Hurtin' at the Yurt

Within hours of our arrival home from Mexico, Bruce was off again for a testosterone charged night in a yurt. I'm pretty sure that Cancun to skiing in less than 24 hours can cause some sort of total systemic shock, but that Bruce is a risk taker. He and Jeff and other assorted men (heretofore referred to as "The Sausage Party") skied a few miles into Logan Canyon where they ate meat, banged their chests, and wrote their name in urine in the snow.

In all seriousness, I think he had a really fun time. He wondered why Rose and I don't ever go along on these adventures. For the record, we were NOT invited.

For Christmas, Santa brought tattoo pens for the girls. It's your classic symbiotic relationship: Kate loves to draw, Kiki loves to be drawn upon.

Kate will never profit as a professional tattoo artist: "Mom!!!! I spelled zebra Z-B-R-U. Is that right?"

Kiki is a biker chick.

P.S. I need to do some bonding with my children. Kiki tells me, "My name is Kiki Hunter."