Oh yeah!

I feel awesome today.

OK, not completely awesome (I ate entirely too much last night — that cold pizza was a-callin' and it just didn't seem polite to refuse its repeated requests for me to eat it), but way better than yesterday.

I slept last night. All night. From 11:30 to 6:30 (yeah, I even over slept a bit — but we still got to daycare and work on time. Woot!)

It's amazing how a good night's sleep can make a huge difference.

I'm all chipper 'n' shit this morning so watch out.

Having said that, I realize that this feeling is most likely a false sense of restedness and that I could really use a couple hours to nap like a mutha. But I'm gonna ride this faux sense of wakedness for all its worth.

I wish I had a witty story to share as I'm in the mood to expound. Let's see ... I bought some lotion. It's pink grapefruit flavored ... er, scented.

And guess what? It totally smells like grapefruit.

Is that a good thing? Is that what I want my hands to smell like all day? How can I tell if I like this fer sure?

Oh, I'll ask Richie. Richie knows everything.

And what did Richie say? She likes grapefruit smelling stuff and claims to have grapefruit smelling soaps 'n' stuff like that.

She says it's good, so I'm going with that.

My new lotion smells good. You should come sniff it.

You know you want to.

Sleep ... who needs it?

in·som·ni·a, n. — Chronic inability to fall asleep or remain asleep for an adequate length of time.

It seems as if there is a required number of sleepy-time hours though which someone in our house must be awake ... or I've caught Bill's insomnia.

It started off slowly. First, I had a hard time getting to sleep. Then I started just not wanting to go to bed at all. So I started cleaning and making DVDs out of our home videos.

But last night was the worst night so far.

Normally I go to bed between 10 and 11. Last night I finally got into my pajamas around 11 and into bed before midnight at which time I began the fish flop.

I would navigate the bed flipping from one side to the other. I have no idea where Bill is going to sleep when he finally gets home Friday as I've created this elaborate Stonehenge of pillows that allows me to flop from spot to spot and always have a pillow handy.

So I flopped around until almost 1 when I last checked the clock. Then it seems I actually fell asleep ... but not for long. Just before 4 a.m., my eyes were checking the clock again and my brian running at full speed. I tried to fish flop back to sleep, but it just wasn't happening.

Then, I got it. I heard the chorus to the song that had been creeping around my synapses for the last couple of weeks.

I've tried to write this song a couple different times, but it never fleshed out the way I was hoping ... until this morning at 4:30 a.m.

So I got up, got my guitar and went to work. By 6 a.m. I had e-mailed my 3-versed song to my bandmates.

I'm not certain that it's a Riveter song. It might just end up a Robin song. But at least it's out of my head.

Maybe I'll able to sleep now.

Friday nothing

I was doing so well this week. I had all kinds of interesting things to write about.

Now I'm on the cusp of a long weekend — which is very rare in the newspaper business — you know, the paper has to go out every flippin' day — and I got nothing.

Well, the dog and cats massacred a starling in the tub yesterday, I guess I could sterilize the tub so Margaret will take a bath again.

Woo! Let the good times roll.

Surprising myself

Two peas in a pod — Mar and I.
Six down and eight to go ... days, that is, until Bill comes home.

But I'm not counting. (OK, I am, but I'm pretending not to.)

I rely on Bill for so much. I was afraid that I was going to be a total wreck these two weeks. But the reality is that I'm doing fine ... better than fine.

I've always believed that I was not meant to be alone (and I still don't like it). And I believed that I'd never make it as a single parent (and I still don't want to be). But I have learned something in these hectic six days.

I can manage my daughter just fine alone.

I've never considered myself to be a natural mom. One that breezes through the trials and tribulations of parenting with grace. I trip and stumble my way through. But I really love my daughter and I really love being her mom.

When she was first born, I was very hesitant. I depended upon the advice from books and friends and family. I never bathed her alone until she was well over 3 months old (I mean, what if she spurted out of my hands like a bar of soap?).

And I didn't have to ... Bill was always there.

He was always there to help me cope with everything. I never had to do any of it alone (and I like it that way).

This has been a crazy week. Mar graduated from kindergarten, had her last day of school, became a "school ager" at daycare which means no more naps and has proven that she understands I'm alone and is much more willing to help and be amenable to her situation.

She's had to get up earlier in the mornings and some nights she's been going to bed later. Last night I had our dear friend sit for Mar while I was at band practice. Mar actually told her sitter that she was tired and ready for bed.

The house is much cleaner (which proves what I've suspected all along — boys are messy). I've mopped the hardwoods twice already (normally that happens once a month if I'm lucky).

It's been an emotional week for us with all the changes and the missing of the dad/husband. But we've got each other.

I'm proud of us ... two little peas in a pod.

I discovered the reason

It's true, I've discovered the reason that there is no such thing as the harem of men, the man-harem ... the "man-em" if you will.

And I'm quite disappointed about it.

See, last Thursday, I volunteered to give rides to see Bill's band play at the Battle of the Bands. Four of our friends took me up on my offer — four guy friends.

When I realized that I was going to be carting aroud a bunch of men, I decided that this could be a fun thing for me and maybe it would enhance my reputation as ... well, I'm not certain what I have a reputation for other than being a dork and I don't think that hauling men would help that ... but I digress.

So now it's almost show time Thursday night and I'm off to fetch my man-em.

I quickly learned the flaws associated with keeping a man-em:

1. These men were not at all interested in making my situation easier.

So what it I pulled up in front of the wrong house and honked my horn to summon one of my man-em hither? Do I really deserve criticism and ridicule?

I don't think so.

Also, I'm not a very good driver. I'm not bad, I'm just randomly clueless, but not really to the point of being dangerous ... OK not that dangerous. It seems to me that the man-em should be ever respectful and not comment on the wonders of how I get to work every morning.

2. These men didn't really care about my comfort or with being chivalrous in any way.

Upon arriving at the club, they dutifully waiting while we had our picture taken.

Here it is ... no, wait, I don't have it, as it was taken on one of my man-em's camera and he hasn't seen fit to send it to me.

Once in the club, they scattered to the bar like cockroaches away from light and shoes.

Then they sat at the table and drank their beers.

Not one of them even asked if I was interested in having a drink. Not one. I had to get my own water, fer Pete's sake.

3. They didn't listen to my suggestions but instead chose to do what they wanted.

As the band started, I informed them that they needed to be on the dance floor to provide support for the band.

They never got off their barstools.

Then after the show, one stayed at the club, one got a ride with someone else and only two remained to keep me company for the drive home.

So my first experience with the man-em was not all that I had cracked it up to be, but I was undaunted. I was sure that accumulating a man-em would score me higher on the coolness scale, so I perservered.

Saturday was my next foray into the world of the man-em. I gathered some men to accompany Mar and myself for a day of sitting on the newly opened patio of a local brew pub.

It got off to a better start as one of them actually offered to drive. So far so good.

The day progressed nicely.
And we all had a good time.

I even thought that I had found the right mix of men as one of them is the proud dad of the little guy pictured here with Mar:
He took Mar with him when baby was ready for a nap and Mar was ready to get out of the sun.

And that's not all, he agreed to return my kid to me and drive us home after.

Now we're talking.

But the rest of the day did not proceed so swimmingly.

See, the longer we stayed at the brewery, the more they drank. The more they drank, the louder they got, the more unruly the got.

Finally, it was time to take the kiddos home, have some dinner and get the sitter (sup, Tracee-Trace) situated so we could continue our night out.

And now, we're back to the Number 3 reason why man-ems don't work. They never listened to me unless I was talking about girl-on-girl action. Then their attention would wander.

There was lots of finagling of who was gonna drive whose car where and ultimately, where we were gonna go.

I had to take matters firmly in my own hand and whine a whole bunch to get them into my car on the way to the party that I wanted to attend.

Then the shotgun rider brought his own selection of CDs and insisted that we listen to REO Speedwagon at volume 11 the whole way there while they sang at the top of their lungs.

We had to stop at a liquor store as two of them had beer and weren't going to share with the third and on and on.

At one point, I literally had to scream, "Keep your hands to yourself!" as one in the backseat was pestering the shotgunner — several times.

It was quite an experience. Of course, there were some positive points. At random times, one or more would pay a nice compliment and I was delighted by the way that they tried to be cool around Kelley Pants, who they have nicknamed, oh-so-originally, KP.

They've even formed an unorganized and unofficial KP fan club.

Here's a picture from that night of KP and I:
Yeah, I look like I'm having a good time ... and really it was fun.

But it was on the way home when I had a car full of drunk man-em that I realized that trying to travel with a group of guys is like simultaneously herding cats and babysitting cranky toddlers:

I started out thinking that I was the one for the job. I had the skills and the determination, but their often-alcohol-fueled endurance will always get the better of me.

Lesson learned. But I hope my experiences will serve as a warning to those girls out there who think they can be the ones to tame the man-em.

In communicado

So Bill left the Grand Valley Saturday.

He'll be back but not for another week and a half.

This will be the longest he's ever been away. So far I'm doing OK. I'm sure that will change and will make perfect blog fodder in the next week.

Where is Bill?

I'm not entirely certain.

He's in the state of California within a couple hours of my parent's house on a Paiute indian reservation doing some consulting work for a manufacturing company there.

He called me after he arrived. He didn't call on his cell phone because nowhere in the entire town do they get cell phone reception. He didn't call from his room at the only lodging place in town (which happens to a bed and breakfast that had its own hot springs - poor baby) because none of the rooms have phones.

He called from the office of the B&B.

It's going to be a lonely two weeks ... for both of us.

Bill called during his lunch hour of his first day and things were going well enough so far. Which is good and bad.

The length of the trip will be two weeks regardless, but he'll only work as long as he's making progress or until he finished. So he could be done in a day or two — at which point he'd spend the remainder of his time with my parents.

It's going to be interesting to see how it all goes.

Ah, the cusp of summer

To say that it gets hot here in the summer, is like saying Hell is hot sometimes, too.

But like they say, it's a dry heat. I don't mind it so much. Bill looks at the sun's rays beating down on him as a personal affront and can be seen shaking his fist in the air and yelling upward, "Evil orb!"

While it has been getting up there, it's not that hot yet. We're still on the verge of summer and with that comes the blooming of the catalpas.

I love catalpa trees and their giant, heart-shaped leaves. I am not, however, a fan of those long, pointy seed pods, but every rose must have its thorns.

Right now all the catalpas in valley are in mid bloom. They are gorgeous.
This is from the little catalpa that lives in between our house and the neighbors.' The blooms sit so eager with their maroon-striped mouths agape, like baby birds waiting for their mama.

I love how the clusters of white blooms push upward and sit on top of the leaves like Christmas oranments. And they have this subtle, sweet smell.

In a few days, there will be a blanket of crushed white blooms covering the ground under the catalpas, until then I get to enjoy this harbinger of summer.

Heartbreaker

Last night, Bill's kick-ass band, Wrong Impressions played a Battle of the bands against a jam band from Moab.

The winner of the contest will get to open the annual Rock Jam concert.

Despite the fact that they brought their A-game and the audience loved them ... I mean, really loved them, they lost.

It sucks for so many reasons, but mostly because they put on such a great show. They were dynamic, they kept changing it up and they did the most awesome instrument switching. It was so cool.

Now Bill's bummed and he's leaving town tomorrow and I don't want this for him.

I wish there was something I could do ...

Mother's Day

I called my mom Sunday and told her that in lieu of a gift, I wrote something for her and instructed her to check her e-mail.

Earlier I had sent her the link to the column I wrote about her which ran on Mother's Day in the newspaper and online.

Later that evening, I got a call from her.

I was a bit aprehensive about her reaction to the column. I hoped that she would like it, but feared that she might think I'd aired too much of our laundry, used too much emotion.

My fears were unfounded. She loved the column. Her voice sounded so happy. I only wish I could've been there when she read it.

As I stated in the column, my mom isn't emotion-driven like myself. She's reserved. So I wasn't expecting a tear-filled thank you. But I wasn't expecting the joy that I heard in her voice either.

It was a nice surprise.

After she told me how much she liked the column, she admited, "But I wasn't a good mom. I always had my nose in a book ... ."

I assured her that she was (and still is) a truly great mom. I owe my mom a tremendous debt. She gave (and continues to give) me so much.

I hope I'm half the mom she is.

Nothing

That's what I got ... nothing.

I could brag about this letter my boss received about my Mother's Day column, but I've been doing way too much bragging lately.

I could tell you about how my kid told me she felt bad about winning the chalk drawing competition because she wanted Kate to win instead. But I've been writing way too many Mar stories lately.

I could write something boring about how I feel disconnected, out of sorts and generally confused about my place right now, but that sends me to the land of "Zzzz"s.

So you get a big, fat bunch o' nothin' much today, which I guess is better 'n' nothing.

Or maybe it's not.

Who'da thunk it?

So, I'm neck deep in the grading o' the finals.

I'm not a huge fan of reading the 6-page finals, but I do my best to be thorough and fair, afterall it's what my students deserve.

One of my students — no doubt trying to earn a few extra brownie points — wrote a note at the top of her exam extolling my virtues as a teacher. Since flattery will get you everywhere, I gave her an "A" ... except not, but it did make me smile.

I enjoy teaching and actually think that I'm getting pretty good at teaching this class.

But it's nice to know that the students (at least some of them) enjoy it and get something out of the class, as well.

This fact presented itself loud and clear Saturday night. I went downtown around 10 p.m. with a friend to meet up with some other people. We were sitting at a table at the local brew pub when a noticably intoxicated young woman approached.

I quickly recognized her as a former student. She introduced herself to me, reminded me that she was in my class a couple of semesters ago and then proceeded to tell me how much she enjoyed my class and so forth.

Then she went on her merry way only to return with a pair of fancy shots which she wanted to share with me.

Now, we all know my on-again, off-again relationship with alcohol, but for the most part, I do consider myself a non-drinker (although, that fact is getting pretty laughable these days though). But for some reason I didn't decline the drink, instead I toasted the toasted student and shot the shot down.

I don't know what it was — someone said that it had Crown Royal in it — but I do know that it was good.

So the drink was drunk, the drunk toddled off and I was left with my tablemates once again.

She did return once again as we were leaving, but all in all, it was nice to hear that I'm not wasting my breath every Monday night.

And the winner is ...

Margaret!

For her "Whatever you want to call it" chalk drawing (she named it herself).

She won first prize in the 5-and-under chalk drawing competition downtown this weekend at the Art and Jazz Fest. Woot!

I love that her drawing is non-objective. She didn't draw any of the typical 5-year-old girl subjects: kittens, butterflies, children starving in Darfur.

This is Kate and her chalk drawing. I think hers is wonderful too with its flowers made out of outlines of her hands. The colored ovals are raindrops. Wouldn't it be grand if it rained colors?

Mar and Kate danced and ran and generally enjoyed their day downtown. Their earnest expresssions kill me. Notice Mar's long ponytail cascading down over her shoulder.

It's not there anymore:
Sunday I couldn't take her complaining anymore.

Every morning, it was the same thing: Mar would cry because she didn't want her hair combed. We'd try to get the tangles out gently but the long, fine hair was always knotted.

She didn't want it long. Her dad and I did. She didn't want it combed, we did. She wanted it cut, so I cut it.

It was the hardest thing to do. I held the scissors up to her hair several times before I could actually cut it.


6 inches of beautiful, blond, little-girl hair fell to the floor. I kept repeating the facts over and over as I cut:

She cries when we comb it.
It is all ratty at the bottom.
She doesn't like it.
It doesn't look good.

Every time I opened the garbage can to throw something away, I would see the long bunches of little-girl hair. It made me sad, but it's her hair.

She should get to wear it like she wants to ... for the most part.

I put my foot down when we asked me to dye it black (but I was smiling on the inside).

Fridays are for kids

So here it is — Friday.

Thank goodness. We have had so many boring and truly uninteresting things to do that I'm not even going to complain about it.

Gasp! I know ... me, not complain. OK, you're right, I probably will end up whinning but I'm gonna make a concerted effort to not.

The weather here is just gorgeous, sunny but not hot, breezy but not cold. Perfect.

Last night at 8 instead of giving Wee One her bath, we took the dog for a walk. It was too nice not to.

This spring has just been glorious.As we walked around our neighborhood, I kept saying, "Look how beautiful everyone's yard looks."

The roses, irises, dianthus, lilacs ... all blooming and carefully tended. I was stunned by the beauty of it.

I am so blessed. I have so much. I wish I were more satisified. I wish I would stop trying to have my cake and eat it, too — it's giving me a stomach ache.

P.S. I've written a column that is going to be published in the newspaper. You'll be able to read it Sunday morning here.

Smarty Pants

Yeah, I know. I talk about my kid a lot here and now with our Haute Mamas, I'm all-Margaret, all-the-time, but she's a constant source of amusement, joy, fear and sorrow.

Also, pride. And today that is how I feel ... very proud. I had my second parent-teacher conference yesterday.

I always feel like they're gonna figure out that I'm not actually a parent, I'm just some over-grown adolescent who has a kid. But they're not on to me yet, so I'm going to keep faking it.

At the conference, we talked about her achievements academically and about her behavior.

Ack, her behavior. The teacher and aide both agreed that she shaped up since winter break, but that we've got to keep on her and hold her to high standards or she'll happily slack off and not meet her potential — which they explained is quite great.

She's above average in all areas, except reading. No, her reading is exponentially above average.

See, the school district wants all kindergarteners to be reading at a level 2.

Margaret reads at a level 20. Twenty! Ten times higher than the standard.

Her teacher empasized over and over that she's a bright child. But (and there's always a "but") if she's left to her own devices, she'll perform at a much lower level. So we have to push her and hold her to high standards.

That means work for her dad and I, but work that I look forward to ... helping my little rock star reach her full potential. Go Mar!

Gull derned!

I've been running myself around like a chicken with my head cut off. I'm not sure how I got so busy ... someone filled up my dance card while I was sleeping.

Classes, exams, make-up exams, focus groups, blogs, columns, regular work, kids, husband — where did all this stuff come from and why has it attached itself to my ankles?

I'm hoping that a funny story is going to come from all this bitching, but it doesn't seem to be happening ... wait ... no, that's not funny.

Alright, already, here's my story:

As we drove home from a faculty senate party (yeah, that's how I spent my Friday night, hanging out with college faculty who serve on faculty senate — I didn't say my life was glamorous, just busy) we came upon an interection littered with broken bits of car.

Bill commented, "Looks like someone had an accident."

Margaret quickly asked, "Did someone wet their pants?"

*rim shot*

Classic 5-year-old thinking there.

And really, once you get beyond the embarassment of having soiled yourself, changing your pants is a whole lot easier than fixin' your car.

D is for "Duh! Too dark"

OK, I'll admit that I'm not altogether stupid. But that doesn't mean that I don't have my moments ... or days.

I needed to have my mug shot taken (that's newspaper talk for picture of one's head — not that y'all couldn't have figured that out, but like I said, I'm having a spell of the stupids).

It's a gorgeous day, so the photographer, Chris, takes me outside to get some nice light. He asks me if I want to have my glasses on. I say, "Yeah, it's my new thing." You know, because I love these glasses.

But ... wait, I'll let you see the problem for yourselves:
My supa cool transitions lenses have transitioned on me and I look like Annie Sullivan. Why can't I remember that I love these glasses because they have these cool lenses? Oh right, because I'm an idiot — is there a cure for that?

Now I have to explain to Chris the photographer that I'm an idiot and will need to have my mug reshot.

The bad part is that I like this one, except for looking like Annie Sullivan — not that there's anything wrong with that.

At the same time I was getting my mug taken, I was re-enacting the Miracle Worker with Wee One.

Here's a photo of the two of us:
Soon you'll be able to see this picture on our Haute Mamas blog. The group picture we took is just too small and y'all can't see how cute our kids are. Yesterday I posted about how the Velveteen Rabbit has mentally scarred my child for life — good times!

Oh yeah, I know my glasses are dark there too, but I like it. I think we look cute.

Spring cleaner

Margaret seems to have developed a love for all things Windex. She loves to "clean"* windows and really, any smooth surface with the blue juice.

Our front porch has numerous multi-paned windows. When she gets in the spritzing mood, the front porch becomes a vertible gas chamber of Windex fumes with mounds of used paper towels littering the floor like land mines.

Yesterday, she decided our dresser was in need of some cleaning. She gathered her requisite Windex and paper towels and without our knowledge or approval dug in.

Bill and I were having a lazy day watching the idiot box. After a while I walked into our room to find this:There she stood in a laundry basket of clean laundry with all of our pictures and whatnot scattered on the bed, just beaming at her own ingenuity.

I was taken aback. I mean, she was cleaning ... but at the expense of a pile of clean laundry. I decided that because her intentions were good and my day-long migraine was still pounding like a tribe of cannibals slow-cooking a tender virgin, to praise her self-motivated cleaning spree and let her carry on.

Several hours (really, it took her all afternoon) later, all of the items were back on the dresser (not really in the same place, but, jeez, she's only 5. Give her a break already!) sparkling under a Windex glaze.

Now if we can get her to clean out the fridge ...

* I say "clean," because while her intentions are good, her glass-cleaning skills are still those of a novice. But considering the fact that my glass-cleaning skills are as dusty as the storm windows, I ain't complaining.

Bill's adventures in curb sleeping continued

I learned yesterday evening that there was more to the story of Bill's Thursday night escapades ...
Yesterday I told of Uber-husband's trip to Rum Bay for Battle of the Bands and a few too many shots.

The evening ended with him taking a cab home.

He realized as they turned on to our street that the evening was about to get a whole lot worse: It was 2 a.m. on a Thursday and his nice buzz turned into a "way too drunk" moment. Having the dreaded "I am not feeling good" realization as he stepped out of the cab, he decided to take a load off.

Being that the closest chair was the one we had put in the gutter for Spring Clean-up, he decided to take seat.

So there sat my dearest Uber-husband in the gutter on a throw away chair at 2 a.m. on a Thursday where he promptly fell asleep.

So, yeah he wasn't just taking a quick rest. No, he was passed out ... in the gutter.

Oh, what I would've given to have a picture of that ...

But becuase I don't, here's a re-enactment:
Starring none other than Wee One using the neighbor's gutter chair (you know, because everyone has to have a gutter chair).

Yeah, I wasn't kidding when I said that we're white trash.

Uber-husband?

Last summer, my band played a show in San Francisco. We played at Lennon Studios which is owned and run by Bill's friends, Jimmy and Carole.

It was a great trip and we had a great time playing and travelling.

I met many of Bill's friends from "back in the day" (as he likes to say, referring back to when he was a punk-rock dude in the '80s).

Upon meeting more than one of these old friends, they would earnestly tell me what a great guy my Uber-husband is. One guy took my arm, looked deeply in my eyes and assured me that I had married a truly wonderful man.

It's funny because I totally know this. I mean I voluntarily married the guy because I was all in love with him and stuff.

It did make me wonder why his friends felt they had to put in a good word for him. Then I started to wonder if they felt my intentions were not entirely honorable like I didn't truly appreciate him.

That's when I got an idea.

For his birthday last August, I got his name tattooed on my back in kanji. It was a surprise for him. When we pulled up to the tattoo shop, he said, "Uh, honey, I don't really want another tattoo." Then I told him of my plan.

He loved the idea.

So I had the kanji for William added to the morning glories I already had.

Here's a bad photo of my tattoo. It's bad because it's on my lower back (where every other girl in America has a tattoo — if I had know six years ago that ass antlers were going to be all the rage, I'da totally reconsidered the location) and I took this picture myself while sitting at my desk here at work (yes, I am a total dork).

Recently we were talking to an acquaintance who had just come back from a business trip to China. He was talking about how he's working on reading and speaking in Chinese.

Bill immediately mentioned my tattoo. I didn't want to show it to him.

Why? Becuase I have been secretly fearful that Mr. Google told me that the characters meant William but actually said, "I suck goat balls" or something equally inane.

But I showed him the tattoo and he copied it down.

Then he called later to say that it is actually a transliteration of the name William (phew). The top symbol means awe and used always in conjunction with another symbol to determine whether it's awful or awesome. The second kanji means pure, having integrity. And the two together are the Chinese transliteration for the name William.

Phew. I was so relieved.

But let me tell you there are days when I'm sure the tattoo says, "You're the one who married him!"

Let's take last night. We decided to go the Thursday night Battle of the Band show (Bill's band will be competing in two weeks) to see how things go.

I arrived early with a friend and Bill met us there after band practice. I had to leave at 11 to relieve our dear friend who agreed to sit for us on a school night (she's an art teacher and she rocks!).

At 2 a.m., I was awoken to the sounds of horrible retching and vomiting sounds. My dear Uber-husband, who's really a great guy, I've been assured, was puking his guts out in the bathroom.

Apparently, being a great guy means not being able to say, "No thank you" when someone wants to buy him a drink.

So if you see my dearest today, make sure you talk really loud and make a bunch of racket, because I'm sure he's feeling a bit delicate in the head.

A picture ...

... of myself that I don't hate:

Ta da!

If you happen to be lucky enough to live in the Grand Valley here in Western Colorado and you looked at the newspaper for which I work today, then you likely already know my news.

(If you haven't had a chance to lookit the paper yet today, do it now. Especially page 8A - the back page of the front section ... go on now, lookit.)

For those living elsewhere (or who are just too damn lazy to lookit the paper), y'all can just click here.

"Haute Mamas" is the newest blog on gjsentinel.com and I'm one of the haute mamas.

I've joined up with two other moms to write what will, hopefully, be a fun look at the joys, trials and frustrations of parenting.
Here we all are: Richie and baby Soren (wearing a onesie we bought for the baby in San Francisco last year when Richie was about 3-1/2 days pregnant); me (again with the glasses — I think the glasses will be my Haute Mama signature); 14-year-old Alex (who had to be paid to pose for this picture ... ah teenagers) with his mom Lynn. And in the back, Mar, of course.

Everytime we'd get ready for a picture to be taken, Mar would cry out, "Richie's butt." Yeah, classy, I know.

Richie is the impetus behind this new blog. After Soren was born, she would talk about the experience with such honestly. I mean, most new moms talk about how beautiful their babies are, where Richie admitted she was hoping for a cute baby ... of course, now that he is actually cute, she's changed her mind, but she her honesty really inspired me (and made me laugh). Because anyone who's seen a freshly born person ... there ain't nothing cute about it.

We're going to be updating everyday (again ... hopefully) with the three of us taking turns. There's a post from Richie up there now and my first entry will post later today and Lynn's will show up tomorrow.

So please feel free to look (or not). Oh and leave us comments, too. Comments make us feel important ... cuz you know, motherhood doesn't.

Peas in a pod

My kid and I:Those are our pouty faces. Whaddya think? Effective?

Notice I'm wearing my glasses. I'm a glasses wearer now.

In the past, I've been a contact-lens wearer. Not anymore. I love these glasses and I don't care if I look like a dork (OK, I care, but I'm still wearing them ... just don't tell me if you do think that I look like a dork, because it'll hurt my feeling and stuff. Why do you have to be like that for, anyway? Jeez.).

Yeah, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel today.

Tomorrow, however, I'll have some exciting (for me, anyway) news. So come back tomorrow.

Monday schtuff

Check it:Sean got his hair cut off.

I tried not to act like it was a crime against humanity — because it is, after all, his hair, but anyone can have short hair (well, except those hair-challenge folks who don't have any), but only the gifted few can have long, thick, shiny locks of hair like Sean's.

Oh well, no use crying over cut hair.

I took that picture at lunch yesterday while Bill and I were trying to convince Sean that it was high time that he got himself a band together.

I mean, he's 15 years old. Why doesn't he have a band yet? Maybe he's been spending too much time getting straight As. Whatever.

And to add insult to injury Mar said that she didn't want to be rock star when she grew up. She wants to help animals.

Animals, fer Pete's sake.

Where have I gone wrong?