Here's my last week or so i n a quasi-Herb Ritts-y spread. Okay, no. Here it is anyway. Enjoy and stuff. (Sans cute baby pictures this time. I will probably soon be filling cyber-space with pictures of my nephew)
The newlywed Jennybenny @ Kung Fu rehearsal, posing with faux-firearms. Ry-Kath stated that we needed guns. I brought the guns. (Aren't they cool? Before they started making toy guns safe and dayglo! I'm glad I kept the dang things!)
Hot tub at Davey's circa October 2006. Okay, okay...so it isn't Redwrights FAR superior hot tub. I just don't have any viable photo's of me or she in them anywhere. So there. Note cocktail firmly planted in the pink jams-wearing monkeys hand. 
The WOLVES! While they were winning! And I was digesting! Yup, those suckers lead through almost 3/4ths of the game. Then they frickin' blew it. 
Baby P and Ry-gonn...stuffed with tubesteak. Looking disappointed. See the angle and how high up we were? Yup, I keep forgetting the mild case of vertigo I get (and did get) going up and down stadium stairs. I have another (really?) unnatural fear of tumbling over high heavily raked stadium seats and not stopping. I grab the bar on the stairs down. Dork-pie. So if you're planning on gifting me tickets to a major sporting event? Courtside only, please
Seven dollars. Baby P is drinking seven dollars. Pop was $5. The more the Wolves started to stink, the more I was inclined to want to drink. Happy National Poetry Month. There's your poem.
Kung Fu Bunnies at Ma and Pa Per-Per. Lookit the lil' pugilistic lepus! He's treating that big guy like he's a Bop'em Clown. Heh. Clown Boxers.
How to cope with the holidays. That represents the largest portion of white wine our festive group of 8 imbibed. It's almost beautiful. And did it ever make us pass out. (Along with the crusted chicken breasts, 4 different spreads, bread, cheese, cheesy potatoes, sauteed vegetables...etc) We feasted. And laughed a lot. At Dorajar's melodramatic reading of her 4th Grade Journal. Quite angsty and political for a 9 year old.
Yours truly. Speeding from one gig to the next. (Insert Simon and Garfunkel tune here: "Slow down...you move to fast...you gotta try to stop the frass!")
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