Sunshine Daydreams

Let's talk about debt, baby.

2012-01-19T20:32:00.001-08:00

Let's have THAT talk. The one you don't want to have. The one that makes you squirm and find an excuse to go to the bathroom for 20 minutes, where you'll hide and hope it's over by the time you get back. But let's just get it out there. And dear god I so wish it was about sex.

We're quick to talk about the charming little house we bought (and at such a young age!). And then gush about the new energy-saving windows that are being put in and the new kitchen floor (the rooms will be warmer! think of the savings! and the planet!) And we're eager to discuss the trade-in steal we got on our car or truck (better gas mileage! the savings! the planet!). And we buzz around like flies high on poop fumes when we earn our college degree (I'm off to save the planet with my super educated brains!). We're doing it all the right way.

But no one wants to talk about this. All these sound, logical, smart-people decisions COSTS MONEY. And our clever ahead-of-the-ahem-curve society lets us pay for things without actually using real money. We'll talk about that fact til we're blue in the face. And then fist shake the system and get annnnnngggggrrrryyyy!!!! RED IN THE FACE!!! and maybe it is all their fault. But what we don't talk about is that we all (yep, pretty much all) of us...bought... into...it. No, I'm sorry. We didn't buy anything. We mortgaged it.

We don't talk about it.

It's (shhh) embarrassing.

And so we pay our minimums. Maybe a little bit more when we can. We quietly defer student loans, when they say it's okay. And stifle a tear when they don't, cause it's our own damn fault, right? And we watch the interest stack up. We watch our payments go to little more than finance charges. We hold our pay stubs up next to our liberal arts college degrees, shrug our shoulders, and think, "huh, that math seems weird." We'll elbow jab our colleagues at the coffeepot that yeah, we all deserve raises, but we'll also consent that it's not worth the discussion, or the company can't afford it, or maybe I'm not really worth it....and so we'll go back to our desks, head down and focused, and will the frustration away like bladder control on a roadtrip. "I can make it through...", I'll just drink less coffee.

We hunker down. We shy away from conversations with the friends who truly seem to have their financial act together (and wonder if they really do). We admit that we're broke, but we don't offer the details.

And by we. I mean me. bold and italicized and capitalized ME goddammit.

But I know I'm not alone. I know I'm not because the average American's credit card debt is between $8000 and $15,000. Their mortgage is $225,000 and monthly payment $1780 (assuming they're not paying interest-only, which is far-too common - so you're basically renting your mortgage then, right?). Their student loan balance is $25,000. Their monthly car payment is $385, ultimately paying a crap-ton more than the scrap of metal is worth. These are not luxury items. These are INVESTMENTS that we're told are sound, are American, and are a step in the right direction. Is any of this ringing true for any of you? Or am I pooping in the middle of your nude beach?

We rant about the frustration. But we don't discuss the details. We softly moan about how we shouldn't get our hair done, but then wonder in silence if we can even pay the mortgage. We politely turn down a vacation because we really shouldn't eat into our savings, and then swallow the confessional lump that our savings couldn't buy a bag of Doritos.

If we were more honest, could we collectively actually change things? Robert Applebaum is moving his petition around and forward and up and sideways to forgive student loan debt. Awesome. Neato. I've signed it. Facebooked and tweeted it. And held my breath for all of about 2 seconds that it'll do any damn good. I love that it's gaining attention. The grassroots grow pretty annoyingly deep inside me. But a lot of the liberal attitude that's expressed behind its back is that "yes, that would be helpful. yes, that would sure gosh golly be an economic stimulus. hum ho har har". But I'm not hearing this: fuck yes make that happen I fucking NEED it. Because no one is being honest about what their financial funnel really looks like.

Maybe if we were we'd get somewhere. If I got two emails in one day, one that said "Join in my fight against ____ and donate $25. Together we'll beat ____ and all wear ribbons and fist bump at the finish line" and one that said "My credit card balance is $10k and I can't afford groceries. If you and my 250 facebook friends could contribute this once, I could cut that debt by more than in half. And then in a few months, when you ask the same of me, I might actually have the cash in hand to help you, too." Well. No one's gonna send me that second email. But if they did....what would happen? Would I chuckle? Or shake my head and say "tsk tsk how did she let that it get so bad..."? Not likely. I'd say "Girl. Let's throw you a party and get this shit done." And I have a feeling that you, lone reader, would likely say the same.

But we don't talk about such things.

2012 is the year for brave conversations. At least that's what we've been talking about as a team at work. So here's mine. Debt sucks. And though I can pay the groceries (which keep getting more expensive, especially since I insist on a luxury diet that consists largely of produce, preservative-free bread and organic apple juice), and I could buy a bag of Doritos with my savings if I wanted (but I couldn't buy YOU one), I cannot escape the crashing wave of debt from weighing me and my family down. Maybe this is what being 34 is like. And I'll scrape together a future for my kids with my charm and my chuckle. But. I keep having a vision that looks a lot like this. And it's kinda hard to laugh at that.

Marketing Jesus, Marketing Genius

2011-12-20T13:12:00.000-08:00

It goes without saying that this is my blog, so it's my opinion. Add to that obviousity (why not) that no one reads this but me, AND that I write here as often as a seasonal herpes flare-up, and you get a shoulder shrug, meh, take it if you want it. Leave it if you don't.

I just get so tired of the fighting.

The bickering.

The "December holidays belong to me", tongue sticking out, high horse-riding, my songs are more popular, my tree is bigger, my holiday is more exclusive, blabbity blabbity blah blah barf. Finger. Down. Throat.

I realize that this is not the shiniest and most magical bauble to ever be written around the holidays. Let's pretend I'm not sitting on my couch on a gray Tuesday wishing desperately to be with my children on Christmas morning. Let's pretend instead that there's fairy dust flying, egg nog flowing, and jingle bells drowning out the Lexus commercials.

But here's my point. You. One reader. Mom. We ALL own the holidays. Jesus is NOT the reason for the season. Scholars tend to agree that he was born in the spring. Saviors have appeared to many cultures throughout the milennia, and people have used the winter solstice to honor those saviors since the start of recorded history. That's a long ass time. Before we sent Elf Yourself videos to our Facebook pages or scrolled through Etsy for DIY inspiration to really, you know, feel the holiday spirit, people looked to the sun. It was the most constant thing they knew. And for so many ancient civilizations the sun embodied divinity. It was the reason, the purpose, the entertainment, the tradition, the holiest thing people knew. It is, I believe, the reason we tend to look up when we pray or give thanks, regardless of religious (or lack of) belief. So when our star began to ascend once again north, the solstice became the chief holy day, a great celebration of joy, of communal cheer. We're all in this together because, hey look, we're all under the same beautiful sun.

So festivities sprang up, as they tend to do, traditions taking forms as unique as the parts of the world from which they came. And pieces of those traditions have rode in on the tongues of our heredity, and spread out on the exhalation of generations. Saturnalia gave us the spirit of carefree geniality, of servants and masters switching places and feasting together, of copious drinking and goodhearted nakedness (now known as the holiday office party). Something that the Puritans (and HR) tsk tsk'd and finger-wagged about. The happy Roman riot of Saturnalia created a fleeting world of love, neighborly kindness, and a tradition of small gifts and open houses.

Jesus. You're a good man. A GREAT man. And none of this is your fault. But you know, and frankly, I doubt you give a rip, that you were not born on Christmas Day. Your followers, or at least those who stood financial gain or loss based on the popularity of your existence, knew that it made political sense to switch their greatest feast day to a time already ripe with festivity. Many many members of the early church were pagan recruits, who already were celebrating the winter solstice in its logical glory. The sun was waking up in December. Fun in the sun. And the trend-setting Romans had another celebratory chink in their armor. In the 5th century they brought home Mithras, a Persian god of light whose chief symbol was....wait for it...guesses?... the (gasp) sun. The birthday of Mithras was celebrated on, I feel like I don't even have to tell you, the 25th of December, a day that they called natalis invicti solis (yes I just looked it up, cause who remembers that kind of thing?). So the soldiers introduced everyone to Mithras, who promised eternal life to the brave. Plus, the pleasures of Saturnalia were still ringing home the solstice. The two combined were like prosciutto and my mouth: a truly happy combination. And one to which the early Christian church just simply couldn't hold a candle to. So they called in PR and had a marketing pow wow. Pretty sure that's exactly what they called it.

"No!" they declared. "Silly rookies! CHRIST was born on December 25, not that golden oaf Mithras." Hmph. They belittled the Mithras' followers by saying that they were aping the birth of the true Son of God. Propaganda. A time-honored tradition.

It totally worked. Saturnalia's debauchery plus genuine piety created a perfect holiday. Be naughty AND nice. Drink it all in, puke it all back out, give a little, get a little, and celebrate it all in one fell and festive swoop.

There's so much more. One could devote their entire university education to the study of holiday, tradition and cultural celebration. My point here is not to argue. Nor to make Christians feel like I'm picking on them. My point is that we're simply all under the same sun. And every year, at this time, it begins to give us more of itself. Shining a little longer every day. Warming our bodies, growing our food, giving us more light for us to use to scrutinize every tiny detail of what's wrong with our bodies, our houses, our cars, our friends...or to appreciate them, though that's sadly seldom the tendency.

So when Odin on his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir, rides through the frigid nights of Yule to reward the good and smite the wicked, remember that with time, he'll turn into a jolly fat man from a magical land up north who has a large welcoming lap and a propensity to give you whatever you want just cause you asked for it. And then pause. Hug your kids. Kiss your lover. Fist bump your co-worker. And pull the world inside your brain and think "we're all in this together. let's enjoy the ride." Then together we'll raise our glasses, toast each other and this beautiful planet, give thanks for the malleability of tradition, and then sip our mead. Or egg nog. The choice is totally yours.

Happiest of all the winter holidays. To all of you. With all my heart. Cheers!

my brain, blogged, in bubbles

2011-12-19T15:11:00.000-08:00

me:

i kind of like to think of human souls/spirits/ghosts/lifeforce/whatever as a big bottle of soap.

Timothy: man i was thinking about life and death on the way back from the mountain lastnight and got SUPER depressed and had to abort thought

hmm

bottle of soap eh?

me: yes.

and that we get blown into bubbles.

all different sizes. but always round.

sometimes we stick together and make amazing bubble chains.

sometimes we pop early. sometimes not til we've floated over the neighbor's rooftop.

and sometimes we just drip down the bubble wand and back into the container, or all over the pavement, and we dry up into a film before we get the chance to become a bubble.

and yet other times. we get caught back onto the bubble wand, and balance there, and get the chance to float off again.

Sent at 12:50 PM on Monday

Timothy: huh, thats pretty

big fan of your brain

you should write that down in a short essay or something

i feel like people would like to hear that

me: ha.

maybe.

maybe i'll open up that blog thing again.

Quickwrite #3 - and now I'm hungry

2011-09-14T00:11:00.001-07:00

So here we go again with another timed 8 minute writing assignment. This one was a simple phrase: camping food. Aaaaaaand go.

It didn’t matter that it was 104 degrees outside. It didn’t matter that the thick red dust clung to all manner of tongs and knives, or that yellow jackets flitted around the fruit rinds that remained on the picnic table. It didn’t matter that it was only 11am and the first beers of the day had been cracked 30 minutes earlier. And it didn’t matter that the task of feeding a large group of 25 campers might seem daunting. It didn’t’ matter to Oscar.

His pork adobo would find itself eaten out of the dirt when it slipped off the tip of a plastic fork. It was too good to donate to the dust. The tomatillos would relinquish their paper skins to his thick fingers, practically undressing themselves so that they could be prepared into a succulent salsa verde. The bamboo skewers would dance in their afternoon soak, as they readied themselves to be laid out over the flames that evening, when the water would be licked from their splinters. Oscar prepped, cooked, grilled and served with the passion of an artist, the devotion of an alpine monk, and the humor of your very best friend.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t floating in the lake, or that the batteries in the radio had died hours ago and he was left to listen to the sounds of golf balls being driven off the point to the opposite shore. Oscar just hummed and moved in graceful precision while the bandana did its very best to keep the sweat from rolling from the tip of his nose to the roasted chilies below. Not that it would have mattered.

Quick write #1

2011-08-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

My first quick write assignment for the Literary Kitchen writer's workshop with Ariel Gore. Task: in 8 minutes write about a person you imagined one way and ended up another. Start with "I am..." 8 minutes. Okay, maybe it was 9. Here goes:

I am vomiting. Hand on John's shoulder blade, twisting it into a new shape, making silly putty out of bone. My face in a bedpan, hurling up ice chunks, juice pulp and the dinner from hours earlier. The throes of labor were being managed as best my body could. Which was pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself. So what's a little throw up? I am birthing a human! Here he comes. He's going to be blonde. He's going to have blue eyes. He's going to have my love of nature and John's love of sports. He's going to run fast because he's going to run early, not waiting until his late 20's or early 30's like his dad and I did. He's going to scramble over ruins in the Yucatan by 3 and speak Spanish fluently with the neighbors by 4. He'll have a million great friends. Not just friends. GREAT friends. They'll love his words and his music and his charm and his easy way. He'll hate video games. He'll adore his grandparents. He'll tumble in the yard with the big dogs and ask me "mama, can I PLEASE bathe Montana? can I can I can I???" to which I'll teasingly roll my eyes as if to say, "I don't know...." like it's some special reward to bathe a 200lb St. Bernard, but then I'll give in, because he'll give me a hug and an i-love-my-mom-THIS-MUCH kind of look.

I'll melt.

He'll be a melter.

And so I push. I wince. I take deep breaths and concentrate on the color of light I'm inhaling and how it changes as I exhale. I don't curse John. I don't curse anyone. This is an amazing feeling. The hurt is so immense, but it's a healthy hurt. Like laughing so hard your cheeks ache and your teeth are tender.

And he's here. And he's melted me.

He's blue eyed. Blonde-haired. And his head is perfectly....conical. I glance quickly to John, knowing he hasn't really read the books I've suggested on the birth process. His pupils are dilated and he looks as if he may faint. He's the proud papa of a cone-head baby. I smile and tug the tie-dye infant cap down over the precious head, knowing it will smooth out to a round shape in mere hours. I pull him to my chest. We pretend to still be a part of each other though he now lay on top of me, and no longer inside. We breathe together.

We melt together.

And River grows. He's a vision. His eyes are so bright as to be alarming. His hair so blonde as to be phantasmic. His words are insightful, profound, unexpected and articulate at an early age.

His mind is deep. He loves so many things, but thinks very heavily on them, and his eyes are often frustrated in contemplation.

He's 6. And beyond. He's changing. He's a thinker. His eyes tear up daily. He may still scramble over ruins in the Yucatan. He loves dirt. And hates soccer. He loves his friends. But is very particular about them. He erects worlds from Lego and illustrates life in Crayola markers. And I only wish that he find happiness in technicolor, even when he tends to highlight and hone in on the gray.

We all melt a little. We all take shapes that are new, unpredicted, but none-the-less illuminating. We mold ourselves, and are molded by the sometimes wrenching hands of our mothers, we cannot be pre-determined. But River, well, River can be anything. In that I am confident. I feel it in my silly putty bones.

Raw and uncut.

2011-03-08T20:08:00.000-08:00

Here's me eating meat.

And again, me eating meat. Mmmm, nachos...

And two side-by-side slow-cooked meaty meals: chile colorado (say hello) and pork chile verde (how do you do). Made by me. Consumed by me.

I don't have any photos of me eating a rack of ribs because, well, frankly, it's indecent.

I'm not going to apologize for all the cuddly cows and pinky-pie pigs I've consumed in my lifetime. But the porkbutt stops here. I have been easing myself into this moment, settling down into a squishy, mushroomy new lifestyle and tomorrow it becomes official: no more meat for moi. (Except you, Nemo, you delish little fish.)

Watch out world. I'm gonna stir-fry the heck outta ya.

I can do this. See?

Don't chuck your cookies.

2011-02-13T20:16:00.000-08:00

I don't do Valentine's Day. I haven't since the 6th grade. Here's why: In the 5th grade my class celebrated this ridiculous day with cards and candy hearts. We brought them in and delivered them to construction paper mailboxes that were taped to our desks. I got lots of My Little Pony cards, a few Transformers, a couple made from cut up napkins that reeked of rubber cement. All the cards said "You're the tops!" or "Be Mine" or "Don't go changing!" (that would've been one of the Transformers cards). And then my classmates scrawled their names along the back. Bo-ring. But among the stash of commercial nonsense and rubber cement fumes there was one little gem from a kid named Fred. It was plain enough on the front, but on the back it said, in pencil, "I love you."

So apparently, with that, Fred officially became my boyfriend. And we proceeded to neither talk to each other nor look in the other's general direction for the next 2 weeks. It was magical. And then as quickly as it had begun, we were officially broken up. Still, in those 2 weeks, I slept with that valentine under my pillow, taking a peek at those surprising and demure pencil marks nearly every night. Then 6th grade Valentine's Day came around and....nothing. No surprises. No whimsy. Not even a daisy plucked from the playground at recess and thrown at my head. I decided that well, if the magic of Valentine's Day doesn't happen organically, you can't force it. So I refused to buy in to the February 14th nonsense.

Valentine's Day is simply so contrived. We force ourselves to come up with shmaltzy cheezy fluffy romance for the sake of a date on the calendar. We shroud ourselves in red and pink and pretend that we like teddybears and cupids. We listen to Tom Shane tout the perfect ruby for that special someone over and over and over and forget that we can change the station. We skim the top of our hearts like funk off a puddle to show, briefly, that we're more romantic than we let on. But it's not real. Where's the surprise? The genuine emotion? The sloppy yet heartfelt pencil note to someone you may not know very well but, shucks, you think is pretty cute?

Where am I going with all this? Great question. Here it is. This year I AM celebrating Valentine's Day. I'm reclaiming it and making it my own. I'm not reserving a table in an overcrowded trendy restaurant, I'm not stuffing a pink monkey into a coffee mug and tying curly ribbon to its handle, I'm not sending myself flowers and pretending their from a secret admirer (but if you're out there and listening....tulips, please and thank you). But what I AM doing is giving a big ol' smoochy lovey dovey hug to all these folks:

I am confident that the social media universe is simply eye-rolly about my gushing love for my job and the people with whom I share a workspace. I hesitate ever so slightly every time I feel the urge to say "I love my job!" on facebook. Because, well, we all know that joined-at-the-heartstrings couple who can't take their eyes off each other, ever, and who's undying giddiness makes you want to gag, then barf. You know they're not trying to gloat about their unabashed adoration, yet you're inclined to loathe them anyway. I fear sometimes that that's how my gDiapers love may come across. Then again, we're also secretly jealous of the magic that the barftaculous couple has. The pure bliss of day to day crazy-eyed love potion number 9 heart palpitating insanity. It's so gross that it's beautiful. Like this guy:

So if you, dear loyal and lone reader, remember, I royally messed up my annual gingerbread co-worker cookies this year. They weren't fit to be fed to my chickens. Though I did. And even they gave each other a sideways glance before tentatively pecking out the candy eyeballs. So to rectify past cookie wrongs, I offer up these sugar cookie valentines to the most caring, genuine, funny, supportive, creative, logical, passionate, altruistic and altogether 'g' co-workers on earth. You are my friends. And I thank you so very very much for the magic of working with all of you. For helping me grow. For nurturing my children. For petting my dog. For leaving a grande soy latte on my desk in the morning. For opportunity. For countless hours in savasana. For ibuprofen after a late retreat night. For celebration. For Pepper Box. For hour-long text-a-thons just to say hi. For you-tube videos. For fair dinkum. For playing along. For all things 'g'. You're the tops. Don't go changing.

For what it's worth, the cookies are 98% organic and 100% edible. I know. I ate more cookie dough than I care to admit to the iPhone Confessor app. But I'm not Catholic and I own a Blackberry, so I'm all clear.

And Marty, I know your name isn't on a cookie in the picture. The truth is I really did make you one. Then realized I very likely wasn't going to mail it to Arizona. So I ate it. It was delicious. Happy Valentine's Day, gDiapers. I heart you all.

S.W.A.K.

kelli

All I ever needed to know I learned at a tattoo parlor.

2011-01-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

Over a decade ago I made a mistake. (Thank you, jagermeister.) A few years later I tried to fix said mistake by wrapping it in a somewhat pretty border, with dreams of it magically making me happy. It didn't. Way more often than not, a mistake will never make you happy. So you live with it, deal with it, ignore it and try to move on. But it's difficult to move on when the mistake rears it's sneering little head at you when you glance in the mirror, when the mistake makes a 4 inch section of your back the laughing-stock of your whole body: giggles and hollers from the stomach, jeers and pity from the legs. The head, then hands, the feet and most loudly, the eyes all point and laugh at the mistake, "HA! you dork. Why'd you go and do that?" And by that, I mean this:

Sigh. My lower lumbar of shame.

Well as it turns out, if you can't change history, you can at least make a valiant attempt to cover it up. And the effort of Alice at Infinity Tattoo proved to be more than just valiant, it was brilliant.

It was a two-part process and took altogether about 7 hours of Alice's time. Bless her heart for having a steady hand and artistic patience. Not to mention the design. It was all her. She took my blabbering jibberish of what I had in mind "Umm, an owl, on a branch, with lots of color, kind of sugar skull-ish/day of the dead-ish....and add two owlets....and whimsy! I like whimsy!" and she, well, she did it!

I love love love it. Thank you, Alice. I'm bringing cookies this week.

And thank you to the other artists who kept the conversation lively. And to the dude from Humboldt who got the redwood on his arm, it was a pleasure to meet you. And to the contractors who advertise on Craigslist, we're on to you. And to Demi Moore, most people like you, they just think you have a bitchy face. And to Kirk Cameron, it's best if you just stay hidden, like my palm tree henna-bordified tattoo -- may its shame rest in peace.

the lorax didn't do enough.

2010-12-27T13:54:00.000-08:00

I had intended to blog about the brilliance of Christmas PR from way back in the 4th century AD. In fact, I may still, so hold that thought...

but first.

I was chatting on facebook with a friend last night and the subject of Dr. Seuss came up (as it is prone to in prolonged conversation, right?). "Who's your favorite Dr. Seuss character?" We both quickly said The Lorax. (And then I added Mrs. McCave, you know, the mom who named all her children Dave. It's just comforting to know that others crave simplicity amidst the chaos. I'd even go so far as to just refer to those around me as an eye blink. If I blink your way, you know I'm talking to you. That's your new name.)

So, The Lorax. Remember him? "I am the lorax I speak for the trees...." and it occurred to me, really? You speak for them? But what do you DO for them? The Lorax finger wagged The Onceler, reprimanding him for making his pointless (but ever-so-useful) Thneeds. He cautioned him. He illustrated the err of his ways by gesturing to the Brown Bar-ba-loots who's tummies were groggy, and to the Humming-Fish who's water had gone foggy, and to the Swomee-Swans who's sky had gone smoggy -- all as a result of the chop chop chopping of the Truffula Trees. But The Lorax was little, and his words fell on deaf ears. And The Onceler kept chopping, he had nothing to fear. You know how it goes. The last Truffula Tree came down. The Onceler's business shut down. And The Lorax lifted his tush and flew right out of town.

Because he didn't DO anything.

The Onceler is awful. He's greedy. He's bad. But his face is hidden, so it's hard to get mad. But I can see the face of The Lorax. And I hear him well enough. If words are all he has to give, then he may as well be stuffed. A soft little Wilford Brimley selling oatmeal and insurance, for the greater good.

What could he have done? I'd like to see a new version of The Lorax. And it would go something like this (the abbreviated version):

There once was a forest, lovely and free,
filled with the softly tufted Truffula Trees.
And a smelly nasty dude wanted them all chopped down,
to make silly little doodads that were landfill-bound.

And the animals, the animals! that lived in the wood
they just wanted to live, and so they thought that they should.
But as the Truffula Trees began to thin
so did the waistlines of the animals therein.

Until The Lorax appeared with his might and his swagger
and he threw around threats and eyebrow raises like daggers!
The smelly nasty dude just shrugged, "Your talk is a waste.
I have garbage to make! Quick quick without haste!"

So The Lorax he rounded his posse from that mighty great wood.
He gathered them all among the trees that still stood.
He declared "We are bigger and stronger than he!
And if words will not stop him, well, then let it be WE!"

The We were the animals, the who's and the breezes
that blew through and flew through the Truffula Treeses.
They wrapped their arms tight 'round the trunks and the branches
and harvested seeds (just in case, were their chances).

The We put up barriers so no shoppers could shop them,
and it all seemed to work! The We COULD stop them.
The villain collapsed on his factory floor
"I give up! I simply can't take any more!
You did it. You want this bad, I can tell."
Then he left, already scheming about what next he could sell.

And The Lorax? He didn't fly out by the seat of his pants.
Instead he and the We that he'd gathered, well, they danced.
They danced around the Truffula Trees that remained,
and remained, and remained, and remained, and
remained.

I tried to make a man outta ya.

2010-12-19T19:15:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Nelson made lots of gingerbread people. She decorated them with the names of every family member (there were a zillion) and all the close friends of her 5 children. She was my best friend's mom when I was too little to understand that the reason the Nelson family house was strung up with hundreds of personalized gingerbread people was because Mrs. Nelson was extraordinarily talented in the baking arts. Those happy tasty treats wrapped around each room, and when it came close to Christmas day we'd be allowed to take our yummy person home.

I wanted to keep her tradition alive in my own less ambitious way. For the last several years I've made personalized gingerbread people for the kind and funny folks I work with. One year I even went so far as to add a little characteristic flair to each one: a cookie cell phone in my boss' hand, a golf club in another, two gingerbread people attached at the hands for a newleywed couple (awww...).

So yesterday Magnolia and I got out the brown sugar, the molasses, the butter and eggs and set to work to whip up a batch of gingerbread officemates. We had a blast. Surely these would be the best gingerbread people ever! What with Maggie giggling and dumping in the sugar and with me singing loudly to the iTunes karaoke mix I just pulled together. It was magic in my kitchen. I honestly wouldn't have been surprised if a legitimate sugarplum fairy landed on my shoulder and creepily whispered "nice cookies ya got there". After Magnolia went to bed I rolled out the dough, aerobically I might add, cut out the little buggers, baked them, and then left them to cool for the next day's decorating.

And so, the big unveil...meet my co-workers!

Aren't they adorable?

Naturally, there were some left over. So the mouths in the house had a nibble. And another. One more just to be sure. Yep. These green-eyed goodies were gross. For some totally uncool reason, my co-worker cookies tasted like burnt cardboard, like that sugarplum fairy pooped in the dough. The kitchen magic crumpled like the roof of the Metrodome.

I love all of you at gDiapers very very much. I hope you know I do. But despite the baking tragedy, I will definitely NOT be making another batch this year. Still, I want you to know that my and Magnolia's efforts did not go wasted. There are 4 very happy chickens that are nibbling at your yummy arms and pecking at your candy eyes. And they, like me, well, they think you're all very sweet.

All my love and a merry merry christmas!

kelli

Sunshine Daydreams: my agenda

2010-12-18T13:00:00.000-08:00

Sunshine Daydreams: my agenda

my agenda

2010-12-18T12:13:00.000-08:00

It's amazing what a compliment will do. I mean, come on. I haven't posted on this blog since June. Of 2009!!! And then a friend posts this on my facebook page:

I miss your blog. You write like unicorns ride rainbows - magically.

And that's all it took.

I've thought about jumping in from time to time and posting a photo or writing a winding, babbling narrative to no one's amusement but my own. I write like a bar fly talks. Without direction, without agenda, without anyone truly listening. So, to that end, I haven't been as compelled to write. Like giving up my stool belly up to the bar in favor of mixing drinks behind it. Facebook is partly to blame. One line status updates are so. damn. easy. Quick hits of nitrous in a restaurant walk-in versus the slow warming buzz of a nice bottle of wine.

So why write? No one's paying attention. I may never earn a dime from it. I may never see my words published. I may never even get a high five for the weaving together of words. They don't hold water. They're not tangible. So why should I write? I'm beginning to understand. I think.

I write because I love it. I really really love it. Words are beautiful, expandable, sensual, delicious, intimidating, convincing, heart-wrenching, compelling and often flat-out stupid (like "pianist" -- whoever decided it would be pronounced pee-nist instead of pee-AH-nist, you are silly, and I like the cut of your jib).

I also love to sing. I've never been great at it. You won't find me draped across a baby grand, decked out in a slinky black nothing of a dress crooning Cry Me A River to an audience of dashing couples who buy each other cufflinks and Jaguars for Christmas. But every single night I sing my daughter to sleep. And when I put on music it is 99% of the time something that I love to sing. I very seldom mind it when a song is stuck in my head. Annoying to those around me? Absolutely. I'll hum Bad Romance all dang day. I'll channel Patsy Cline on my drive in to work and Brandi Carlisle on my way home. And yet the last time I went out to karaoke was at least 2 years ago, and who knows how many years before that.

And I love to dance. I don't really know how. And I don't dance in public. But I love it, and when taught, I don't suck at it (much).

These things that I love to do have been neglected. Why do we do this? Why do we neglect the things that we love to do? Why do we so often ignore that which makes our bodies tingle, our minds grow, and our spirits swell? Because we're not good enough at them? Because we can't make money off of them? Because they don't fit into a networking agenda of professional growth? And when I say 'why do WE do this', you know I'm just lumping the rest of the world into my own little conundrum. It makes it less lonely, to feel, for a moment, non-unique. Perhaps the rest of the world is doing what they love: climbing mountains when they want to feel high, writing novels when they want to be heard, salsa dancing when they want to be held.

But you know. What I really think is that most people really aren't doing the things they love, even on a non-committal-purely-for-enjoyment level. And that's quite sad. Not like unicorns on rainbows at all. More like this guy.

Cerca del mar, cerveza en mano

2009-05-29T17:19:00.000-07:00

I wish that I could have posted to this blog while I was in Puerto Penasco, Mexico. But the upload time was a real bugger and frankly, it simply didn't make sense for me to be writing about being in Mexico in a cool house right on the beach, waiting for the spinning wheel of doom to tell me my upload was complete when I could actually be having fun in said cool house right on the beach and taking more photos of fun little things. I took a crapload of photos. Ask anyone who has any kind of familiarity with crap and they'll tell you that a crapload is a heck of a lot. Here are my faves.

Michelle is a beauty. There's no denying it, despite her claim that she's "old" as she nears 30 and that her ass is jiggly (if she's jiggly then I'm like a vat of Jell-O smack dab in the middle of the San Andreas Fault). The hat is a photo op that begs attention.

This one's not, like, quaaaaality or anything, but, you know, hi me!

The neighbors.
The backyard.
The front yard, early morning.

No wonder ol' Jimmy B can't stop singing about this life.

If I were a bug I'd still think this place was cool. The railing would be like a boardwalk that never ended, a vast concrete baker's stone with a killer view.

I'm amazed that Marty and Judi don't live here year round. Really, what does Phoenix have on this place besides, um, Starbucks and the lack of biting ants?

I collected a lot of seashells. More on that later.

I think I chased the seagull that ate the rest of this crab. Pretty sure he hated me.
This is before I dug my hand in and scooped up the whole lot.

The pissed off seagull. I followed him for forever.

What's over here? and here? oooooh, what's this?

Wow, can you believe I'm not even halfway done? And that this is only a fraction of the pictures I actually took?
More seashell mania.
This one didn't have a hermit living in it, but even if it did I probably still would've brought the little guy home. You just want to eat it it's so cute.

Bliss.

Va va va voom. Someone had to do it.

Chopping fish never felt so serene.

Another gDiapers beauty, Mary. I love love love this picture of her.
Blue stairs.

Now John's gonna want this instead of the switchblade I brought him. And then he'll want this. You can't predict him. He likes kitties.

This guy was much less scary then the glitter "clown" from the night before. Glitter does not make you a clown my friend. Only a really big painted on mouth does.

My favorite of the whole trip, check out this guy and his old school Polaroid. I want to adopt him. AND his camera.
The beach in front of the house was actually incredibly quiet, and then this little guy came whipping down the shoreline.

The shadow to the left is Michelle holding a bag of ........... SEASHELLS. That pretty much sums up the trip: seashells, margaritas, kitties, and guns.

Not sure where the rest of the house is ...

Here's the loot after we went through it and returned a good 3/4 to the sea.

A shrimper riding on the back of a giant shrimp. That would make one hell of a taco.

He let me take just one photo of his work on the loom. His family makes the most breathtaking carpets. I would have taken a zillion photos of them, but that would have exceeded my quota.

Our gift to our lovely hosts. Meet Guillermo, the drunken monkey.

I'm going to have to get some of these and start giving them out as housewarming presents.

My first trip to Mexico in 6 years was a breath of fresh air. I hung out with great gals, got to know Marty and his wife, Judi who are phenomenal hosts and fun at parties. And at the end of the weekend, despite the craziness of having 3 guns pulled on me by the US border patrol, I have a wealth of lovely photos, a lingering taste of the best shrimp taco of my life, and more seashells than could house a hermit crab colony. I hope Marty and Judi are prepared for when I return with 3 weeks worth of luggage, a husband, 2 kids, and a very large bottle of tequila.

Yum and fun in the Beaverton sun

2009-05-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about our neighborhood is the Beaverton Farmer's Market. It kicks off Mother's Day weekend and then takes us through summer and beyond fall with its cinnamon glazed almonds, kettle corn, real corn, sheep's milk cheese, massive morning glories, the world's longest sausage vendor line (ahem, the line is long, not the, um, sausage vendor), balloon swords, lefty bumper stickers and music. The music isn't always great, but when it is, dang if I don't bust out the white girl dance.

We're just a 10 minute walk away, but Magnolia's been chompin at the bit to break in her new bike helmet. So we saddled up the bike trailer, buckled the kids and prayed that Maggie wouldn't freak out. Less than a block into the ride and we look back to see if she's crying her eyes out or yanking her helmet off. Instead she's looking out the plastic window, her sippy cup tipped back, casual and, maybe, bored. She loved it.

The kids, ours and the Gustafson's, hit the fountains like two peas to a pair of nostrils. Once Maggie realized that the great towers shooting up from the ground were her favorite of all elements she simply couldn't be dragged away. Every time a boy wiped out as he ran through and around the slick concrete I braced myself to say "Well, that's it. Pack it in. Time to go." and then the boy would show me what's what, bounce back up, and run another 10 paces before wiping out again.

Kristen and I decided to shop around for something to cook that night. We strolled, babes on hips, through the familiar stalls. We never found the oysters but decided on a flatiron steak from Lonely Lanes Farm in Mt. Angel, a bunch of beautifully thin and green asparagus, and a spreadable sheep's milk herb cheese. Our dinner miiiiiight have been slightly more satisfying had we raised the beef ourselves, grown and rubber-banded the asparagus, and milked the fleece right off the sheep, but I don't know, it was pretty awesome. River didn't even say his arm hurt because I made him eat asparagus! Must be something in that Oregon soil.

So remind me, when I start complaining about how there are so few restaurants with good patios in Beaverton, or how I hate Highway 217 and new wireless stores, that I have this: an incredible community, farm-fresh food, amazing friends, and the world's longest sausage vendor (line) all within a stone's throw of my home. And at some point I'll bet John rides his bike home with another kitten.

Magnolia July, born in April

2009-04-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

This time last year Magnolia was working really hard trying to see the light of day, I was working just a bit harder I think, but all to the same beautiful end. So today we're not working at all. Fitting that she and I should spend today strolling amongst the Magnolia trees at Washington Park. Later we'll go pick out her own magnolia tree, listen to some Grateful Dead, and embrace our respective baby fat, though mine's not nearly as cute.

Portland at Night

2009-02-18T14:27:00.001-08:00

Wow. Has it really been that long. Seriously. I skipped an ENTIRE month. And it's not like I've been doing anything fabulous to occupy my time. Ordinary life moves so quickly. I did get to squeeze in an awesome photo workshop with Peter Schutte. We journeyed down to the East Bank promenade to play with the lights on the Willamette. It was f-f-f-freezing! But so worth it.

I experimented with "writing" my initials in the night sky, using the Portland lights as my color palette. I managed a feeble blue "K".

I zooooooomed. A lot. I'll spare you the millions of zooms.

My attempt at a heart (inverted photo).
I loved the angle looking down the wobbly ramp. We had to wait until a wedding party finished up with their frolicking good time in front of the camera before we had access to that prime photo real estate.

After playing dangerously close to the water we headed downtown to the Portland Arts Center.
We were ogled as we propped our tripods in the middle of the sidewalks. Why on earth would someone want to take a photo of a traffic light?

This one make me want to say "ka-Pow!" though I'm not sure why.
Aladdin here might be my fave from the night. Smug little bastard.

I was not planning on working tomorrow, anyway.

2008-12-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

"Arctic freeze, puh-leez." At least, that was my sentiment a week ago when the local weathermen (no weather gals here) were making a big fuss of the chilly blast headed our way. And now, holy cow. I want to know how many people are blogging about this right now?

Last night we measured 8+ inches of snow on an outside bench, not even considering the amount that was being blown off the top.
Today a 2 foot snow drift created a protective border around my Subaru.
And my neighor's not going anywhere without a serious digging effort, a few beers for recovery, and then a lot window scraping.
I'm peeling perfectly shaped leafcicles of the bushes around our house.
And it's still coming down. I kinda feel bad for local businesses. The economy sucks as it is and then THIS happens! The weekend before Christmas and stores are forced to shut down. Slowing our national consumption on any other day would make me grin, though I'm a pretty big culprit myself, but so many small businesses rely on this season for a large part of their income it makes my grin take on a slightly somber angle.

I'm dreaming of a snowy - but economically stable - Christmas.
Still, crunchy snow is super fun.

Leaves and apple rinds

2008-11-01T15:22:00.000-07:00

I love summer. But with the sun comes nights too hot to sleep comfortably, skin too white and flabby to expose, water too precious to waste, and flies too many to kill. And then one evening you step outside and there's a different scent on the air, an earthiness that makes you want to dig out the crockpot. A cooler breeze comes in, whisking out the propane fumes from barbecue season and filling your lungs with a robust eau du compost that speaks of healthy decay. This is the most fleeting, photogenic, and vibrant season. Captain Rio and I have taken inspiration and dived right in, head first, arms outstretched, and embraced the fall like it may never come back. And with this rapidly changing climate, it's hard to say for sure.

We hit the final farmer's market of the season. I stocked up on butternut squash to bake and puree for my little pumpkin, I loaded up on peppers and tomatoes, and I invested in some local, grass fed buffalo and pork (side note, you MUST read The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Our culture has got to get its meat-eating habits under control. Do some research, find your local farms, pay them a visit and support their sustainable grass farming methods. I insist.) And APPLES!!! I filled the stroller up so high with produce that it nearly covered Magnolia. I had great fun peeling them and seeing how long I could get the rinds. Then I hung the rinds out for the squirrels
.
Then I busted out an old art project idea from my youth, made familiar to me again by a groovy mom soon joining the team at gDiapers. I pulled out the wax paper, shaved some crayons, and River and I made leaf collages from the beauties we had gathered on our walk earlier in the day.

And the butternut squash puree? Divine. Just ask Maggie.

Just add rice cereal....

2008-10-09T22:03:00.000-07:00

Every parent says "they grow up so fast" probably 456,000 times as they watch their kids go from dribbling little blobs of gas and giggles, to booty shaking potty-mouthed munchkins, to, oh my lord, something even bigger than that (haven't gotten there yet). For goodness sake, River's doing our landscaping now!
And no more boo boo kisses on invisible owies. Now we're talking rope burns and shin bruises and scraped up everything from dangling precipitously off his rope ladder.

6 months ago this little bugger of a flower refused to leave the comfy confines of my warm and squishy womb. SIX MONTHS! Now she's eating food and sitting up and sending emails...

I'm pretty addicted to these kids. In fact I'm having pre-withdrawals about the mere idea that Magnolia will be moving out of my room soon, but it's going to happen. The paint is dry, the rocking moose is built, and her carefully organized baskets of clothes are just waiting for her to come and dump them out.

There are dolls to be eaten.

I'm a bit obsessed with pictures of my kids. Maybe if I had 20 cats I'd be obsessed with pictures of them too. But the milestones of a kitten are what? Opens eyes, eats Meow Mix, throws it up, sheds, gets old and claws no longer retract? Not very cute. But this? This isn't just cute. It's absolutely beautiful. This family is my life.

Happy 1/2 a year Sugar Magnolia!

No one cooler....

2008-09-27T08:13:00.000-07:00

"He was smiling... That's right. You know, that, that Luke smile of his. He had it on his face right to the very end. Hell, if they didn't know it 'fore, they could tell right then that they weren't a-gonna beat him. That old Luke smile. Oh, Luke. He was some boy. Cool Hand Luke. Hell, he's a natural-born world-shaker."

Thanks, Paul. You were cooler than the other side of the pillow.

Maggie's First non-boob food

2008-09-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

The way Magnolia's been lunging at my bagel in the morning and burrito at night led me to believe it was time to introduce her to food that did not come forth from my nipple. She liked the idea and took to her breast milk-sweetened avocado puree like a puppy takes to pork fat. But, the difference between my two kiddos came out loud and clear: River ate an entire avocado tree's worth of produce in his first sitting and then said "Thank you mother, now may I have some bacon?"
Magpie ate about 6 bites and then made this face, thus concluding this evening's stint in the highchair.

It's ALIVE!!!!

2008-09-13T15:22:00.000-07:00

My fun and lovely friend, Gina, gave me some killer bath bomb things for my birthday. The big perk on these? Quoth Gina, "They're totally hot tub safe!" Sweet.

I still have one bath bomb left. We'll probably start the party around 8. Bring your bath toys!

No time for penmanship

2008-09-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

I used to keep a journal. I was uber diligent. I wrote every night, just a page or so, about whatever cropped up in my noggin. That was waaaay long ago. I met John and the journal entries became few and far between. I shelved the journals and thumbed through them periodically as nostalgic keepsakes. When I found out I was preggo with The Riv I dived right back into journal-keeping. It wasn't every day, but it was often enough that I didn't have to re-explain my current life to myself with every entry. I've kept it up for the purpose of having a written record of my children's upbringing, composed in my own sloppy scrawl. I delight in the thought that one day they'll pull the journals off a shelf or out of a box and read the fun details of growing up a McKee. Though they may need a PhD to decipher the scribbles and scratch outs.

The other night it occurred to me that it had been awhile since I wrote to my kiddos. I made it a point to hit the hay early, before my lids refused to cooperated any longer. I was stunned to see I had neglected my journalkeeping duties for over a MONTH! A month! Of course that's not that long in the scheme of things, but when you're a 5 month old baby a month is, obviously, 1/5 of your life! So why why why have I been bad journal mommy lately? Easy once you open my laptop and see the bookmarks toolbar. Facebook, Myspace, Flickr, my Shutterfly share site (www.insideouticecream.shutterfly.com, by the way), this blog, and now, lord help me, Twitter have been dominating my every moment. It's like in-breath, out-breath, except instead of metabolising between breaths I open my computer and poke someone on Facebook. Instead of uploading my photos to one place I send them to a gazillion little pockets in the massive sphere of the internet. My penmanship has been replaced by this keyboard! What's the longevity of it, I wonder? Will this blog live as long as I do? Then what? Will my kids copy all the entries for nostalgia and download them elsewhere? I doubt it.

Something's gotta go. Not sure what. Maybe I just need to restructure the way I spend time on these social media outlets. First thing's first, I'm recommitting to journal-keeping at least once a week. I'll leave the laptop at work, put down my copy of Omnivore's Dilemma, and grab the pen that I stole from the Mac store and dive into my journal. And this blog, since it originally was intended for my favorite photos (like these pics of my lovelies) will continue. But Twitter. Sorry, I think you're out.

Draft Day photo op

2008-09-06T21:09:00.000-07:00

Life can seem isolated for awhile when you're the first among your friends to shift gears and have a baby. All of them are still camping on a whim, staying up until 3am four nights a week (just cause they can), and buying toys that require training manuals. And we're, well we're reading The Super Baby Food book. But eventually those friends find themselves putting on the brakes and shifting gears as well. And now we all go camping as families (planned well in advance), we stay up until 3am seven nights a week (cause we have to), and we buy toys that require adult assembly. But the photos are a lot cuter than they used to be before we had kids.

Delanee, Logan, and Magnolia.

It scares me to think of the trouble ahead. Yikes.

How convenient it would be...

2008-09-05T21:33:00.000-07:00

Today I went through the bank's drive through. River asked "Mama, are you getting a grande soy latte?" Laughing, I said no. He said "Oh. Then I'll have some french fries."

There she goes.....

2008-09-04T22:00:00.000-07:00

gDiapers bid farewell to our friend, Erin. We lifted a beer (or a juicebox) and wished her well on her next big adventure.

Gina rides a conveyor belt

2008-08-20T09:27:00.000-07:00

Gina writes
"I am trying to get a job as a video blogger for Southwest Airlines. I would get to travel all over the country on Southwest's dime and I am pretty excited about it. This is the first step. So please give me the green light vote. If you have beef with me please just don't vote. If you really love me you will give a fat red light thumbs down to my competition.

We all know I am a huge boob so feel free to poke fun or make jokes. Just vote.

If I get the job, it will definitely increase the chances of a visit from me in the near future. Hopefully you consider that an incentive. Thanks.

Hearts and moons and stars,

Gina"

Vote here: http://southwest.spigit.com/homepage

This has NOTHING to do with photography

2008-08-14T21:31:00.000-07:00

Not kidding. This is on accuweather.com. So much funnier than a hurricane.

Frizz Index

Frizz Index

The weather can have a dramatic effect on how well people’s hair looks and holds it style. The Frizz Index uses a proprietary algorithm especially developed by AccuWeather.com that combines measurements of atmospheric humidity with other weather factors that create hair frizz. The Index correlates to the level of frizz that can be expected under various conditions:

Frizz Watch = Light frizz and flyaway hair are possible for frizz-prone hair.

Frizz Advisory = Some frizz is possible, especially for people with naturally curly or wavy hair.

Frizz Warning = Frizz is likely for all hair types.

Frizz Emergency = Frizz is unavoidable! Sticky weather affects all hair types, so anyone may have a "bad hair day".

Eugene's nice, I guess

2008-08-13T20:54:00.000-07:00

We rolled a sad good-bye to our friend, Cory and his lovely lady, Sophia over three shiny lacquered lanes and some pitchers of beer the other night. He got it in his head that his life was better suited for a job transfer and a country home in Eugene, OR. No sooner it was a mere idea than it became reality. The fates must've agreed. They probably want to live in Eugene too.

River was super stoked for about 5 frames of gutter balls and then succumbed to the blinking world of buttons and joysticks (tee hee) in the arcade. Thank god he doesn't know you need money to play them.

Magnolia was handed around as I took my turn at some nicked pins and wicked splits. She was so excited she made her public debut of her monkey face. Can't wait to whip this one out in front of her "cool" friends.

Oh, Cory. Who's going to give River an undeserved lollipop when we stroll the aisles at the Beaverton Trader Joe's? How are you going to be able to come to the BBQ that we keep planning to have but keep postponing? Who's noggin should I search out at the farmer's market? And HOW will I ever find you in Eugene? You'll blend in so well with all the other easy-going, smiley-faced, towering pseudo-hippies with 30" goatees. Schucks. I'll miss ya buddy. If you ever decide to trim that cat on your chin send it my way. It would make Krisha jealous. Yup. Pretty sure it would.

Self-Portraits - ears intact

2008-08-10T15:17:00.000-07:00

I love my tri-pod. Love it. I still haven't got to use the feature that allows it to bend completely parallel to the ground, nor have I wedged it into a hillside, but I did get some backyard self-portraits with me and the little one. Here are our tootsies.

Babies babies babies!

2008-07-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

So many beautiful babies have appeared in our circle of friends lately. Not too long ago these mamas were sunning topless, avoiding tan lines. Now the same mamas are topless for a new reason. Life is growing!

Look, Ma! Fire!

2008-07-08T21:19:00.000-07:00

Happy 4th of July!

More of Whiskeytown

2008-07-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

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So getting our Whiskeytown reservation every year is a big gamble. It's truly amazing that we get it year after year. There's only one group campsite and we have to call in at the same time as hundreds of other party campers. And it's never the same. Sometimes reservations begin 3 months out, sometimes 4, and then last year, oy! John and I get up nice and early to make the big call and, what?! reservations began a year out?!?! You've GOT to be kidding me. Well, that was the year that we only had half of the campsite and only for a few days (I require 7, at least). This family didn't make it :0(

This year we were well prepared. John had his wits about him on Saturday to get up and make the call to reserve our spot for next year, late June/early July. He successfully reserved 5 days for 1/2 of the campsite, hoping that others would get the rest. Oh the tragedy. He found out today that he actually made the 5 day reservation for THIS YEAR! Since we've clearly already been and come back from Whiskeytown this just won't work. Swallowing the $75 cancellation fee is no fun, but guess what we get to do tomorrow? Yay! Try again! We're shooting for mid-July 2009 (I repeat, 2009). Wish us luck!

All Brown at Whiskeytown

2008-07-03T13:37:00.000-07:00

Whiskeytown (our annual celebration of Bud Lite and brown dirt) is a really tricky place to capture good photos. We camp beneath trees, but the sparse branches throw odd shadows. The lake is right there which reflects the light and makes the foreground appear underexposed. And everything, EVERYTHING, is brown. Brown dirt, dusty hair, dirty clothes. You can rinse off in the lake or the faucet (or maybe make a trek to the camp showers that reek of a Hepatitis possibility) but moments after you emerge the soil settles back in to pores and fingernails.

I did get some good shots of the kiddos (I'll add more later). We were fortunate to have a full moon while we were there, but by the time I shrugged off the baby-filled carrier, scratched a mosquito bite or two, and hoisted my tripod to an ideal mound of dirt the clouds had come in. Sigh. I did get a few of the lake under the smoky skies from the hill fires. When I have a moment I'll add those too.

All in all, good times.

Little Logan

2008-06-11T13:38:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the world Logan! You have two of the most amazing people for parents. Lucky kid. Thanks to your dad you'll know how to use a Mac by the time you can hold your head up. And you'll be groovin' to Raffi with the shiniest iPod on the block.
No doubt your mom's exquisite sense of style will cover you head to toe, inside and out. If you got it, flaunt it, and boy, you got it, just like your mama.

I can already see the artist in you.
What a wonder that two bodies, two delightful souls can come together to produce this! A baby! An itty bitty bundle of toes and ears, nerves and senses, thought and emotion.
Thank you for letting me and my family welcome you, Logan. This life is splendid.

Can I eat this?

2008-06-10T15:06:00.000-07:00

I took this under the porch on a rainy day -- pretty good conditions for a nice photo of the blue eyed wonder and his leaf. I did brighten it a bit in photoshop, but otherwise I'm pretty happy with this.

No, it wasn't gas

2008-06-09T12:46:00.000-07:00

Magnolia's been smiling for a few weeks now, but every time I whip out the camera she makes a liar out of me. I'm Wile E. Coyote to her Roadrunner. Well here it is, finally. Our lovely smiling little flower.

3 year old beats garlic to a pulp!

2008-06-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

River finally got a chance to use the big mortar and pestle. I don't think it's as much fun as he hoped it would be.

photography problem: how do I capture a moving kid in poor inside light without the use of a flash?

Still learning...

2008-06-09T10:27:00.001-07:00

I went out yesterday morning to try to figure out that early 10am light close-up thing. I got some shots that I thought were just okay, had I set up the tripod I think they could have been much better. But, 2 cups of coffee went straight to my fingertips!

These buttercups are EVERYWHERE in my yard. I must be boy crazy.

As a rule I don't care for roses. This one has survived the wrath of my shovel because it never fails to produce beautiful flowers without me doing a thing.

Does anyone know what kind of tree this is? Please tell me if you do. I need to stop referring to it as " that one over there" while I wag my finger at it. It makes me sound dumb.

This is a Japanese Emperor Maple. John's favorite. I love it this time of year. It has those little helicopter seed things all over it. Fun.

Little Miss Moonshine

2008-06-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

Maggie turned the big 8 yesterday! 8 weeks! Woo hoo! The outfits are getting cuter everyday...

Downsizing

2008-06-05T12:37:00.001-07:00

We took our house off the market right before Magnolia was born. Let's face it people! The economy SUCKS SUCKS SUCKS! *breathe* So, I'm trying to maximize the space in our itty bitty house. With 2 kiddos, a St. Bernard that shakes slobber all over the walls, a German Shepherd that's molting, 2 cats that miraculously appear underfoot as I descend the perilously steep stairs, and a husband that sheds his clothing as he walks from room to room, making the house seem larger than it is is no easy task. One of the major problem areas is our living room. If you have more than 2 people in it at one time claustrophobia kicks in. I sold the loveseat. The thing was like a third hairy dog anyway. The plan was to buy a couple of swanky chairs to replace it, thus opening up the room a bit. In the meantime I'd just bring down the pair of $40 orange chairs we bought off of Craigslist (bless it). I love it! I may not buy new chairs after all. Sure, they're ugly and if you pick one up from the bottom you'll get a staple in your hand. But they swivel! And they're orange! And River loves to jump from one chair to the next, which is practically exercise, right?

It's summer somewhere

2008-06-05T09:52:00.000-07:00

I guess technically the first day of summer is June 21st, but still, YEESH! It's 58 degrees and rainy. I want to take the kiddos for a hike and take some pictures of bugs and trees and shadows and sunny bellybuttons, but I can't. So instead we're watching Elmo's World (don't knock it til you've seen it) and planning an exciting adventure out to Batteries Plus. Oh. And I'm washing the sheets. Clean sheet night! Something to celebrate!