vibrating mascara ... 'the hell?

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

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

Eight bucks.

That's two, happy-hour beers.

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

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

He's so helpful.

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

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



Mascara with a vibrating, pulsating applicator.

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

Why would someone want their applicator to vibrate?

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

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

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

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

The one that got away

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

This is a good thing and a bad thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill was completely entranced.

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

But we weren't done.

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

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

And guess who walked up behind us?

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

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

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

I bet this is how Big Foot hunters feel.

Jokes on ... uh, who?

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

Make sure you listen to the very end.

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

Yay and brrrr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of how the others must see the faker

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

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

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

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

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

And guess what?

He's a natural.

The princess

Nastia. Our little kitty. Man is she spoiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all learned this ... except for Nastia.

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

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

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

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

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

Mar's new haircut coincidence

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

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

Check her out:









Super cute, huh?

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

I love coincidences.

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

Polanski and child sex abuse

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

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

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

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

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

Sick house

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

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

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

Poor nut.

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

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

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

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

Thank you for being a friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really.

It's crazy, but it works.

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

Hallelujah!

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

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

Yeah, that one.

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

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

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

More Mucha, more pain

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

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

Yep, spending five hours Monday getting tattooed.

FIVE HOURS!

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

Check it out:

Silly girl, hooker shoes are for hookers

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

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

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

Man, they were good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bella the wonder mutt playing tetherball

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

Giant Pencil ain't so giant anymore

Look at my not-so Giant Pencil.



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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

Or a trip the "quiet room."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't think I'd like that.

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

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

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