Random cute pet photo (plus the S.O.)

Believe it or not, fur did not fly moments after this photo was taken. Everyone watched "Top Gear" then quietly went their separate ways.

I am The Destructor

This is what our kitchen looked like Saturday evening.
This is me, taking out my frustration on the ugly tile counter tops.
Pammy smash! And who says romance is dead? Look how we spent our Saturday evening.

I will post more pictures of our kitchen's transformation when we complete the backsplash and install our fancy schmancy new faucet.

The Shape of things

I subscribe to Shape. But as each new issue comes, and I look at the cover model in her bikini and read the (often contradictory) stories inside, I'm starting to hate the magazine.

February's issue offers up a story titled "How I learned to love my body." The subhead says, "These nine women share a trait we all should have: positive self-image." That's on page 38. Page 150 gives us a spread of naked women of various shapes and sizes and says, "Banish those body issues. These women have and with these surprising yet simple strategies, you too can feel more confident -- inside and out!" The story offers some good thoughts on being good to yourself.

Then page 157 of this same issue tells us, "Drop 10 pounds this month." Because even though you have a positive self-image and you've banished your body issues, you're still 10 pounds too heavy, fat ass. And if you were starting to feel really good about yourself, there's the fashion section with the super skinny model eating a hot dog (riiiight, she eats food) at the back of the mag to bring you back down to your overweight, flabby, self-loathing earth. Seriously, my skeleton is fatter than that model.

The March issue gives this tip: "If you're feeling truly exhausted, it's more beneficial to ditch your workout." It's better to get the sleep you need and not risk injuring yourself, the story says. Yet, once again, in the same issue, "'Even when she's tired, Jaime (Pressly) comes to the gym motivated,' says trainer Mike Jones." See, Jaime Pressly can make it to the gym and be motivated, even when she's tired, so why can't you? Jaime Pressly also has an Emmy, and you don't.

It's not all bad. I take good things from the magazine from time to time. For instance, in this month's "Weight-loss diary" entry, the writer says:

"I was really having trouble putting an end to my mental trash talk. So I asked my life coach, Lauren Zander, for advice on how to nip it in the bud -- for good. ... She devised a three-part plan to help me change my mind-set. The first step: to give my inner critic a name, which would help me differentiate if from the healthier, more nurturing me. I immediately dubbed mine 'Cindy.'"

I too have decided to name my inner critic, which I think is also the voice that wakes me at 3 a.m. to make me freak out about all the things I have to get done before noon Wednesday (which inexplicably doesn't include writing blog entries or playing solitaire). My inner critic is "Doug." Why Doug? Well, K didn't seem to want the name for her iPhone, and it just feels right to say, "Shut up, Doug! I don't want to hear it."

Thanks, Shape!

A year and a day

As most of you know, my mom died a year ago yesterday. Isn't supposed to get easier after a year? Am I supposed to be past the mourning stage by now? Here in Colorado, we've been enjoying a long stretch of spring-like weather -- and lots of sunshine. But yesterday was cold and gloomy, which seemed to be a fitting complement to how I felt. I'm 41 years old and all I could think was, "I want my mommy." It's kind of pathetic, so feel free to stop reading here.

I moved out of my parents' house when I was 20 and moved away from my hometown nine years ago, so I didn't see my mom daily or even monthly. But we talked nearly every Sunday. I would tell her about my week, my ups and downs and the latest developments at work and in my (often rocky) love life. She would tell me about the nieces and nephews and what my brothers had been up to. I always made sure to tell her about things I knew she would find exciting -- we went skiing, there was a fox in our front yard -- as well as the mundane, day-to-day occurrences. It was my Sunday ritual, and I miss it very much.

A few weeks ago, the S.O. and I went to see the Velvet Hills Chorus on a Saturday evening because our neighbor is a member, and it got us out of the house. The barbershop harmony isn't exactly our cup of tea, but as I watched, I kept thinking how much Mom would have loved it. I could hear her saying how neat it was and how she wished she had the guts to get up on stage and sing. It was something I would have told her all about the next day. So, even though it wasn't exactly my thing, I enjoyed it for Mom.

Looking through some pictures yesterday, I came across one of Mom as a young girl. I'm guessing she's somewhere around 7 or 8 years old. She looks happy. And sassy.


I miss her.