What a whiner

Yeah, just ignore me when I get all like I was in my last post. Someone needs to kick that girl — hard.

So, I had a little pain. Big deal. I got to the venue in time to get set up and change in the front seat of Laurena's truck parked on the street in broad daylight. A big shout out to the folks in Fruita who got to watch us change. Woot!

We started playing just after 6. The sun was out and it was windy. It threatened to be a cold evening.

But the crowd was polite and there was even a group of bike riders (it was the Fruita Fat Tire Festival afterall) who cheerfully rang their cowbells after each song (I really grew to like the sound of the cowbell and am hoping that there will always be at least one at every show!).

As the sun went down and the wind stopped blowing things really started to pick up. During one of our breaks, we were flooded with compliments from people digging our music.

We got really pumped. The last two hours flew in a flurry of rock 'n' roll-a-tude. The crowd really got into our music and we were playing well. But mostly we were having fun.

It's the best when everything gels.

Kelley was in perfect form, as usual. Laurena and I were jumping all over the stage and Bridgett performed one of the best trainwrecks ever at the end of "Anything, anything" it went on and on while Laurena and I crouched over our guitars milking the applause for all its worth.

Great night. Great show. Great bandmates.

I am lucky.

Lucky? That remains to be seen

So, yesterday.

Yeah, not my favorite day. The nagging pain in my right flank flared up.

It wasn't excruciating, but painful enough to make me do something about it.

My doctor fit me yesterday afternoon and suggested what I had already been fearing ... kidney stone.

So off I went to the imaging pavilion at the local hospital here for a CT scan. (If I was feeling better, I'd find a picture of the machine I was in which included a diagram of when to hold one's breath and when to exhale as well as a little window below which said something like "Danger, retina-burning laser. Do not look here" which caused me to look there, of course.)

They didn't see anything so they sent me on my way to get my prescriptions filled.

I ran home gathered my child who had been at the neighbors (who I owe so much gratitude and various return services), changed and gathered my guitar, called the sitter and dashed off to practice a half an hour late.

So, today.

Still in pain, but masked by the lovely narcotics, I am at work worrying about getting out of here early enough to haul all my equipment out of the basement and into my truck and drive to the next town for our l-o-n-g gig tonight.

How am I feeling? Mostly tired (I actually fell asleep at my desk this morning) and still with a horrible nag drilling into my side and back.

What does the doctor say? Uh, he's not sure what's up. No stone to be found (which is fab by me really), has stumped him but he did say that it could be appendicitis. Wow. That's a relief ... except it isn't in any way.

Pray for me. Pray for me to be able to get out of here early without pissing off my boss. Pray for me to be able to actually play my guitar tonight.

Ladies Night

Today is the kick off for the huge Fruita Fat Tire Festival that takes place every year at the west end of the Grand Valley.

People come from all over to ride our famed single tracks. Fruita is going to be chock full o' mountain bikes and dudes wearing those little spandex shorts.

Tomorrow night there is going to be a big party that they are dubbing "Ladies Night." Why? I have no idea, but they hired the right band for the job:Yep, we're going to be the entertainment for the whole evening.

It used to be that these long shows gave me the heebie jeebies —mostly because we would have to play every song we knew and some of them ... well, they weren't very good.

But that isn't the case anymore. Now, we have over 30 songs and they are all good — some are even great. It's a great place to be.

We are so looking forward to getting those spandex asses a-shakin.'

Spoiled

I am so spoiled.

For being such a selfish shrew, I sure do get treated well.

Yesterday, my dearest Uber-husband came home from work with a bag for me. Inside were these shoes:I love, love, love these shoes. I saw them at the mall last weekend but didn't want to spend the money on them. Bill knew I wanted them to wear to my band's show on Friday, so he took time out of his totally crazy schedule to go to the mall and get these shoes for me.

Let's all say it together, "Aw!"

He's a gem, I tell ya. A gem!

Then this morning, I get to work to find that my boss left me this really nice card AND a gift certificate for a massage and facial for administrative assistant's day:My boss has always been very generous and on this day he usually gets me a giant bouquet of flowers (which I love), but this was totally unexpected and very much appreciated.

What have I done to deserve this? Nothing really, but bitch and whine. I have, however, learned to not look a gift horse in the mouth and just appreciate those things that come to me.

I am a lucky girl (now I going to go try to act right).

Sorry Blogger

I owe Blogger an apology. Yesterday I said that stupid Blogger wouldn't let me upload a photo.

It wouldn't but only because I had it saved as a Photoshop file and not a jpg.

I'm stupid (but that really goes without saying).

So here it is. Check out Johnny G. on guitar.
Man, is he getting after it or what?

They all had a stellar show but Johnny G. gets MPV, fo' sho'.

Don't get the wrong impression about the Wrong Impressions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foot in mouth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y'all should come check it out!

True confessions

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Specs

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

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

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

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

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

Now I don't have to. Woot!

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

As winds come whispering lightly from the West

50 mph winds blasted through the valley yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're lazy.

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

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

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

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

But not before the garbage pickers get done with it.

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

Sometimes there is stuff that is worth taking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easter ... oh yeah!

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

This guy has SKILLZ! Mad skills, yo.

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

But he cooks, too.

Davy and Jenn hosted Easter dinner yesterday afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

But there was more to Easter than the sumptuous meal.

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


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

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

Profiles of our friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here they are:








What a lovely bunch of coconuts, eh?

Supa-star

Parenting is hard, mmmKay?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dopplegangers

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

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

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

But now she's back. Woo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simple

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

Shocking, I know.

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

So it's probably been six months.

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

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

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

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

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

I'd even wear them in the same week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foiled by the powers of Weiner Dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, we are quite the pair.

Anniversary

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

I'm lucky he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watch your hands

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

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

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

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

But she knows I don't like it.

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

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

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

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

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

I think I need tutor.

Don't tell chocolate

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

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

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

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

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

Toast has never looked so good.

Picture Monday

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

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

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

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