The Mama Pajama is currently o-u-t, out. Chances are this site is done as I've been considering a new site - one that will better suit me, my family, my delusions and rants. Thanks to anyone who has stopped in for a visit. If and when the new site is up and running I will post a link here.


Fodder for the Therapist (Hers, Not Mine)

The mooing dog folks must have read my haiku. Yesterday we strolled on down to our town's Fourth o' July BBQ festivities and next thing we knew - family portrait.

It's hard to tell from the above but the Mamacita is proudly waiving her mooing dog fan. So proudly in fact that moments later an official looking photog-type bearing a non-instant camera of great proportion swooped in to snap a photo of her alone. I'm pretty sure she's their new mascot. Moo.

On the other hand, just one day earlier found this very same Mamacita in a not so much with the pride state of mind. Clearly she does not connect the receipt of her very first passport with her newfound jet set status. After many attem
pts (including one we were sure would work except that, oops, the camera was out of film) by our cameraman/postal worker we hit pay dirt.

Theron's official passport picture is a passable if somewhat uptight likeness. However, the shot we liked best, for its artistic quality of course, was this one now prominently displayed on our refrigerator.

I think a couple of international shopping adventures will rectify this case of obvious torture.


Explaining the Lethargy, a Haiku

tears for mooing dog

hungry all the damn day long

hooray PMS


Too Much 'People', People

Apparently I've been reading too many trashy tabloids.

Today I bought a new pair of sunglasses because the Mamacita had 'misplaced' yet another pair. The one pair I could locate had been stretched and chewed to such a state that the arms extend outward at an approximately 120 degree angle. Maybe Dumbo could keep them on his head.

Not wanting to spend too much on the Mamacita's newest Stretch Armstrong substitute I went to my favorite discount store and, after trying on a few p
airs, found the ones. Normally, I have a pretty strong aesthetic and while I'm not saying it's the chicest of the chic or the coolest of the cool, it is me.

At home, I presented each of my purchases to Geoff for his admiration.

New wallet. Love it.
New skirt. Cool.
New sunglasses....Uh, helloooo...new sunglasses....
Ewww - I hate those! They're so gay. (And no, he did not at all mean homosexual. And yes, he totally sounded like a 16-year-old Valley Girl while saying this.)

He then proceeded to show me this and this and this. Holy insipid celebrity styles! Looks like duct tape and Dumbo glasses for me.


Why I Majored in English Lit

Delinquent again.

I blame the Colorado Real Estate Commission. They've stolen my sense of humor and replaced it with mind numbing facts.

For instance, I can now prorate for taxes paid in
arrears like an accountant on Coke (beverage or otherwise). I can identify the negotiable terms of a Contract to Buy and Sell Real Estate from sixty paces. I am also able, without hesitation, to define for you a property lien and suggest to you many ways by which you can clear those dirty buggers and render your Title squeaky clean and cloudless.

Cloudless. I'll give you cloudless. Cloudless is the sunny-damn-skies waiting on the other side of next Thursday when I swap my financial calcul
ator for a radio flyer and a certain blue-eyed co-pilot.

That's cloudless Mama mind.


Mistaken Identity

It has been a long week marked by my first foray into an all-day, every day classroom since...well, since high school, people. Also, a week marked by the Mamacita's second illness (cold/ear infection). Not stellar. But there was this one thing...

(Day Two of Intensive Real Estate Seminar) A woman from class stops me in the bathroom. 'You know that guy sitting next to you,' she asks.


'Well, I'm very astute about this sort of thing and I think he has a crush on you. He kept looking over at you yesterday and then today he sat by you.'

Ok, then. The guy in question is a newbie college grad who looks about fifteen of his presumptive twenty-two years. He's good looking in a young, rob-the-cradle-and-pay-with- your-soul kind of way. Also, very East Coast. Very metrosexual. Anyway, he could be ZZ Top on a Harley for all I care. My post-pregnancy self loves her a little unexpected admiration once in a blue moon.

Never mind that the informant in question hardly qualifies as astute - by the measure of a classroom anyway. We're talking crushes here. That's an entirely different layer of insight. I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

Feeling a little puffy in the ego department I came home and relayed this tidbit to Geoff. 'You're his Mrs. Robinson,' he said. I can't discern which was more annoying, his absolute indifference about the purported crush or his comparison of me to Anne Bancroft.

Anne. F*cking. Bancroft.

What, am I aged? Surely Ms. B was far beyond my years when she played the role of the quintessential older woman. So I do the research. Cue the immediate ego deflation. Anne Banrcroft was thirty-six as Mrs. Robinson. I'm thirty-four.

Assume Astute is right. I'm not this kid's peer, I'm practically his Oedipal complex! I. Am. The. Older. Woman.

What fun is being the object of affection if it makes you feel ancient? I should take it a like a woman but apparently I am of stunted emotional growth. If only the body had followed suit.




File this party under 'C' for chocolatey good.