Greetings from Colorado

We're staying in Colorado for most of July, which means our entries will be either a) less frequent than usual, b) more airheaded than usual, or c) both.

We are staying at Christie's folks' place in Breckenridge, which is a city as much like Portland as you can get if you shrunk it down to 10 city blocks and replaced all the puddles with mountains. We really like it here, except for the fact that the air is so thin you have to stop and rest between flights of stairs.

Christie's folks kept us company for our first couple of days here. We had a fine ol' time, feeding chipmunks (W: Those are chipmunks, not squirrels, because chipmunks have stripes), riding in a boat (W: I liked when we were coming back, but I didn't like the part where we went bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-bumpity), and searching (successfully) for pika and marmots (Christie's Dad called them sun bathing dust mops) - and finding a deer, a porcupine!, and an elk along the way (W: I think it was a deer). We've spent a considerable amount of time admiring hummingbirds. The orange hummingbirds do not know how to share well (my comment, not Wrig's). They aren't so much interested in feeding at the feeder as making sure none of the other hummingbirds try to enjoy the feeder. The weekend was finished off in spectacular fashion with a Texas-style dinner of corn on the cob, Grammy's cole slaw, and Granddaddy's brisket (which made an even better lunch this afternoon!). Wrig cannot comment on the quality of the brisket because, for some reason, she will not try meat.

We had a special treat on Friday, when Wrig's Uncle Jim and Aunt Wendy stopped in Breck on their way back to Denver. Wrig finally got to meet and play near her cousin Jake (who is mighty cute in his own right). They got along fairly well until it was time to say good-bye. Jake gave his Aunt Christie a kiss good-bye. Jake gave his Uncle Eddie a kiss good-bye. Wrigley, who may not be able to read but sure can read the writing on the wall, dashed into the bathroom and shut the door. "No hugs! No kisses!" When we asked if she at least wanted to say good-bye, she courteously hollered, "Get out!" I hope Jake has better luck with women when he hits high school.

That's all for tonight. Stay tuned. When we get back home in August, I'm sure Christie will have a ton of photos for your blogging pleasure.

Aye, Matey

The pictures from a couple of posts ago are back up. Scroll on down. Sorry to have teased you. But for your patience, you are rewarded with rare photos of the pirate First Mate Blind Wrig LaFroop!

Plunking down her arm for a new tatoo


pillaging a ship

The Contrary Poet

M: I'm all why?ed out. I can't answer anymore why?s
W: Whywhy?
M: Hon, I said I was all out. No more, please.
W: (indignantly) I was talking to my self.

Why.
why why why?
whywhywhywhywhy???
whhhhhy wa-wa-wa-why

(it works better to imagine her in a smoky bar with a beret)

M: sigh
(at the end of the day, it still bugs me even though she's not talking to me).

PS - Later that night, she asked Daddy if he was full of whys. Pretty wise kid, if you ask me.

...and the living is easy

okay, we live with a 2 year old, so easy isn't the right word, but we have been having fun!

Wrigley found a slug in the back yard. We plan to show her this picture when she is 12 and grossed out by bugs. She was quite pleased with her find!

We went blueberry picking. Wrigley picked 3/4 of a pound. They were a DOLLAR a pound. Boy, labor & transportation sure add to the price of produce! I ate far more than Wrigley did among the bushes. Luckily, they didn't weigh me on the way in and out.

It takes lots of concentration to pick blueberries.

We've been drawing on the sidewalk in our most stylish sun protection,


reading on the couch together,


and romping in a fountain.




And there are even more pictures here.

Good Morning!

Recently overheard, 6:15 AM:

... snuffle, snuffle, mmm, mmm ... Let's go get ice cream after dinner ... snuffle, shift, roll, roll, roll, snore ...

This Isn't Child Abuse, Is It?

So, um, we played fetch with Wrigley yesterday. Is that so wrong?

It all started out innocently enough. We spent the morning berry picking. Wrigley walked with us the whole way: all the way to the end of the berry patch and back, searching for the perfect row, all the way to the end of the perfect row, and then back to the farmhouse to weigh her work. She picked .75 lbs - or .34 kilos, if you will - all by herself, and carried them in a little yellow bucket right up to the scale.

After the berry picking, we went for a picnic, and then took a quick jaunt to see Victoria Lake. Wrig walked almost all the way to the picnic site and most of the way to the lake. Victoria Lake was beautiful but was, in fact, Victoria Marsh, and Wrig - who had been promised water and was most likely envisioning an ocean - was a wee bit disappointed.

When it was time to head back to the car, Wrig decides she is all walked out. I carry her back to the picnic area, but then I decide I'm all walked out. Mom is loaded down with picnic stuff, so Wrig needs to walk the rest of the way.

Wrig. Does not. Want. To walk. The rest of the way.

She's a pretty reasonable two year old, so she isn't rolling around in the forest wailing at the top of her lungs, but she isn't being easily convinced to keep on walking. So Mom - who wins the title of Evil Super Genius for the day (a title I covet yet rarely merit) - throws one end of her windbreaker to Wrig and says, "Here, I'll drag you." Wrig grabs on and gets "dragged" for about half a step. Mom, sensing this isn't going to go well, says, "Hey, you're my little puppy. And I'm walking you on your leash."

Wrig's eyes light up. We'd already seen several dogs at the park. I remind her that we saw a dog the other day that was so excited to go for a walk that he was chewing on his leash. I say, "Woof, puppy, woof," and Wrig woofs right back.

We are marching on down the path, woofing merrily away, when Christie makes a tragic, tragic mistake. She says, "When we get home, maybe we can find you a ball to play with, puppy."

And I say, "Why not a stick? Oh look! Here's a stick. Fetch, puppy, fecth."

Well. The child is off like a shot. Christie and I exchange a look that clearly says, "This is no way to treat a child." But ... did I mention that Wrig was off like a shot? She loved playing fetch. And she got pretty good at it too. She almost always found the stick. She always let go of it upon bringing it back. And she never slobbered all over it like some dogs I could mention. And she managed to romp almost all the way back to the car.

Whew.

The Artist at Work

More Photos

Try This One On For Size

I had some trouble putting on Wrig's shoes the other day (well, not just the other day. I often get them on the wrong feet, but that's another story ...). Her shoes seemed a little tight. We were walking around downtown, and I told Christie that I thought Wrig might need new shoes soon. So Mom said ...

M: Wrig, do your feet hurt?
W: Uh-huh.
M: Where?
W: My toes.
M: Daddy thinks you might need new shoes. Do you think you need new shoes?
W: Let's change my shoes right now.
M: We don't have any other shoes with us right now.
W: Well ... we could change my feet ...