Now with more stuff

Now we have a gravel play yard, grass and a paver and stone walk way. Next up, an extended patio. The rest we're covering in bark and plants.

Go us, with a regular backyard like normal people.

Woot!

Also, my Haute Mamas post where I try not talking about sex with Margaret is featured on FiveStarFriday. Click over there and give me some love.

Oh and I had to drive my car to work today (for the first time this week) because I couldn't figure out how to get the plate of brownies I'm bringing for potluck into the basket on the front of my bike.

So today I'm increasing both my carbon footprint and my waistline.

Not quite the same

Today Bill and Margaret met me downtown so I could have a decent healthy lunch instead of the handfuls of rice crackers that have been passing for my meals of late.

I wheeled my bike on to Main Street, careening around pedestrians and skidded to a stop in front of the table where Bill and Mar sat.

There was a motorcycle helmet on the table.

Why did you bring a helmet to lunch? I asked warily.

Mar chimed in, "Daddy says I have to wear a helmet to ride on the motorcycle."

And there is was, "the other woman," the bike, the Triumph, parked in a spot on the street.

Cue hyperventilation now.

My little girl on the back of a motorcycle? 'the hell?

But then I remembered that the reason I wanted Bill to have this bike was because of the memories I have of my dad taking me for rides on the back of it.

I started to breath more normally. Then I ate my lunch.

It was all good until they got ready to go. Margaret donned the helmet, but Bill did not.

"I told you, that you HAD to wear a helmet if you are going to ride the bike," I bitched.

Bill smiled. "I don't like you riding YOUR bike without a helmet."

Oh.

But come on. It's different, right?

Yes. I'm sure I'm right on this one. Everyone who thinks my husband should be wearing a helmet, please raise your hands ...

See, that's all of you.

(OK, it was just me, but still ... )

He's a happy camper now ...

Lookit ... Bill's riding his bike on the street and he's legal.

Click over here to see the license plate we got for the bike. Is that coincidence or fate?

Yee-haw, Granny, the Clampets got grass

That's our backyard.

With grass.

It's a Mother's Day AND Memorial Day miracle!

For way too many years, our backyard has been nothing but a dog and cat toilet. (My concern now is where are my animals going to poop? Can I install some sort of dog toilet?)

But now we have a gravel play yard complete with swing set that Bill and I built for Margaret last year. And this year we dun got grass.

No, not for smoking, it's fer lookin' at ... at least for now.

Now the trick is to see if we can actually keep it watered.

Yeah, that seems easy, but we're approximately one mile from the sun and it's hard to keep things watered here in the high desert. This is precisely the reason we only put a little grass in the back.

We're landscaping the rest with drought-tolerant plants.

But if this mild spring continues, we've got a shot at keeping the grass (at least for this summer!).

So far we've had good luck with things that grow, check out my roses:

Tuesday's randomness: Part 2

I'm totally great at embarrassing my 17-year-old stepson. Sunday, Tracee and I were after some margarita mix (surprise, I know) so we decided to pay Sean a visit while he was working at the local grocery.

Sean was bagging groceries when I asked him where I could find the margarita mix. His reply: "Uh, I dunno."

He's great at his job.

Then on the way out, just to make sure I continue to hold the title of Evil StepMother, I stopped in front of him while several teen girls where waiting breathlessly to have their groceries graced by Sean's sturdy teen/man hands.

Me: So Sean what time are you off tonight? (Said in my best mother tone and hands on hips.)

Sean: Uh, 9 (glancing around to see teen girls staring at him, followed by a nonchalant — and uber cool — shoulder shrug).

Me: OK then we'll see you at 9:05, right?

Sean: (blushing from the Evil Step Mother's third degree — and yes, one question is the third degree in teen world) I guess so (Oh he wanted to be all, "I'll be home whenever." But he's a pretty smart kid and the last thing he wanted was to have to utter more words to me than necessary.)

Me: K. Bye.

And I sauntered out.

As we left the store, Tracee declared that of all the people in the store and in the parking lot, including girls, Sean was the most beautiful of them all. She said when he turned and flashed his $3,000 smile, it was like a light shone down from the heavens illuminating him like Adonis.

I have to agree, he's a pretty good lookin' kid. But I have to say that because I'm married to his dad.

Tuesday randomness

Great Memorial Day weekend — except for the part where some asshat set fire to my neighbor's garage causing it and the garage next to it to burn to the mofo ground.

Instead of retelling my stories of riding my bike with my drunk friends at night during which time no one peed in the middle of the street and/or ran into a closed gate at full speed (I, of course, was not drunk), I thought I'd just post some random thoughts.

What? It's my blog. Get your own blog if you have a different story to tell.

So here are some random things that I have probably already twittered:

• Mar to Bill: Are people born goth or is it a choice?

• No one will sell you sod on Sunday, even if you have already rototilled your entire yard.

• Squatting down to move and level patio pavers will totally give your inner thighs a killer work out. I'm still walking like I spent the weekend on a horse. 'the hell?

• I heard on NPR this morning that to test the nose of a drug-sniffing dog, a DEA agent put a brick of weed in some unassuming traveler's bag. The dog didn't sniff out the drugs and the agent forgot which bag he put the marijuana in.
  

• I said bad words several times in front of my dear friend's tiny Mormon nephew, but I figured it was OK because his uncle dropped him on his head — on the concrete — leaving a big, red welt. My words left no noticeable mark on the child. We'll see what happens later when he drops a mofo bomb on his nice parents.

• I lied in my last post when I said I wasn't drunk in that picture of me lying on my back porch talking on my cell phone.
  

• Just kidding, I wasn't drunk. I was — and still am — stoopit. And just enjoy making people laugh at my own and other's expense.

It's a Memorial Day miracle

This is the kind of weekend I'm having:
What? Jealous?

Awesome.

Also water rocks.

P.S. I wasn't drunk. I'm just stoopit.

She don't need no stinkin' 2nd grade

Tuesday was Margaret's last day of school. She passed the second grade with flying colors ... not that kids really pass grades anymore, but instead get shuffled onward regardless of their progress, but I'm not in the mood for ranting about our failed education system right now.

I'm just glad school is out for summer. Now Bill is on duty.

I love summers. I get to have lunch AND dinner with my family every day, regardless of the fact that I'm the only one that has to get up early during the week.

Mar's going to be in third grade next year at a new school. I wrote about that over here.

I feel like I can finally exhale. No more classes, no more writing curriculum (OK, I will be writing curriculum for the 19th c. class I'm teaching in the fall, but I'm not counting that) and no more worrying about homework or piano lessons.

Thank gravy for summer.

Tot awesomeness

Saturday, Bill and our neighbor, Greedy, were playing what I like to call "hockey pucky." Hockey players call it "stick and puck" — I think they smoke too much crack. Hockey pucky is so much more awesome and can be used interchangeably with "sticky pucky."

So Bill and Greedy were at the ice rink. Greedy's wife, Sarah, and I decided to ride our bikes with our kids down the mosquito-laden riverfront trail and skeetch off at the rink to see the boys play hockey pucky.

We gathered up the kids and off we were.

It was a looooong, but completely awesome ride.

When we came up on the back of the ice rink we debiked and tumbled over the dirt and debris between the trail and the rink parking lot. Those 90 seconds saw us each get eaten alive by mosquitoes. Ick.

We parked the bikes and walked in to find the Zamboni on the ice and the boys not. They had just finished. Doh!

Oh well. We decided to have a cook out to celebrate a friend's college graduation. As we were planning the details, Greedy said, "We've got tots."

Margaret immediately chimed in, "Hey Napoleon, gimme some of your tots."

She's more awesome than I could ever imagine.

I wonder why ...

I wonder why I never posted this picture of Laurena from the Fruita Fat Tire Festival:


I know, we are the epitome of classy.

Last night at practice we were working on a new original song that is based on a certain reality TV show. While Rock of Love was airing, discussion of each episode took up much rehearsal time. To say we enjoyed this show is the understatement of the year ... we reveled in the jacked up nature of this train wreck.

And to show our love for all things Bret Michels (thank you Bret Michaels), we're including references to our favorite parts of season 1 and 2 of Rock of Love in our new song.

That's right, Riveter is uber-classy.

Oh, we love acting out this SNL spoof, way too much:

At least I'm not sweaty

Throb, throb, throb ...

My eyes opened early this morning and it was excruciating.

Pound, pound, pound ...

Argh, my head.

I tried going back to sleep because I'm stupid and lazy, but the pain was overwhelming.

I stumbled to the hall closet and began to blindly search for migraine drugs. Bill came to my rescue and handed me the box of gold-plated pills (OK, they aren't gold-plated, but they cost enough to be. 20 bucks a pill is just crazy, drug-company people. Make Viagra $20 a pill. Give us our migraine pills on the cheap, ffs.)

I choked down a pill and fell back into bed.

Ten minutes later the nausea brigade were doing a dance in my gut. Thank all things lucky that I still had some nausea medication left over from my fun bout with the stomach flu.

Once I start puking from a migraine, I always end up on the losing end of an IV in the emergency room. (I once had an ER doctor say to me, "Oh yeah, you're migraine puker." Neat! I'm the migraine puker. Good times.)

I choked down another pill, sent my boss an e-mail telling him I'd be late to work then buried myself in my pillows waiting for the evil to leave my body.

Migraines can kiss all three of my asses.

So, no bike ride for me ... but today I am far less sweaty.

Still biking it

I've always been envious of people who can ride their bikes to work. I love riding my bike, but have been too afraid of looking like a dork in my work clothes to actually do it myself.

Then I realized I always look like a dork anyway so why not just go full-on dork.

Yep, I rode my bike to work again today. It's been four days since I've driven or even ridden in a car. And I came oh-so close to biffing it scared the bejeezers out of me.

I was trying to adjust the location of my water bottle in my basket when I took both hands off the handle bars ... uh, hello stoopit, 'the hell? Luckily I have cat-like reflexes when faced with eminent road rash and I saved myself.

The wild wobble just adds to my dork allure, I'm sure.

I don't think it's going to last much longer, as it's supposed to be 95 degrees today. But whatever.

Not only have I been logging the miles on the bike, but Mar has, too. I wrote about how I spent the weekend nagging her over here.

More proof my sanity is closer than ever to being theoretical

The following is a conversation between me and the iced tea sitting in my bike's basket on the way back to work after lunch:

Me to iced tea(out loud so everyone who thought I was a dork for riding my bike to work would have more proof they were correct): Oh no! Why do you keep popping your lid off?

Iced tea (not to be confused with Ice T — whose real name, by the way, is Tracy ... huh): Splash, splash, spill.

Me: Doh. Come on, now. Keep your lid on. We're almost there.

Iced tea: Pop. Spill.

Me: Oh man, my tea's spilling (this was said to no one and hopefully that's who heard me talking to my cup of iced tea while I rode my bike back to work).

Iced tea: Dribble, dribble.

Me: Why did I even bother trying to bring a drink with me.

Why me?

Why do I have to be the one who talks to my kid about sex? Can't she just learn about it from her friends or read about it in the dictionary?

Gah! Sometimes being the mom is a bum rap.

Click here to read about the awkward conversation I had with my kid about s-e-x.

Cockroach induced screaming

From the "It's a small world" files, I got this e-mail from a friend about the video I posted yesterday of the weatherman freaking out over the cockroach on his foot:

I worked with that company during that freak out. The weatherman was with SNN, and I worked for the same company. Management freaked out when it started circling. The guy apparently got a ton of offers, including Leno, but they told him they would fire him if he accepted. The guy who leaked the footage totally got fired.

So to the dude who got fired, thanks. Thanks for sacrificing your job so we could laugh at that dude screaming like a girl over a bug. It was totally worth it ... for me.

And I would like to note that we have no bug-related incident at band practice last night and only one incident of Boom Boom, our dude drummer, shaking his head in disgust when we refused to listen to his lesson on music theory.

We're rockin' chicks, we don't need no stinkin' music theory.

Why crickets are evil AND why girl bands are awesome

Here in western Colorado we have bugs. Huge, black, blood-lusty crickets and giant, flat, stupid "water bugs" that are actually Oriental roaches. Oh and spiders — we've got spiders and lots of them.

Almost every week during band practice there is some sort of bug incident.

The most notable was a tragic event that occurred at the end of a practice a while ago. We were sitting around in our pink, feather-trimmed negligees breathing heavy and dabbing at our glistening decolletes after our obligatory pillow fight (What? You don't think that is what goes on during our band practices? Believe me you'd be surprised. Just ask our dude drummer, Boom Boom. Why do you think he agreed to drum for a bunch of girls?) when Laurena shrieked, threw her bass case across the room and started frantically swatting her head.

Somehow a huge, black, blood-lusty cricket had hopped in her mop and was trying to bore its way into her brain.

It was horrible (for her — hilarious for us).

Today she forwarded me this video, proving that we are not alone with our distaste for the creepy crawlies.


Funny Videos

That dude screams just like Laurena.

The Count loves to ... what?

Hil-flippin'-larious! It's remarkable how something from Sesame Street is simultaneously appropriate yet seemingly inappropriate for work.

Oh and I totally stole this from Jenny over at Good Mom/Bad Mom who herself is simultaneously appropriate yet inappropriate at all times. And that's what I love her

Her lovely five-head

I love this picture of Mar. Her sweet little face, her little girl arms and her general pinkness.

She drew that chalk drawing for a sidewalk contest during the Art and Jazz Fest over the weekend. I love that she does non-objective drawings; she's so avante garde.

I wrote more about my Mother's Day over here.

Time for some mofo celebration!

Friday was our first, white-trashy, front-yard sit of the yard-sitting season. It was so nice to to see our friends again ... it's as if we hibernate for the winter or something. We're like bear-people who just forage for buried roots and berries during the winter, but when spring comes and the first crop of beer is harvested, everyone comes outside.

Our skin is all pasty and translucent (OK, OK, my skin is always pasty and translucent) and we have to wear sunglasses or the diffused spring light will burn our retinas. This changes as spring becomes summer and we move to within a mile from the sun.

Then everyone (except me) gets all tan and vigorous from doing all the outdoorsy things that we like to do.

I was having a really good time unwinding Friday night until Margaret went to bed.

I made a rookie mistake. I laid down with her.

The next thing I know I hear the sounds of people leaving. It was midnight.

I crashed like a first-year freshman at 10 p.m. Luckily no one wrote on my face with a Sharpie ...

But it makes sense. For the past six weeks, I've been spending every spare — and some non-spare — moments writing curriculum for an online course I will be teaching. Six weeks of sitting in my tiny office-like room on my exercise ball trying to be smart, interesting, thorough and correct.

The stress was starting to get to me. Any time I took time to do things like clip my toenails or sleep, I would stress that it was time lost I could be writing. And then like magic, Saturday morning I finished my last little bit of writing.

Sunday after having a lovely Mother's Day weekend, I uploaded all my files and called it good.

Bill went to the grocery. Margaret went to a friend's house. I sat to watch some Deadliest Catch, but I. could. not. relax.

I was sure that there was something I should have been doing. I was anxious. I kept trying to tell myself it was all OK, but I've trained myself these past six weeks to keep working.

Tonight I give the final in my class then I'm off for the summer. No class to teach, no curriculum to write, just my own stuff to do.

My own stuff? What do people do when they don't have to work? How will I pass my free time?

I guess I'll just have to figure it out through the trial and error method. I do think I'll try by adding a bunch of Sauza Hornitos and see what happens.

kirtsy.com

When big corporations throw their weight around solely to crush little guys or girls, it tees me off.

I'm teed off.

Alfter following the conflict between the Web site formerly known as Sk-rt.com (now kirtsy.com) and Skirt! magazine, I'm simultaneously relieved for the uber-cool gals of kirtsy.com — who chose the path of least resistance, which is smart — and really pissed about that stupid magazine being all stupid.

For a more thorough rant, click over to the Bloggess. Jenny lays it all out there is her rant on the indignities of it all.

There's no reason this for kind of behavior from big corporations. They can go suck it.

Google Ads: Thems some funny shit

If you scroll down past my Twitters you'll come to my nary clicked on Google Ads.

Right now, as I type this, the top one says "Your Pretty Mexican Bride."

'the hell?

I going toward the light

Oh, it's so dark in here and I feel all ... funny.

Holy shit, look. There's my lifeless, bloated body slumped over the keyboard.

I should try to get back there. Or ... I could go toward the light and forget all this work and parent-teacher conferences (which was awesome, by the way) and stomachs that still are completely right and migraines ...

But, wait. Bill just got promotion and Survivor was awesome last night (man, those girls couldn't believe their sham actually worked - amazing) and we have people coming over tonight for the first yard sit of the season. AND, I'm a half of a chapter from completing my online curriculum (that's 20-1/2 chapters done and 1/2 to go).

Screw this being dead stuff, I'm heading to the light at the end of tunnel — NOT the light of the Pearly Gates (alright, alright, I know I'm kidding myself about my dead self heading to the Pearly Gates. I'm sure I'll be on the express hand basket to Hades).

Portrait of crazed, overworked woman

I took these pictures of myself ... while I was sitting at my desk ... at work.

Really.

I sit near the front desk where people come in to see how professionally we can all act.

I think I represent well ... or not.

Why did I sit at my desk taking pictures of myself?

What? Don't you do the same thing?

Well, I do, but this one time I actually had a reason. We're making a Web ad for our Haute Mamas blog and I needed a picture. Guess which one I ended up using for the ad ...

Another cute kid that's not my own

I'm going to keep this picture and bring it out when Jordan starts dating.

Click here to see how he re-decorated the bunny doll house.

Someone help me out with this

I love Etsy and all their handmade things. Very cool.

But I'm not sure how I feel about these:
They are ankle spats.

Um, really? Because I don't get it. Help me out here.

U.S. Postal Service: We Care!

Today I dragged myself home with my grainy, vomit-colored, green-tea smoothie (the idea of the green-tea smoothie was a lot better than the actual green-tea smoothie). I stood at the table to sort the mail before I spent most of my lunch hour at my appointment with the toilet.

I had to laugh when I came across this piece of mail from Bill's dad in a plastic baggie with "WE CARE" emblazoned across the top:

If they care, why are they taking giant bites out of the mail. Don't they feed their employees?

And the grumbly remains

I barely made it home from work Friday before my guts erupted all over the carpet, the floor, the door, my clothes. It was disgusting and I was home alone.

After cleaning up my puke-o-rama. I laid in my bed shivering. Bill came home and took me to the doctor where I got some anti-nausea medicine that worked wonders.

By Saturday, I felt fine ... the operative word is "felt." I was not fine, I just thought I was.

I worked on my class and rode my bike downtown with Margaret. The weather was glorious. Saturday night we watched a movie with some friends (Walk Hard, again. That movie is way funnier than it has any right to being).

Sunday ... ick. Sunday I was sick again. I stayed in my pajamas and missed a party I really wanted to go to. I was too sick to get any work done and too sick to sleep. I mostly ate Popsicles and watched stupid TV holed up in my tiny, back-room sanctuary.

The weather was gorgeous again and I missed it all.

A co-worker just told me he had the exact same thing as me along with the eruptive vomit storm and the Saturday lull.

My neighbors were sick in the stomach as well with e.Coli. Fer reals e.Coli. They have no idea where they got it and luckily they are much better after being down for five days.

I'm managing alright, but am in a sour mood to match my stomach. Being sick can kiss my ass.

NOOOOooooooooooooo!

No, no, no, James can't leave Survivor because of an injured finger. That's just not fair, Survivor people.


Oh James, I'll miss you and your rock hard abs.

Compelling reading

Jennifer Plesko twittered that these blog entries were riveting. She was so right. If I didn't have to do all this stupid work, I'd be reading this woman's accounts of being admitted to mental hospital all day long.

And some people think twitter is a waste of time.

It's May 1st, here's some snow for you

One of the nice things about living in western Colorado is the temperate climate.

Or I should say normally temperate climate. We just got through one doozy of a winter, but spring was here ... wait ... we thought spring was here. 'the hell?

I think Mother Nature's gone off her med or she's aching for an ass kickin'.