Tuesday, April 27, 2010

SOLD!

Budding Photographer


Chance took this picture. Yes, I let Chance take pictures on my camera. Supervised photos. The strap must be around his neck and he knows to NEVER touch the lens, on penalty of death. When he's done I put the camera AWAY so he can't just wander upon it and decide for himself he'd like to take pictures. This way I get some pictures of me and Karin together, it's nice!

Dinosaur Lunch



What's for lunch, Mr. Dinosaur??

"Peanut butter and honey sandwiches, ROAR!"

Bounce...bounce...bounce...




A friend loaned us their jumparoo. Our jolly jumper is out on loan to another friend. Karin loves to sit in it and bounce, bounce, bounce! This is quite a fancy model and has lots of toys and gadgets and when it moves it activates sounds and lights. Fancy schmancy. We have to book a thick binder under her feet so she can touch the floor though.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Murphy's Law (TMI warning!)

Well I got a new blue shirt for myself. A really nice bright blue v-neck stretchy t-shirt. It was on sale. It was the last one in its size. Destiny. Fate.

I wore it today for the first time. I picked up Karin and cuddled her close....then felt the warm wet and sniffed, and looked down with horror to find a 3" stain of yellow you-know-what smeared across the front of my nice new t-shirt.

Sigh.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Eyes Like Frying Pans

I love thee Wilma, with hair like silk,
Lips like cherries, skin like milk,
Your shell-like ears, your dainty hands,
And eyes so black, like frying pans

And when you in my arms are in,
My love how can you doubt?
I quiver just like geletin,
And sometimes even break out.

You're a perfect peach, my love,
Together we're a pear (pair),
You're sweet, you're nice, you're paradise,
And all kinna stuff like that there.


Cam told me about this poem, written by Fred Flintstone for his wife Wilma. It makes me think of Karin, her eyes are so dark grey they are almost black...like frying pans.

I hope we don't end up like this...

"I would rather go to hell than own it 50 days longer." -- Mark Twain, on his house which took 2 years to sell and eventually was marked down to half its original asking price.