Augh. I’ve been ambushed. She’s sitting behind me with a high ponytail and curly red hair … a loudtalker. You know the kind … the woman who talks loud enough that the whole coffee shop hears about her son’s stomach rash; the man who blathers on for all to hear about his most recent business success. I don’t understand this lack of modesty. I feel bad for my cute, little eardrums. Perhaps I should be more concerned about the future hearing capabilities of those on the other end of the phone … but I’m not.

Related Posts:

At Laaaaaaast

My looooove has come along …

Yup, you guessed it: SNOW … in Boulder … outside my window.


It has, however, been dumping up in the mountains. Ooooo baby!

That little dot amidst the whiteness with the sweet pants. That’s me.

Love to everyone in the Midwest who is enduring the cold and not-so-welcome snow.

Oh, and if you’ve got five minutes to spare, check out this video, which Adam ( was nice enough to share with me. I like it despite my distaste for little drummer boys.

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts

Distant Places

So the photo I’ve included below came up on my Google homepage “Places to See.” I’m not sure exactly what particular nook or cranny the photographer is proposing I go and visit …

The photo had a link here: If this is your photo, please don’t sue me for copyright infringement … It’s a beautiful picture of, er, the savanna …

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts

Living Outside the Box

Those living in the apartments neighboring my own likely think I’m weird.

I am, after all, the girl who jumps rope for an hour in the shared carport, smiling as I hop repeatedly up and down while ABBA, Cher or John Denver blares from my I-Pod.

I’m also the girl who shadow boxes in our parking lot, jabbing at invisible attackers and round-housing unseen threats.

Maybe I should care that a “what in the world is she doing” flutters unsaid behind my neighbors’ nods and waves. But I don’t.

I don’t care because when I biked back home this afternoon after yet another day of writing and calling, one of the kids who lives across from me was working on his own upper cuts and trying out a few side kicks.

You see, I don’t care if the others think I’m weird if just one little boy is inspired to dare to be different.

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts

Little Frickin’ Drummer Boy

Call me Grinch. Call me Scrooge.  But that wretched “Little Drummer Boy” Christmas song. Augh. All that rum-pum-pum-pumming … tell me you don’t think that’s annoying?

Sure, the chanson tells a great story and all … but really. Let’s take a minute to think about that poor drummer boy’s mom. She’s trying to milk the goat in peace, and he’s got the family’s wooden spoon rum-pum-pumming on their small collection of pots and pans. How aggravating.

I’d bet that little terror wasn’t just walking by the night baby Jesus was born … his mom probably sent him out to fetch some water just so she could have  a couple of quiet minutes of solitude. He probably stopped by the barn to give a free concert for the cows and pigs and low and behold, there were people lying in there on the hay! “A human audience!” he likely thought.

And off he went, rum-pum-pumming on whatever he could find. How many moms would happily invite someone to make a ruckus while their infant was trying to sleep: “Mary nodded pa rum pum pum pum…” More like “Mary grimaced.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for “Silent Night” or “The First Noel.” I’ll even sing along with “The Wassail Song,” even though I have no idea what “wassail” is. But please, please, please … no rum-pum-pumming for me.

Related Posts:

  • No Related Posts