You got Gold Inside of You John Prine

In honor of St. Paddy's day, and the search for the elusive pot of gold, just wanted to let you know where you could find it.

What's New?

Nothing to say.

We've gotten through a bout of strep throat, cellulitis, the stomach flu....or as we call it around here February and March.

There is nothing wrong, things are ticking along, we are doing our share of laughing and grousing and we are always running out the door trying to beat the clock. That's nothing new.

I have friends who are struggling now - marriages in trouble, jobs on the brink, grieving for someone. We've got none of that here. We chug along, like good little engines, grateful for the food in the fridge and the warming weather.

My job has settled into a new high-pitched whine of stress from 8:30 to 2:50, after which I've become pretty adept at forcing myself to let it go. I'm invested when I'm there, I'm present and accounted for, but when I come home, I'm present to my family.

I'm taking more pictures, which makes me sort of giddy. I'm putting together a little portfolio, hoping to be able to have a little side business this summer when school is out. I love meeting new families, and I love the challenge of finding those special sparks between them while I click away. I love the challenge of light and mayhem.

I'm the captain of my Neighborhood Watch. A less intrusive Gladys Kravitz, more interested in keeping the kids and pets and properties safe than making sure there is no witchcraft happening at the house across the street. I didn't want the job, but no one else would take it, so here I am. Someone should do it. Might as well be me.

Joe-Henry got a new bike, and a new helmet. His adorable polkadotted helmet is gone, replaced by a Gary Frank cammo-skull and crossbones affair, more suited to his nine year old badass self. He is excited to play machine pitch baseball again this spring. No, basketball. No baseball. No, BASKETBALL. Sigh, okay, I'll sign you up for basketball. After which he comes in from shooting hoops for five minutes with the kid next door and says "Mom, I've decided to play baseball. Basketball's too hard".

I just feel more like living my life, than writing about it. I'd rather be appreciating the mundane moments, soaking up the gut busting laughter that nine year old boys get when they talk about farting or the word "glockenspiel".

So thanks for stopping by. Sorry I've been absent. Hope you are well! I'm filling my cup, I'll be back when it's overflowing.

A Heck Of My Own Making

This weekend I had wonderful experiences.

I got to take pictures of a gorgeous family.

I went with my boys and an added friend to a beautiful park.

The sun was shining and the air smelled fresh and sweet.

I ate ice cream. Twice, for goodness' sake!

So why is it that the comments of someone I don't even like got under my skin? So much so that I actually spent time with a frown on my face, heaving sighs loud enough that my son finally said "Mom, you are the best mom ever. You do so many nice things for people. He's just a grump, don't let him get to you!". I mean, honestly, I'm more angry with myself that I spent two minute even THINKING about what this guy thought of me.

And angrier still that I modeled that behavior for my boy, who I am always telling "don't worry about what people think, ESPECIALLY people you don't like."

Parenting Fail.

A Stroll Through Our 'Hood

I've been drooling over karigee's Paris set on flickr. My internet friend is on her first trip to Paris, and she's a brilliant photographer, and her musings on life, art and all things cultural tickle my fancy. And my fancy? Is not easily tickled. My fancy is a big ol' snob.

I have no idea what that means.

AAAAAnyhoooo. Up before the crack this morning, I was oogling her photos, and while the sun was rising I thought, "Hey. Here's what you do. Go out and see the blue sky this morning. Take a walk, take some pictures. Find the beauty here in the 'Couve."

No easy task. Not that it's not beautiful here in the Northwest - it is. But our little hood? Is a bit run down. Worse for wear. But perhaps if I see it through the lens I can turn that shabby to chic! (My Pollyanna tendencies notwithstanding, I do love rust!)

So, while there are no golden statues in my neighborhood, I managed to find a few things that made me happy.

I have found that if you are having trouble seeing things, you need to look up. Or down. Just change perspective somehow. I don't mean just finding the beauty, but really seeing. It's a good way to get your bearings.

So I looked up. And hello, Spring. I see you just around the corner.




The Red Red Robin is here.


The corner of Grand Blvd. & Mill Plain is perhaps one of the most uninspiring corners on earth, save for the fact that on this corner you can get a) cheap gas, b) GREAT pizza, c) a quickie lube at Minit Man. Well, you used to be able to do c), but my favorite oil changer has disappeared, poof, and it hasn't been opened for months. This morning, I was pining for him just a little bit. I don't know where to go now to get the oil changed in my car. Well, there are dozens of places I can think of off the top of my head, but nowhere to discuss bluegrass music, and I'm pretty sure Jiffylube & Oilcan Henry's won't let JH go down into the pit to gaze lovingly up at the underbelly of our car. I miss you, Minit Man.








Further down the block you start to believe that collars don't get any bluer than this little patch of the 'Couve:





Inviting, no?

But make it to the end of the block, and here is the pot of gold at the end of the rusty rainbow: Paper Tiger Coffee Co. They roast onsite, they have a brilliant selection of books to read, the owners are lovely and you can chat and discuss and muse and wonder to your hearts content, all while sipping the most perfect cappuccino this side of the Atlantic.


As always though, the best part of any journey, large or small, is coming home:
The neighbor's flowering plum is getting ready to bloom, which makes me want to work in my garden.


And peeking in our window, I spy one of our sweet cats on the bookshelf, and my boy in his robe, playing Wii on a sunny Saturday morning.


It's not Paris. Only Paris is Paris. But still, how sweet it is.

My Valentine

When we met, we were both in the arts, there were no strings, no mortgage, no expectations. Parenting and life have changed that.

We are moving into a new phase, and though there is so much uncertainty, the constant is this: He is my valentine. My history, and a very deep part of who I am. I am more myself when I am with him.

Some say that Valentine's Day is just a Hallmark holiday, invented to lure poor saps into spending money. That may be so, I'm just cynical enough to believe that story. But that doesn't mean it's not a great idea. Because sometimes it's important to have a date on the calendar that's about nothing but celebrating love, in all it's crazy, wonderful forms.

And about remembering beginnings and the love that's gotten us this far.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Yesterday I was hit seriously hard by the Muse. I was getting ready for work in the bathroom, and (you think this is going somewhere funny, don't you?! But I'm deadly serious).

I have ideas for three different photo essays. I'm not going to tell you what they are. But I have to do them.

Don't get me wrong. Just because I have a decent camera, I still don't consider myself a photographer. I mostly just experiment until I get something I like. But I am starting to understand light a little better. And I'm realizing more and more what makes me want to keep clicking the button:

Narrative. I don't JUST want to see the pretty picture that comes out. I want the story behind it. I LOVE hearing people's stories. I want to know how they got from there to here. I want to hear what they are going to do next.

And I'm tired of telling myself I can't because I'm not this enough or that enough or I'm too old or too naive.

Here's the thing: no one has to like them but me. I'm not going to do it to be famous. I'm going to do it because I want to.

I'm inspired, and it feels so good.

The Title of This Photo Is:

Nine year old becomes youngest CEO of major bank while wearing his bathrobe and pajamas.



My hubby brought home my Valentine's present a few days early - a Nikon sb 600 speedlight flash. I'm taking a group photo for a couple friends later this month and needed one. The weather here in the northwest is notoriously iffy and cold and rainy, so if we can't go outside, I needed to figure something out for an indoor shoot. Charley knew this, and called to ask if it would be "sweet enough" if he got me one for Valentine's Day. Lord, I love this man.

The boy and I were both sickies yesterday, but I got him to pose for me a couple times while I tried to play with the light. If you look close you can see the purple spots around his eyes from where he broke blood vessels dry heaving.

I only work with the most glamorous models.

Seriously though: I can't believe this beautiful, soulful kid is ours. How incredibly lucky are we?!