Phew!

I was down to my last Christian and not sure where I could get more at a resonable price. My fears are alleviated as we now have this store:

Sometimes it's just ugly

Parenting = hard.

That's basically what my entry over here says. But go ahead and click it anyway ... there are pictures.

They're lucky

Our dear friends, Mar-Kel and Special K, are lucky — because if I didn't like them so much, I would have totally beat them with a sock full o' pennies yesterday and taken their new car.

It's a Toyota FJ Cruiser and it is the pimp daddy of cars. Check it:



They don't look happy about their new car at all, eh?

(Even though I've decided against using my sock o' pennies this time, I'm totally keeping it handy ... you know, just in case.)

More cowbell or why we love KP

Wednesday at band practice we were working on yet another new original. It's called Wrong Dream and we'll be rolling it out at our New Year's Eve show.

While working on the song's bridge (or as we like to call it, the "bridgey part"), we thought it could use some extra percussion. KP brought out her tambourine, but it still needed something. Bridget set KP up with a symbol stand, her wood block and a drum stick.

This was the result (Sorry for the poor quality and lack of sound, I took this with my still camera):

Ozzy buys ice cream machine

Survivor's Ozzy bought himself a bona fide soft-serve ice-cream machine. The grin of getting away with something was plastered on his face as he bid $420 — it was a classic Survivor moment!

I thought I made it up

Whoops!

In this post I said I nicknamed Margaret a snow cow.

Then my dear pal, Markel, sent me a link to this urban dictionary definition for snow cow.

That is messed up, yo!

I am vowing to take back snow cow as a term for those that love to eat snow off the ground on all fours.

And it's why I love him

This exchange occured while we were shopping for picture frames. Bill noticed some that were specifically designed for cats and dogs.

Bill: "We've got to remember to take pictures of our friend's pets."

Me: *crickets* — accompanied by incredulous blinking.

Bill: "You know, in case they die."

Me: "There's something wrong with you."

Let is snow

OK, so the snow is nice, but doesn't it have to be so flippin' cold?
The stepped-on snow is now ice. The roads are trecherous despite the fact that very little snow actually stuck to the pavement. And it's all the cold's fault. Damn cold.

Last night after work, Margaret spent some time horsing around in the front yard while I stood shivering and trying to take pictures.

Check out this snow angel:
And because two angels are better than one:
But this is my favorite:
Margaret has always loved eating snow. She'll happily get on her hands and knees and eat it directly off the ground which lead to me nicknaming her the "snow cow."

Because Santa says, "Boo!"

Oh man, I was looking at these pictures while at my desk and had a hard time trying to stifle my laughter, but it was so hard. You gotta go here and looked these pictures of kids of Santa.

Picture number 2 is beyond hilarious — Poor Amy, she just wants to get the heck out outta Dodge, but Lisa with her plastered smile has her by the coat ... oh, and what is up with Todd?

The sky is falling!

Oh, it's just snow!You go click here to read about my feelings on snow.
(Yeah, I dunno why this picture is cropped on the bottom. I resized it and uploaded it a dozen times and it still comes out this way. I figure half a snow picture is better'n none!)

Post-turkey blubberfest

The feasting holiday is past and now we're firmly ensconced in the season of shopping.

I began my Christmas shopping back in October, picking up an item here and there. I did a little more shopping Sunday but mostly we stayed home this weekend ... and it was glorious.

We did chop down our Christmas tree (by "we" I mean Bill), drag it into the house and decorate it.
I wasn't sure about the tree at first. It seemed fat-bottomed (I guess Bill likes that in women, too). Bill and Mar picked it out while I was in Denver a couple of weeks ago. Once we got it in the house and decorated it, I've reconsidered. I think it's quite lovely.
I forget how much I like having a tree in the house with all the lights and shiny ornaments. I wish we could have one all year round.

But I resigned myself to the fact that the season for keeping a cut-down tree in your living room is only one part of the year. This, of course, does not stop us from keeping our Christmas tree in the backyard until spring clean-up, like the true white trashies that we are.

Yesterday, Mar and I had lunch downtown. Then we did a little shopping.
Whenever I come home from Christmas shopping, I always show Bill what we're giving to everyone and then I congratulate myself on a job well done.

"I'm so thrifty," I say.

Followed by, "You're so lucky that I do all the Christmas shopping." Just in case he didn't know this already ... despite the fact that I remind him constantly (which is necessary because he's not really that lucky, but I like to pretend he is).

But I have done a good job so far, using coupons and buying things on sale. But really, I'm most pleased with the fact that this year I'm giving fun gifts, gifts that mean something and even some things that I've made.

So yeah, while it's not unusual for me to invent compliments for myself, this time I actually feel like I deserve them — and that's a nice gift for myself.

Giving thanks

Click over here to read my sappy Thanksgiving story.

If you're not into sap this day after the official day of eating too much, lookit this picture:

I was behind this guy on my way to work this morning (yeah, I'm working the Friday after Thanksgiving) and that giant Big Red sticker moved me to root around in my bag for my camera.

First, I wondered how much does one have to love a product that they want to apply a giant sticker of said product on their vehicle.

Second, just what kind of crazy store sells giant stickers of candy products anway? Because I wanna a giant Smarties sticker for my car.

Eh, I can sleep when I'm dead

I awoke around 3 a.m. when I felt hot, 1st-grader breath on my face. When I opened my eyes, Margaret is standing there. She earnestly cries, "There's something on my pillow and I'm not going back in there."

Because I'm the generous sort, I shook the arm of my dearest Uber-husband and implored him to do a pillow inspection.

I could have done it myself, but if there had been something unsightly on the pillow, I would have gotten him up to remove it anyway, so why not just skip a step.

Of course, there wasn't anything on the aforementioned pillow and Margaret was able to go back to sleep in her own bed. Bill wasn't so lucky.

He was up a couple more times with heartburn and her general insomnia which always affects me. It's as if I take roll call in my sleep and if all two of us aren't present, I must investigate.

I can't remember all the times I've stomped out of the bedroom and yelled at Bill to get his sorry sack of bones back to bed so I could get some sleep.

I guess sleep is just one of those luxuries that I'll enjoy later in life.

Pouty McPouterson

Click over here to read about this picture:

Is that really fun?

As I was walking up to Richie's desk that other day, she sighed and said, "This is what I'm looking at." I looked at the Web page and was dumbfounded.

The site sold hair dye ... but not just any hair dye. Dye "for the hair down there." And that's their marketing slogan, "Color for the hair down there."

Now I guess I could see someone wanting the rug to match the drapes, but what about this one:
Yeah, it's hot pink hair color ... you know, for the hair down there.

First, 'the hell?

Second, could you imagine spending the hour or so to dye your nether regions? I could think of a bunch of things that I'd rather be doing than that.

Third, what about roots? Dark roots with pink hair? That's just not a look I'm interested in.

Who's a rock star?

Bill Halen is.

Almost too authentic

Saturday night, Bill, KP and I made a mad dash downtown to check out the Austin rockabilly band, Two Timin' Three.

These are three young guys dedicated to their rockabilly bid-ness. They've got the haircuts, the clothes, shoes and even the tattoos (although there is some discussion as to whether or not they are real) of the rockabilly '50s era.
The Spotlight was jammed with rockabillians. Kelley said she was amazed at the number of men who styled their pompadours for the evening. It was really impressive.

The band was so authentic that I kept thinking I was watching something out of Hollywood instead of a trio of lads workin' their rockabilly style.

At one point there seemed to be a fight a-brewin' amongst the rockabillies in the crowd. KP asked if we were going to witness a genuine rockabilly brouhaha complete with choreography and snapping fingers a la West Side Story — but alas it was not to be.

Never the less, the Two Timin' Three were a good time and a great rockabilly band.

Why bother?

(I know, two posts in one morning ... what had become of me?)

OK, first I would like to say that I think anyone should be able to eat in whatever manner makes them happy and healthy so long as it doesn't affect me.

But I find that some people's choices are just sad and desperate, like this one.

Her blog is "A Vegan Ice Cream Paradise."

She discusses vegan ice-cream recipes.

That's all fine and good. I have no issues what so ever with vegans, but ice cream comes from animals. Cream is right in the name and there is no way in heaven that you can substitute non-dairy milk for milk and make ice cream.

Ice cream comes from cows. If you don't want to eat animal products, then don't eat ice cream. And don't pretent that what you make with "non-dairy" is "ice cream."

It ain't ice cream unless a fair portion of it was squirted from a heifer's tit.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Doh!

So like I said before, Sean is 16 now. At the end of the month he can take his driving test. And because none of his multitudes of parents want the kid driving our cars, we bought him his own.

Driver's license + 16-year-old = a whole new world of fear for us parents

There are a number of things that concern me about Sean being able to drive a car and most of them have very little to do with the actual operation of the vehicle. He's a pretty good driver in general — more specifically, he's a much better driver than I am ... not that that is saying much. But because I'm an adult (of some sorts) I have the experience to know that if I wreck my car, I ain't got no car. Teenagers don't seem to have this knowledge with all the money and car trees they think are growing everywhere.

Really, it's what being able to move himself around on his own implies that freaks me out. And even worse, is the "with whom" he will be moving himself around ... uh, with ... ouch, that sentence got all crazy and not at all right. Oh well, it's Friday and I'm tired so it's going to stay.

While searching for a decent, yet affordable car for Sean. I kept telling Bill that whatever car he got should have some giant and insurmountable console between the front two seats and that no where should there be room enough for any sort of lying down (if you get my drift). I really thought a one seat car with just enough room for a 6-year-old safely in the back would be perfect, but, remarkably, those are difficult to find.

Instead we bought him a 1995 Pontiac Grand Prix, 4-door. We were all happy that we were able to find a car that didn't have too many miles on it, that was around two grand and was in decent shape. Then I started reading consumer reviews of this car and became distraught.

Several owners of this car commented on it's spacious interior.

How could we have gone so wrong? We were so focused on it's mechanical fitness that we neglected to realize that not only does it have a spacious backseat (don't say "spacious backseat") but the arm rest that separates the front seats folds up and someone can sit there in the middle of the front seat ... right next to the driver.

Gah. We have facilitated teenaged touching. Gah!

The horror. The horror.

Sweet 16

Sean turned 16 on Tuesday.

I've now known him for one half of his life ... and yet he's still an enigma to me in many ways.

But not all ... I was able to find some gifts for the taciturn teen that he seemed to genuinely like. I found a cool, military-style coat that he's actually worn without me having to remind him to wear a coat.

And I got him a cell phone ... on our Verizon plan.

Up until now, he had a pay-as-you-go cell phone on Cingular, which meant that he never had minutes on his phone and we could never call him. That is no longer the case.

Now he should be accessible to us at. all. times. Yes, the phone I got him even has a GPS chaperone feature so we can find the phone, and most likely him as well, whenever we want. Bwhahaha.

So yeah, basically the cell phone is a gift for me and my obsessive-conpulsive tendencies.

Click it ... you know you want to

I wrote this rant over here about the fields of teenaged boobies that leave permanent pock marks on my eyes.

Go figure

I'm sure it's my own fault that there are no chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins in the break-room vending machine this week. Karma has her foot on my neck, while she laughs in my face as I moan over my lack of breakfast cake.

I'm getting a karmic smackdown because I spent a fair amount of time Saturday night sharing my keen (albeit somewhat petty and mean-spirited) observations on some of the performers with which we shared a stage that night.

Our band was invited to be part of a line up of female musicians last weekend. There were eight acts in total. Several consisted of a woman, an acoustic guitar and songs spun from her most sincere feelings on the nature of being a woman with an acoustic guitar.

One performer had a truly beautiful voice and a truly unfortunate hair style. It looked like she had sideburns. If I hadn't been introduced to her, I would have bet my Aunt Verla Mae's pearl onion jelly that she was a 14-year-old boy.

And then there was that thing she did with her guitar. At one point during her set, she began thumping her guitar with a closed fist in order to make a percussive drum beat. She pounded the guitar just below the sound hole. It looked like, um, yeah, it didn't look good.

Of course, I had to make note of this to my bandmates in a way that left me dissolved in a pool of giggles.

That's right, a grown woman wearing a pair of bedazzled men's overalls criticized a fellow musician's performance and I wonder why there are no chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins in the vending machine?

Maybe if I promise to try harder next time, there'll be at least a banana-nut muffin next week.

Hey, hey, we're the ...

Monkees.
Damn, I loved me some Monkees when I was a kid.

I've done a little bit of reading on my dear, old pals the Monkees and they have a very interesting history.

Did you know that the Monkees:

1. Had the top-selling American single of 1967 ("I'm a Believer").
2. First rock band to extensively use the Moog Synthesizer on a pop album.
3. First rock band to extensively use the pedal steel guitar on a pop album.
4. One of the first pioneers of country-rock music.
5. Outsold The Beatles and Elvis Presley combined in 1967.
6. Hold the record for most #1 albums in one year. Four of their albums (The Monkees, More of the Monkees, Headquarters, and Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.) hit #1 in 1967.
7. First TV sitcom to make political and social comments defending the youth of America.
8. First use of solarisation in a major motion picture.
9. First television series to show teenagers living on their own.
10. First rock band to use a multimedia live concert show.
11. Gave the Jimi Hendrix Experience their first US concert appearances.
12. First "manufactured" rock band (The Pre-Fab Four).
13. First American band to play in Thailand.
14. First rock band to win two Emmy awards.
15. First male leads in a television series to have long hair.
16. The Monkees reunion tour was the largest grossing tour of 1986.
17. Re-charting various albums simultaneously during 1986 is an accomplishment shared only with The Beatles, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin.
18. Last music artist to win the MTV Friday Night Video Fights by defeating Bon Jovi 51% to 49%.
19. First marriage of television and music industry.
20. Introduced Tim Buckley to a national audience, via his appearance in the series finale, "The Frodis Caper."

Lookit number 11. The Monkees and Hendrix? Who'da thunk it?

When I was in grad school I watched the Monkees movie "Head"for the first time. It's really the antithesis of the television series and the epitome of '60s psychedelia.
I recently rented it from Netflix and watched it with Margaret. Initially she was freaked out by the psychdelic nature, but finally said, "I don't understand this movie, so I'm just going to listen to the songs and lookit the pretty colors."

We also had this conversation:
Margaret: Is Davy Jones handsome?
Me: Some people think he is.
Mar: Do you think he is?
Me: I did when I was your age.
Mar: OK then.

Indeed, OK then.

Ready McReaderson

I forgot to mention that I wrote a little something here about my kiddo. Go one, click it. There are pictures.

Man, I'm Writey McWriterson these days.

Riveter pong and why I need a roadie

The ping-pong ball bounced off the top of the light that hung over the impromptu ping-pong table and on to La La's side . She smacked the ball with all her bass-playing force right at KP's face (again). KP defensively slapped at the ball. It ricocheted and hit the kind-of-scary tattooed guy who was playing pool at the next table in the leg (again).

He forced a smile, picked up the ball (again), placed in on the table and said through gritted teeth, "Let's try to keep the ball on the table, ladies."

We all giggled and proceed to play Riveter pong — a game like ping pong but no one keeps score and the only goal is to hit the ball ... at any cost.

We loved this game that we invented Saturday night. The people around us trying to play pool didn't find it quite so charming. We cared, but not enough that we were going to stop. We had hours to kill until our second set and we needed something to do, hence Riveter pong was born.

Saturday was our "Day of two shows."

The best part of the trip was hanging with my girls — who are so awesome, it hurts me some time — and playing Riveter pong. Most of the rest of the trip was "eh" and some of it just downright sucked donkey balls. But that's all stupid and tedious, so I'll just let it be.

I did learn something valuable about loading equipment in and our of my truck over and over and over again over a two day period: I need gloves or a roadie.
My hands are killing me today. I have so many scrapes, scratches and nicks in the flesh on the back of my hands that I feel like I tried to lather up with a cheese grater.

I should be allowed to just sit back and apply lipstick while someone else loads in and out my equipment.

****************************************************************
So I wrote a column that ran in the newspaper Sunday. It's about politicians. Click and read it. Lemme know what you think.

Two ... two shows in one trip ... on one day

That's right, my heifers (some girl called us "heifers" — in a loving way, I'm sure — at our last show and despite the fact that it totally traumatized me, I'm enbracing my heifer-dom and showering my bretheren with my new-found love for my heifers), Riveter is heading over the Continental Divide to rock the Mile High(ish) City, playing two (that's right ... 2) shows in one day.

We're starting off with another set at the Larimer Lounge at 6 p.m.
Click here to print out free tickets.

Then we're heading to Littleton to the Toad Tavern to be part of a GoGirlsMusicFest. This is part of a nationwide series of fests featuring GoGirlsMusic gals.

This show starts at 8 with our little band bring our brand of scary-indie music to the stage at midnight.

Yeah, it's going to be a long day, but any day playing music is better than any day doing housework!!

Hirsute to the max

Yesterday afternoon, I was furiously grading exams when I got an instant message from Richie. She said, "I don't know what to say about this:" and she sent me this picture:
Damn, that's a lot of hair.

I wonder how long he has to spend in the morning styling it all. I mean those eyebrows look lethal.

But the more I looked at the picture, the more I thought he seemed familiar. Then it dawned on me:

At least it's not chicken

My dear friend, Markel, sent me the link to this story.

For those unwilling to leave my beatius blog for even a momet, the story tells of a robot that was designed to test the taste of wines and other things that might need a testin'.

A cameraman put his hand in the robots mouth and it was identified as bacon.

Mmm ... bacon. Maybe cannibals are on to something.

But it was still good

This story is dedicated to KP:

I came back from lunch today with a hankering for some chocolate. I scrounged up 60 cents and headed on over to the vending machines.

Most often I get Peanut M&Ms, but today I needed something stronger and wanted to get the most bang for my buck (er, 60 cents), so I went with the old Three Musketeers.

I like the Three Musketeers because it's so rich that I have to take my time eating it, or it'll make me a bit queasy. I like to eat the chocolate coating off the outside then eat that fluffy stuff on the inside. Unfortunately, the chocolate tends to splinter.

As I was gnawing away at the coating, my phone rang just as a hunk o' chocolate took a dive and bounced off my key board on the floor.

When I got off the phone, I saw the errant morsel and picked it up.

I examined it.

It was still good. I hadn't ran it over with my chair or stepped on it or anything.

So I ate it.

And immediately I regreting that decision. There was a texture to it that was decidedly not Three Musketeers — no, it was more like KitKat.

I can't recall the last time I ate a KitKat.

I was kind of grossed out, but it was still good.

When she was about 3 years old

I was going through stacks of papers last night and came upon this picture of Margaret:
She was about 3. This picture totally captures her inquisitive nature.

Look at that little nut face.

Irons in the fire

As I was driving to get Margaret from her sitter (no school today because it's election day and apparently children can't learn and teachers can't teach if people are out there enacting their right as American citizens to cast their ballot — huh), I realized that I'd left work without updating here.

I have no excuse except that I was writing a column that will be published this Sunday (I think), so my free time was all full up of work.

Then when I was done, I did have some free time but I totally wasted it by grading the exams I gave yesterday in class — what a waste of time that was. I mean, really, getting my work for my second job done at my first job instead of updating my blog. 'the hell?

So now instead of spending some needed time with my kid, I've left her alone upstairs with Mike Rowe — she likes him better anyway (she's taken to calling me her stepmother because — as she says — I mean to her sometimes. Whatever.).

Taking a step back in time

It was like we stepped through a time warp.

We arrived at the bar in Montrose where we were scheduled to play at 5:30. Our show started at 8.

When I walked through the front door, I knew this was unlike any bar we'd played in before. As we began loading in our equipment, the bar owner asked Bill (who was running our sound), "They aren't going to be loud, are they?" Without missing a beat, Bill answered, "Oh no."

You know because girl rock 'n' roll bands always play so quietly.

The bar is a replic of a Victorian tavern complete with elaborate woodwork, antique bar and lots of antique-y things adorning the wall-papered walls. The bathrooms were clean and there was toilet paper and paper towels. There was no vomit and/or pee stains anywhere that I could tell. Unusual indeed.

We got the sound ready (Thanks to Bill for running the sound so aptly and even more thanks to Scott for putting together our sound system and teaching Bill how to use it) and then got ourselves ready — our "getting ready" time is much decreased since we started wearing our jumpsuits. I love our jumpsuits.

As people started to arrive, things got even more strange. The first few folks through the door were ... um, how shall I say this without sounded like a dillweed ... they were the very regular patrons of the Montrose Arts Council (that had paid us to come to Montrose) and not at all the typical rock 'n' roll band audience.

But they stayed through the first set. We didn't seem to scare them away until we broke out our cover of AC/DC's "Shook me all night long" half way through the second set.
Even though it wasn't a typical bar or a typical crowd, it was a typically fun night with the girls. The crowd was generous with their applause and praise and there was even quite a bit of dancing which makes for a fun show. But, man, did it fly by. Our three 45-minute sets were over quicker than any show — without any glitches or snafus. It was just a rockin' good time.

So a big Woot! to Montrose.

Did you know ...

Did you know that one of the shoe categories on the Web retailer Zappos.com is "vegetarian."

Fer reals, check it out.

Friday finally

Look out Montrose here we come.

That's right, we're driving the hour or so south down to the lovely burgh of Montrose for a show sponsored by the Montrose Arts Council.

This is our first time playing anywhere on the Western Slope except for right here in Grand Junction.

It's just us playing all night long. And it's so great because we have three sets of really good music. We've been able to weed out the clinkers and focus on supa-fun covers along with our rockin' originals.

We're debuting two brand-spankin' new originals. One of which I wrote ... that's a first for me. So woot to me.

On a completely different note, if you're interested, I wrote a terribly sappy entry over here. I swear sometimes I'm so sappy I should be a tree.

She WAS OK

So Mas has had this cough for ... a really long time.

It would get better then it started to get worse again. But mostly it bothers her at night. Now that it's worse again, it's bothering all of us at night.

I would lay there in the middle of the night, telling myself, "OK, you don't have to get up and get her cough medicine if she doesn't cough again before you go to sleep."

Then evitably, she'd cough and I'd haul myself out of bed and fetch the medicine.

We ran out of the melty strip kind that she likes and even the thick, bad-tasting syrup kind of cough medicine, so I found myself deliriously shuffling around Wal-Mart at 10:30 p.m. last night after band practice scooping impulse items into my hand cart.

Just an aside, Wal-Mart at 10:30 p.m. on a Wednesday evening is a strange place. I was shocked by the number of people who have their babies and toddlers strapped into a cart as they shopped for toilet paper and milk.

But there we two adorable teenaged boys there with identical wispy haircuts that poked out from their matching little hats. I wondered if they really wanted to be dressed and coiffed alike or if it just happened. They looked like a pair of suburban paper dolls dressed up to look dangerous.

Today, I decided enough was enough and I called the doctor. I took Mar in around lunchtime. He guessed that she probably has a sinus infection and perscribed antibiotics. While we were talking Margaret got bored and began turning in slow circles next to my chair. She closed her eyes and promptly smacked her noggin on the door.

While she was in fine spirits when I brought her to the doctor's office — even sitting still for the machine to take her blood pressure — the smack on the head took the wind out of her sails.

She and I had talked on the drive over about her getting a flu shot, but once she planted a goose egg on her head, there was no way she was going to consent. The idea of holding my rather strong 6-year-old down while the doctor (or more likely the nurse) gave her an injection was in no way appealing considering that I've been suffering from sleep deprivation and a fair dose of stress. So I decided that if she was to get a flu shot, Bill could take her.

Yeah, mother of the year, I am not.

Help me before I Photoshop again!

I did it!!!

I can follow directions. Woo! Go me!

When I read Blurbomat's discussion of how to enhance photos using Photoshop, I thought there was no way I could do that myself. It seemed like entirely too many steps and too much clicking and, well, basically that it was too much for my challenged pea brain.

But I have a bunch of stuff that I wanted to avoid doing, so I gave it a try. And check it out:
I did it!

Thanks to Blurbomat for his detailed directions and pictures that really made this possible for a flibberdydidit like myself. He had no reason to spend all that time putting together his "how-to make your photos Blurbo-cool" but I'm so grateful that he did.

One more with costumes

Yep, that's my kid with the other neighbor girls coughing her little lungs out. Poor nut.

Cough or not, we had a great time trick-or-treating around our neighborhood last night. And yes, we do ban boys ... OK, we do allow boys in the neighborhood, but they don't seem to stay long. I wonder why (just get a load of those girls ...).

If you're just dying to see me in my lame butterfly costume, you can click here.

Tomorrow should see a return to the non-costume related blog entries (but no guarantees).

The Marfly

Margaret hates this picture of herself.

That is too bad because I have it printed out on a 8-1/2 x 11" piece of card stock and it's affixed to the door of our refrigerator.

I love it. I love her little wrinkled forehead and the smear of frosting on her cheek and the angle of the wings. Plus her expression ... just too much.

I snapped this picture Saturday. You can read about it here.

Oh and yes, she's a butterfly and so am I. Yes folks, RiveterGirl dressed up for Halloween and I'm dressed up like a 6 year old. Oh the things I'll do for my kiddo.

Run, run, run, have fun?

Fun but hectic ... that pretty much sums up my weekend. And I'm oh-so-happy the time changed. I've never needed that extra hour before.

Saturday night Bill's band had their Halloween extravaganza at the Spotlight Lounge downtown. They put on a good show and I was amazed at the number of people who dressed up and the amazing variety of costumes. Crazy I tell ya.

It was a fun night of some good music.

But, I'll admit it, I was tired. I slogged my way through the week, going to bed too late and then having to contend with the Halloween-induced night fears from which Mar has been suffering. Yeah, I spent more than one night flopping around Mar's twin bed hugging her giant pink rabbit, Lola (who, by the way, got her first spin in the washing machine and everyone is better for it).


Saturday afternoon, Margaret marched downtown with some of the neighborhood kids while Jenn and I followed behind commenting on how equally cute and silly they all are. Our downtown sponsored an afternoon of trick-or-treating where the stores opened their doors to the manical pack of dressed up sugar fiends and gave out copious amounts of candy.
After all the walking, the kids started to get tired, but being the good moms that we are, we forced them to eat some candy and cookies they decorated themselves and hoped the sugar would kick in.

20 minutes later, the kids were amped up and chasing each other down the street.

Ah that magic drug ... sugar.

This just in!

The white pumpkins are back to normal.

'the hell?
Thing number 4 that I've learned about white pumpkins: They change colors and inspire ramdom and pointless blog entries.

Number 5: They should avoided by those with weak constitutions and embraced by those with a doctor's note verifying their heartiness.

Now, I'm afraid

So yesterday, I suggested that Jesus had donned his Halloween garb a little early and posed in the picture with our snow-covered jack-o-lanterns.

Well, it looks like in return for my blasphemy, God smote our white pumpkins just a little bit.
(Just ignore the weird guy posing in his pajamas next to the pumpkins ... I have no good excuse for him.)

The tops of the pumpkins have turned color. One is green and one is orange. I don't know if it's because they froze last night or what, but it's weird.

So, this is what I've learned about white pumpkins:

1. White pumpkins cost more than orange pumpkins.

2. They are waaaaay harder to carve than orange pumpkins.

3. God will smite white pumpkins if you are a blasphemer.

Just in case, I'm going to start keeping a bunch of white pumpkins available for God to smite as he deems necessary.

Snow already?

Yes, we had snow this morning ... right here in the Grand Valley.

While it's not completely unheard of for us to get snow, getting it in October is pretty rare.
I snapped this picture of our pumpkins getting goose-pimples this morning. When I uploaded it, I noticed that white blotch between the green pumpkin and the white one on the end.

What is that?

My Catholic co-worker decided it was Jesus dressed up for Halloween as a ghost. Who am I to argue?

Mar's fall program or why I love YouTube

Last night was Margaret's first-grade music program.

Before I had kids, I would have never guessed that given a choice to see any musical act in the world, I would chose a rowdy bunch of 6-year-olds singing loudly and off key.

I love to see their carefree spirit. There's something about their enthusiasm coupled with an utter lack of self-awareness that lifts my spirits.

And being the dweeby, tech mom that I am, I had Margaret's whole program downloaded on to our iMac, edited in iMovie and uploaded to YouTube before I went to bed last night where I slept with the smug smile of satisifaction plastered on my happy mom face.

Just like when they were kids

Bill was a little tired so Davy offered to give him a ride on his handlebars.

Gah, what a bunch of goofballs we are.

Saturday night we went out to an adult dinner for a neighbor's birthday. During the three block walk to the jazz club from the restaurant, it was decided that we (by "we" I mean "everyone else" while I took picutres — my mama din't raise no fool) should pose with the Art on the Corner sculptures.

Look how happy they are. *Cue: "Raindrop keeping fall on my head."

Oooohhhhh!

Lookit! We carved punkins!

Little miss lovely

Ah, Friday. My dear husband will be home tonight and balance will once again be regained in our house.

But this week was very different than the times I've spent single-parenting it in the past. Well, in some ways it was different.

It was still way too hectic for me and I never did cook a proper meal ... but I did cook — assuming that you count heating up canned soup and making macaroni and cheese as cooking. I never got organized enough to get meals and work and lessons and band practice properly scheduled, so I always felt like I was just barely making it.

But we did make it. And the best part was that I didn't scream at Margaret in the morning nearly as much as I usually do when I'm the one solely responsible for getting her out the door.

I was even able to keep my standing date with Tracee-Trace for our weekly Survivor night.

We are total dorks when it comes to Survivor — really, we've even started our own little game where we try to guess which tribe will win challenges, who gets voted off and what color Jeff Probst's shirt will be. The winner gets to keep the home-made immunity idol for the week. So far Tracee is kicking my ass but good ... and I thought I was a good guesser — yeah, not so much.

But the best part of last night's Survivor night was getting to hang with Tracee's uber-adorable, 1-1/2-year-old nephew, Carter.

Margaret read him books until he was distracted by our goofy, skinny dog.
Then they horsed around with some of Mar's toys, plastic cups and a pasta strainer ... just another crazy night at the McCracken house.

(Oh, I had to resort to taking this picture with my cell phone. I can't believe how many times I missed my camera this week ... oh and my husband, too, of course.)

Oh fall! How we barely knew ye

Remember all that talk about the change of seasons, from summer to fall?

Well, there might still be some leaves on the trees but fall is in the process of running out on the dinner bill.

Last night I slipped into bed wearing sweatpants and a yoga tank.I snuggled into my flannel sheets and fell asleep. Around 1 a.m., I was rudely roused from my slumber by the clinking of ice cubes that had formed on my feet. I was freezing.

After laying there trying to convince myself that I didn't need to actually get out of bed, I jumped up and threw on some socks and a long sleeved t-shirt. I even turned up the heat. Gasp!

Normally on cold nights I never have to bundle up because I usually sleep next to my human furnace. But Bill flew off to the nation's captial on Tuesday and with him went my camera.

And I miss it ... er, I mean, him. I miss him (and I do, really. Everytime Mar and I are left alone, I'm reminded of how much he brings to our life everyday and we're counting the minutes until he returns) and I miss my camera.

I carry my little Nikon around in my bag with me everywhere. So yesterday when I drove past a backhoe that had split an old, two-story house downtown in half, I immediately thought, "Ew, cool. I'm gonna stop and take a picture." Followed quickly by, "Damn, Bill had better come home with some great photos."

He comes home tomorrow. I can't wait.

___________________________________________________

And that's not all, if you click here you can read about my kid's first bout with addiction. Today it's children's Motrin, tomorrow she'll be on the street trying to score generic ibuprofen.

Lesson learned

There I stood, in the alley behind the only gay bar in town and waited.

I was waiting for the guy that I thought booked the bands. He was busy — busy stomping a broken chair into bits.

When I was fairly certain that he had completed his stompfest, I approached him, hand extended and introduced myself.

He was taken aback. He looked at me like I was about to spoil his good, boot-stomping fun.

Perhaps I was too polite or articulate. He was afterall a bartender who worked in the most notorious dive-bar in town.

Eventually he caught on that I was trying to book a show for my band.

"Oh yeah, I already talked to your drummer about that show."

Ah, good. We wanted to play the Wednesday before Thanksgiving — just as we did last year. This year's show would mark the one-year anniversary of KP joining our band and leading us fearlessly through the best year the band has yet had.

I gave the bar dude a slip of paper with La La's number and the date we wanted to play scribbled on it.

As we continued to talk, I quickly surmised that something was amiss. All of a sudden he was talking about his band and how long they were going to be playing and whatnot.

It was midnight on Friday. I was tired and crampy and had just witnessed a full-grown man massacre a helpless chair soley because it was weak. And now, I was confused.

Had I just agreed to play a show with this guy and his band? Who is this band?

Frustrated, I extracated myself from the conversation and went in search of Bill who I'd left at the bar.

When I found him, he asked, "Where were you? I got the name of the lady who does that band booking here."

Huh? Now I felt even worse. I had just spent a half-hour of my life with a chair stomper, agreed to a show with a band that we didn't know and then learned that he wasn't even the right person to whom I should've been speaking in the first place.

Doh!

Fortunately, I gave the chair-stomping dude La La's number and he called her. It turns out they are scheduled to play the Saturday before Thanksgiving. La La called the booking gal and got us scheduled for that Wednesday.

There is a reason that La La does our booking.

Creepy or not? You decide

My co-conspirator and fellow Haute Mama, Richie, says she's gonna make some of these creepy fake hands ... yes, having a baby that isn't inclined to sleep through the night will inspire you to make prosthetics out of work gloves and fluff from all those stuffed animals that are given as gifts.

Always getting in the way

The following is the e-mail I just sent to Professor La La as I'm sure that she's missed my obsessive e-mails today as I wasn't at work:

Hey L-

I've been home all day. Mar developed a high fever really fast last night. We took her to the ER. With her stomach the way it is, I'm always worried about appendicitis, but they didn't find anything. Her throat looked suspect but the rapid strep test came back negative.

I thought she'd be fine for school tomorrow but her fever is starting to rise again.

Damn, sick kids.

-r

Patience?

Margaret demonstrating that patience is not a family trait.

Click it!

I'm in awe of really talented and creative people.

Just another reason to love the fall

Girls in white dresses ...

They're spinning and spinning ...

Change

I realized as I was driving back to work this afternoon that I didn't even say goodbye.

When I get home from work this evening, it will be gone. I won't miss it, but it still makes me sad.

In May of 1999, I was going through my divorce and I bought myself a 1984 Jeep CJ-7.

I took the top off immediately and proceeded to roast slowly in the sun until I bought a bikini top for it to shade my very, very white skin from the evil orb that is the western Colorado sun.

I loved driving my Jeep around. I love cars in general, but this Jeep was special. It was open and free ... just like I was at that point.

I drove my Jeep to my first date with Bill.

Then it started getting cold out and I got pregnant.

I told Bill that I was too old to be pregnant and hauling my fat self around in a bumpy old Jeep — how could he argue? So my beloved Jeep became Bill's daily driver.

Over the years, it was a reliable second car for our family despite the fact that we did little to no work on it whatsoever.

Last fall I had to drive the Jeep to work on a rainy day and it started to spit and sputter and generally object to being forced to operate under such dreadful conditions.

That night in a fit, I told Bill that I never wanted to drive that Jeep again. Because he had suffered though several winters driving the drafty, old beast, he agreed that a different car would better serve our needs (he recounted the numerous times he drove Margaret to pre-school with her teeth chattering and her lips turning blue).

Once we'd purchased a newer used car, we parked my once-beloved, but now-discarded Jeep at our friend's house. Recently, our friend moved and the Jeep ended up once again at our house ... where it sat for a number of weeks until I suggested that Bill get the "thing" ready to sell, so I didn't have to look at it anymore.

And he did. Sunday he took care of the minor issues that it required and then printed up a "for sale" sign and taped it into the window.

Monday at work, I placed a classified ad that started running today. Bill called me at 10 am — my Jeep had been sold.

I wasn't really prepared for this.

I spent 45 minutes of my lunch hour searching in vain for the title to my fallen beauty while the buyer waited patiently upstairs with a stack of 100-dollar bills. I never found it, but the buyer still gave us the money and we both signed a bill of sale.

We'd get a new copy of the title tomorrow and he was going to come back this afternoon and drive the Jeep away.

I won't miss it, but it still makes me sad.

Postcard from the edge

Upon returning from our Saturday errands, I gathered the mail from the mailbox.

Margaret asked, "Who's the mail for?"

I glanced through the pile, knowing that there was little chance of her recieving anything.

I was wrong. Stuck in between a bill and an advertisement was a postcard with an aligator basking in the Florida Everglades on the front, addressed to Midge.

I excitedly waved the card at Mar and said, "Look who got a postcard. Let's read it."

Margaret greedily snatched the card from my hand and sat on the sofa next to me.

She began to read the card:

Dear Midge-
How's life? I am still as disorganized as ever, and not entirely sure I like my job.
I had a bad experience today. I wanted to impress a rabbi w/my knowledge of Jewish words & said putz. I just looked it up & it means penis. No wonder he looked so surprised. I miss u!
Love, Emily

Margaret found the whole thing to be absolutely delightful and laughed about reading the word "penis" for a good long time.

Not many adults will write such a marginally inappropriate postcard to a 6-year-old, but that is precisely why we love Emily so much and also why we miss her so much.

The great thing about having a great friend move to Florida is that now we have a great visit to her there.

Because I want to know!

What color are your eyes?

I hate to brag ...

My kid is smart.
Yeah, I know that I've said that kind of stuff before on this blog and on this one, too. But now it's not just me saying so.

The gifted and talented teacher at Margaret's school also works part-time here at the paper for which I work. She told me today that she has begun working with Margaret in one of the first-grade groups of kids that have been flagged as potentially gifted.

They did a bunch of testing at the beginning of the year and she was found to be advanced, especially with her reading (she's at about a third-grade level). Margaret and two other boys are in the top group with another three kids in a secondary group — yep, six kids total out of all the first-graders.


We've always known that she's a bright kid, but this is just confirmation that our punk-rock lifestyle hasn't completely hosed her up ... yet.

She won't be formally categorized as gifted until second grade. There's more testing and stuff to be done, but I'm very hopeful — not because having a smart kid is better than having an average kid, but she goes to a school that is always at or near the bottom in the rankings based on the state-standarized testing scores.

There are a lot of non-English speaking children, migrant children and sadly, kids who come from homes with ... let's see what euphemism I can come up with for "tweaker parents" ... I'll just say, not the most attentive parental units. So, it's nice to know that she has the potential to get the extra-attention she needs to achieve to her fullest potential.

I considered writing about this on the Haute Mamas blog for tomorrow's entry, but I actually don't like to be all "my kid's smarter than yours" in a forum dedicated to parenting. It just seems crass ... yeah, but I'll totally do it here.

Etiquette

Going to the bathroom is one of those things best left done alone.

That is not a possibility when you work in a large office with one primary bathroom.

That ladies room at my office has four stalls.

Basic bathroom etiquette (that most people are able to figure out for themselves) states that when you are the first one in the bathroom, you select one of the stalls on the end. Then if someone else comes along, then they can easily select a stall that allows for at least a one-stall buffer.

That buffer is essential to maintaining the charade that you are still alone even though someone else is in the bathroom with you.

For the most part, the women in my office get this and all is well.

Today, however, I witnessed a breach of etiquette that I had never encountered before.

I walked into the bathroom to find that someone was already in stall number two. I followed the aforementioned etiquette and entered stall four.

Moments later, I heard the unmistakable sound of a cell phone ringing.

Then I heard the occupant of stall two answer the phone, mumble a few sentences then ask, "Can I call you back?"

'the hell?

This person answered her cell phone while still sitting on the can.

How can anyone in good conscience do such a thing?

The smell of burning flesh

For those that have never seen or just don't like the TV show The Office, this post is going to be of no interest to you, so go ahead and scroll down to the picture of my kid and click the link.

Bye-bye, people who don't watch The Office.

K. Now, remember the episode where Michael cooks his foot with his George Forman grill?

Yeah, the one where Dwight wrecks his car.

That episode is on disc 2 of season 2 and is Margaret's favorite. I don't know what about that particular show would delight a 6-year-old as it does, but she likes it and asked to watch it numerous times over the weekend.

That was fine with me because Sunday (after the whopping 2-1/2 hours of sleep I got) I was ready to lie listlessly around the living room and watch the same half-hour comedy over and over again.

At one point, Margaret dragged out her coloring supplies and created this gem:
Do you see what it is? It's Michael burning his foot on a grill.

I think it's genius, of course.

I made her go back and add a caption. She wrote, "Micl brd his fut."

Translated into English, "Michael burned his foot."

The red word to the right of his head says, "Aw" and was part of the original drawing. Because I'm sure that is exactly what Michael said when he burned his foot on his George Foreman grill and ruined his morning bacon treat.

Holes

What is that on my kid's earlobe?